this, I do not of course forget those splendid exhibitions of the supernatural, GASTON DE BLONDEVILLE' and 'THE FIVE NIGHTS OF ST. ALBANS,' since these belong to another and a higher department of fiction. The tenderness of the former, and the terrible graces of the latter, are equalled only by the magnificence of both. Phantasmion combines, what we find extremely rare, the wildest originality with the nicest inspection and observance of human nature, exquisite elegance with even Saxon simplicity of composition. Do you ask me what is its grand characteristic? answer, BEAUTY,- beauty truly feminine, beauty of conception, character, and expression. It is indeed a wilderness of sweets, illumined by the richest hues of earth and heaven, and thro' which a stream of magic melody is for ever flowing.

Phantasmion is not a creation for the million, - not because it is hard to understand, for the most unlettered may comprehend and enjoy its delightful marvels, but because the number of imaginative minds is small, and few are both able and willing to reproduce, as they read, the writer's train of thought and feeling, the impulses felt, the images awakened, and the emotion created, in the glow of composition. So much more easy is it to hurry-scurry thro' the soulless farragoes of the day, than to be at the expense of this intellectual effort, that when a volume like this appears, so many readers do great injustice both to the writer and themselves.

Were I less familiar than I am with the idiosyncrasies of your head and heart, I should be cautious how I recommended a book like this to your perusal. You well remember who has said, that "Pindar's remark on sweet music holds equally true of Genius: as many as are not delighted by it, are disturbed, perplexed, irritated. The Beholder either recognizes it as a projected Form of his own Being, that moves before him with a Glory round its head, or recoils from it as from a Spectre." And you will be delighted to know, that it is the "dear daughter" of him who made this remark, to whom we are indebted for Phantasmion. Is she not one of the rare instances, in which the genius of the parent is inherited by the child?

You will be glad to see the many pieces of poetry interspersed through the volume. They were not inserted,

because the author found it convenient to dispose of them in this way, but evidently because most of them would be written for the places they occupy; and they are not only the delicious breathings of a finely touched spirit in themselves, but admirably appropriate in their place. They harmonize exceedingly well with the melodramatic tone of the fiction, while they add much to its sweetness and power.

You will be pleased to find, that the mystic tone you mentioned as felt and employed by Fouquè, has thrilled also the author of Phantasmion: "His attention was arrested by a soft melancholy voice, liquid and musical as the chime of crystal cups thrilled by a dewy finger."

Indeed, the scenes and sentiments, the characters and incidents of this fine tale, seem to bear as much the impress of reality, as if they were all taken from the book of experience. It is a garden of fragrance and beauty, a new world of exquisite sights and sounds, wild creations of fairy lore, and emotions true to the beatings of the human heart. If the German Undine have more simplicity of plot and concentration of interest, the English Phantasmion must be viewed as superiour in the riches of a more refined imagination. Then the songs of Phantasmion, — I cannot too often repeat my admiration of them. What sweetness of verse! what breathings of a tender spirit! whose voice, who but the writer's own Spirit of the Flowers, could do them justice!

To this letter I received an immediate reply; and the reader, I think, will be as much pleased to see it, as I was myself. It may be that I flatter myself, since my friend's views coincide so entirely with my own. Still, as several other topics are touched upon in his favour, I cannot deny myself the pleasure of making a few extracts.

I

November 27. 1838. agree with you, that the fairy-tale you were so kind as to send me yesterday, is original in conception and construction. My first reading, as you knew it would, carried me far into the night. I had no opportunity of resorting

to my old trick, for which you give me so much of your admiration, that of skipping irrelevant matter. Who does not hate to see such prosing smuggled into a story?

The style is almost Saxon, as you say, more especially in the first half, carefully excluding all ambitious words, when simple, familiar, and direct ones answer the purpose as well. With regard to the story, a fault-finder would say that the attention is divided among too many characters, a practice we always wish to see avoided; and, on the first reading, perhaps it is perplexed by them; yet there is sufficient interest excited to draw the reader gently onward to the very close. I am now more than half way through my second perusal. What a bright dawning of the writer's initiative, as we grow familiar with her object!

