German kings, Lessing, and Wieland, and Herder, and Göthe, and Schiller, and Tieck, and Schlegel, "have one after another thrown their votes into the urn, and," forgetful of all national distinctions, and anticipating his own countrymen, "elected" the Englishman, "William Shakespere, Emperor of all Literature," Emperor for life—and his lifetime is Eternity.

It was no barren sceptre with which Shakespere was thus invested. Under his imperial reign, German Literature was rapidly advancing to a state of high culture for nearly half a century before the best minds in England surmised what a resplendent fabric of literary genius and art was rising on the German soil. But it was not Shakespere alone that was read in Germany. All the eminent classical names of English Literature soon became familiar as household words among the scholars and writers of Germany, and this when the German mind was looked upon in England as wild and barbaric, and translations of German books were deprecated as a new eruption of the Goths and Vandals. Through the darkness of English prejudice and ignorance the clear beams of Schiller's genius were among the first to penetrate. He is still among the first to inspire us with admiration and respect for the mind of his country, and he weaves the tie which binds us together to-night.

To him, then, we render the homage of our veneration and grateful love. We recognize in him one of the chief dignitaries of the Imperial Realm, one between whom and Shakespere there stands no other of equal dramatic power one whose influence shall prove to be, in the words of our immortal Emperor himself,

"A hoop of gold to bind us brothers in,

That the united vessel of our blood

Shall never leak, though it do work as strong
As aconitum or rash gunpowder. "

We are here this evening celebrating the advent of a noble and munificent spirit into our world one hundred years ago, November the 10th, 1759,-November the 10th, memorable two hundred and seventy-six years before as the birthday of the great Head of the Protestant Reformation. The coïncidence of these birthdays is not without significance. Luther was not only the leader of the great religious movement of the 16th Century, he is accounted by German scholars in his translation of the Scriptures, as the creator of the modern German language; a language, the principle of the mere articulation of which-namely, that all possible justice must

is in fine

be done, in pronouncing it, to the sound of every letter accord with the downright honesty of Luther, who created it, and of Schiller, who, through this noble instrument, has poured into our minds the beauty and the music of his genius.

Thus, already under obligations to Germany for the great miracle of the Printing Press, we acknowledge on this birth-day of illustrious men the gift of the Protestant Reformation and the gift of the language of Schiller.

The death of Schiller, which took place in his 46th year, is memorable as well as his birth. It well became him- the manner of his departure. When the inevitable hour came, he bade farewell to his family and friends, and when one asked him how he felt, his reply was: "Calmer and calmer." Once afterwards he exclaimed: "Many things are growing plain and clear to me." And then he fell asleep in the fulness of his fame. His death was felt throughout Germany and Europe, to be a great public loss. "According to his own directions," says a German authority, "the bier was to be borne by private citizens; but several young artists and students took it from them. It was between midnight and one in the morning when they approached the churchyard. The overcast heaven threatened rain. But as the bier was set down by the grave, the clouds suddenly parted, and the moon, coming forth in peaceful clearness, threw her first rays on the coffin of the Departed. They lowered him into the grave; and the moon again retired behind her clouds. A fierce tempest of wind began to wail, as if it were reminding the bystanders of their great, irreparable loss."

But though, in the words of the now venerable Uhland,

-months and years have vanished duly,

And round his grave the cypress grows,
And those who mourned his death so truly
Themselves have sunk in death's repose;

Yet as the Spring is yearly showing
Its pomp again and fresh array,
So now, all young again and glowing,
The Poet walks the earth to-day.

Back to the living hath he turned him,
And all of death has past away;

The age, that thought him dead and meurned him,
Itself now lives but in his lay.

TRIBUTE.

I.

BENEATH the sombre cypresses, chance-planted grew, down in a glade,
A slender tree, that shed its flowers each season fruitless, in the shade;
On sunny plains the whispering groves bent to the wind with grateful
sigh,

And burly bees from bloom to bloom bore golden gifts on wing and thigh.
Among the gloomy cypress trees

Came neither sunshine, air, nor bees.

II.

Bedewed with tears of cypresses, the shadowed tree still upward grew,
And lifting aye its eager head, it pierced the covering foliage through;
It bathed in summer sun and air; its flowers, erst white, blushed golden

red;

The errant honey-hunters came, and fruit in clusters crowned its head.

