stars and red ribbons. The minor arts of composition are often disregarded. Metaphors are confused and broken; long passages of tame dialogue are allowable, and the same word may be used, not always in the same sense, ten times within one page. Notwithstanding all this, the book may have its share of ingenuity and interest;—it should be remembered, too, that no longer than sixty years ago, the literature of our German neighbours was, comparatively speaking, in its infancy; and, even now, they are many times satisfied with bold outline sketches in crayon. Hence the vast extent of their productions, like those in the portfolio of a painter, of which the number always exceeds incalculably that of his finished works.
A connoisseur will fix his attention on these as willingly as on the largest gallery pictures of the same artist, while a mere soi-disant critic will treat them with disdain,—not recollecting, that to