As you observe, the poetry so freely interspersed is genuine ; not prose, shortened or extended to the needed measure, as the robber of Attica used to versify the travellers he seized;-"but musical as is Apollo's lute," rich in thought, and thrilling with deep feeling.

But why speak of the poetry? The prose is itself poetry, the poetry of thought. As a whole, indeed, it is a unique production; but those who hurry through it to reach the end, merely for the gratification of curiosity, must meet the fate common to such readers. The end in every work of genius, and in this preeminently, is to be found in the means. No, not a page is here written merely to fill up and lengthen out the book. The whole is an evolvement from within, not a picking up and patching together of the outward. It is evident, that in the author's own mind the objective is always subservient to the subjective, beautiful exceedingly as are her conceptions of the outward world, and magical as are her pictures of its almost spiritual beauty.

Illustration, as used by this lady, has a sort of creative power, the light, flowing from it, makes objects not only clear and distinct, but vivid, living, and full of motion. In this particular, she is indeed the "dear daughter" of her illustrious father.

The grace and delicacy of the author's own mind flow through this tale, or, to speak more exactly, pervade it like an atmosphere, - blending, softening, and sometimes a little obscuring, but oftener illustrating its pictures of

nature and delineations of the heart. They breathe through every thing and affect every character, bringing often to mind the remark of our lamented Coleridge, that "all things and modes of action shape themselves anew in the being of Milton;" for so in these light and airy visions of fairy-land, the lovely "ideal" of this Mistress of the Magic Wand is seen and felt every where.

To do justice to this work of imagination, so rich in thought, so bewildering in its mazes of imagery, and so unrivalled in some scenes of beauty never before delineated, to do any justice to these things, the book must be read in the true spirit of what has been happily called, re-productive criticism.

Yes, the same rumour has reached me as yourself, that Phantasmion was written by Mrs. Sara Coleridge, wife of H. N. Coleridge, Esq., with a view to relieve the tedious hours of illness, when long confined to a sick couch. If so, what might not such a mind produce in the vigour and elasticity of health!

Since transcribing these extracts from my friend's letter, I have been turning over the leaves of Phantasmion, in order to select a few passages in proof of the justness of the praise bestowed, but have found myself again and again reading on, forgetful of my purpose, so attractive is the book even after the third perusal. I find also how difficult is the task of detaching passages without doing them injustice, so entirely is each part a portion of the beautiful whole, intimately blending in with lights and shadows reciprocally given and received. It seems advisable, therefore, to refer the reader to the book itself.

Readers of every taste desire to be gratified, and each repairs to his favourite source. While many delight in the drollery and satire of one department of fiction, and more in the developements of vice and crime, low life and ruffianism, in another, as well as some in the finer spirit of works inspired with the immortality of genius, the number is not small, it is to be hoped, that feel the influence of the rich fancies, pure thoughts, pure language, and pure morality of Phantasmion.

THE ALMADORA RAVINE.

And all put on a gentle hue,
Hanging in the shadowy air
Like a picture rich and rare.

WANDERINGS OF CAIN.

AUTHOR. I have come, dear Madam, to claim the performance of your promise. You have forgotten, I fear, the ravine I mentioned to you.

LADY. Far from it. The manuscript you have allowed me to peruse, has made me impatient to view it with you. When shall we visit that scene of lonely nature, to which you so frequently allude, and which you say resembles a picture rich and rare ?

AUTHOR. This very moment, if it suit your convenience. My arm is at your service; the December air is pure and bracing, the earth sprinkled with hoar-frost like manna, the day young and promising; and you are prepared, I see, for our little tour of discovery.

LADY. How glad I am it happens to be so! I should be sorry to lose the opportunity, with which you are so kind as to favour me. We pass that white house, I think? AUTHOR. Yes, and a hundred rods eastward, along this grassy road-side.

B

LADY. I see, to yonder rail-fence on the left. AUTHOR. We enter by these bars, which neighbour has painted so gaily. Permit me to let them down for you. We are now admitted to the commencement of things. You observe those feathery spires of pasturegrass?

LADY. That harvest too of witch-hazle twigs.