To load with riches barren trees

Needs only sunshine, air, and bees.

III.

In deeper gloom than cypress shades I lived, long fruitless years, alone, Yet knowing that life must have joys more true than any I had known. Perhaps my faith hath made me whole: the heavens have opened even to

me;

Thou cam'st, and, cheering, led'st me on to win my upward way to thee

My Love! to me as are to trees

Fruit-giving sunshine, air, and bees.

THE PSYCHOLOGY OF GHOST-CRAFT.

PSYCHOLOGY (xn, λoyos,) means speech or revelation concerning the soul. Dynamize this word, and we have to psychologize, which presents the soul-substance in the attitude of an active and interpenetrative force, and implies a sympathetic object or soul acted

upon.

Thinking and feeling, functions ascribed to the soul, are susceptible of either being confined within the soul, or projected from itself into another. But the active and spiritual sense of these words is imperfectly perceived by the multitude, and their interpenetrative sense is not allowed. We do indeed say, I feel you, but this means only, I feel within myself that I am in contact with you, not that I project my feeling into you, or receive yours into me; nor does the verb to think ever mean, I project my thought into another's mind, or receive his into mine. For this we have I think, and I learn, which are confined to special knowledges, and do not extend to the thought-substance itself.

The development and apprehension of novel possibilities required a new term to express them; and what can be more appropriate than this chaste and precise Greek verb, to psychologize, which ascribes to the soul primary source of thought and feeling— the active projection of our thoughts and feelings, sensations and sentiments, into others?

With these elementary dynamics of the soul, magnetizers have almost familiarized the public mind. To spirits, also, of the deceased has been assigned such control of other minds, either in their own life-sphere or in ours, as magnetizers exert upon their subjects, sometimes at great distances.

To psychologize is construed, to induce either upon oneself or upon others impressions that are often mistaken for external realities. We have been assured that this is much practiced in the other life. Many ghosts, especially those newly anived on the other side of the Styx, are said to spend most of their time in this quasi-fictitious state, the partial representation of which may be observed among the Orientals, who eat hasheesh or opium; among the Turks and Germans, who smoke themselves into reverie; but especially among the coca-chewers of Bolivia and the neighbor

ing countries. It is a pleasure which Nature permits to some, and which others assiduously cultivate, either from its fascination or from the need of taking refuge in an ideal world from the too rude and cruel experiences of their false social positions.

This attitude of soul seems to be much easier to the Orientals than to the peoples of Europe and their American descendants, and to be peculiarly incompatible with the climate of our Atlantic coast. Drugs which soothe and elevate the one may in the same dose irritate and madden the other temperament; and this depends on the relations of the blood globule with the nerve vesicle.

The Brahmins cultivate, as the highest discipline of the soul, a state of ecstatic contemplation, doubtless often mistaking the indefinite for the infinite, the clouds for the firmament, the loss of earth for the gain of Heaven. They seek to perfect themselves by meditating on the abstract perfections of Brahma, and do, it is reported, so introvert their minds in these spiritual gymnastics as to attain the insensibility of cataleptics. They acquire a genius for the trance state, and leave their bodies long quiescent during their celestial pilgrimages-in one unbroken slumber, from the seed-sowing to the harvest, as English authorities attest.

The poet and novelist should possess, as a gift of organization, or develop by culture, the power of psychologizing themselves, and their readers also, in a high degree. For the lack of this, all other talents fail to compensate. Poetry and Romance are our intellectual narcotics: we ask of them oblivion of this world's impertinences, and rendered fluent, gaseous, or aromal, through the subjective magic of their spells, to traverse unobstructed, unchallenged, invisible, new combinations of character, scenery, action, thought, and emotion.

The artist must believe a little himself, or the illusion will hardly be perfect for us. The creator must embody himself in his creation bodies are the forms, not the instruments of souls. A true poem or life-story, however wildly improbable its incidents, can be, no more than a planet or a sun, the work and mere effect of an external hand. Paley has nailed himself to the counter in his notorious comparison of the watch. D'Israeli in his Vivian Grey and Contarini Fleming is wonderful in this gift of creative reverie. Longfellow, among our modern poets, preeminently possesses this endowment. His epics live within us.

The function of these ministers of the Ideal is to supply ex