erwhelmed us. Both in regard to
matter and to form, the relation of these two Works is significant
enough.

Speaking first of their cognate qualities, let us remark, not without
emotion, one quite extraneous point of agreement; the fact that the
Writers of both have departed from this world; they have now finished
their search, and had all doubts resolved: while we listen to the
voice, the tongue that uttered it has gone silent forever. But the
fundamental, all-pervading similarity lies in this circumstance, well
worthy of being noted, that both these Philosophers are of the
Dogmatic or Constructive sort: each in its way is a kind of Genesis;
an endeavour to bring the Phenomena of man's Universe once more under
some theoretic Scheme: in both there is a decided principle of unity;
they strive after a result which shall be positive; their aim is not
to question, but to establish. This, especially if we consider with
what comprehensive concentrated force it is here exhibited, forms a
new feature in such works.

Under all other aspects, there is the most irreconcilable opposition;
a staring contrariety, such as might provoke contrasts, were there far
fewer points of comparison. If Schlegel's Work is the apotheosis of
Spiritualism; Hope's again is the apotheosis of Materialism: in the
one, all Matter is evaporated into a Phenomenon, and terrestrial Life
itself, with its whole doings and showings, held out as a Disturbance
(_Zerruettung_) produced by the _Zeitgeist_ (Spirit of Time); in the
other, Matter is distilled and sublimated into some semblance of
Divinity: the one regards Space and Time as mere forms of man's mind,
and without external existence or reality; the other supposes Space
and Time to be "incessantly created," and rayed-in upon us like a sort
of "gravitation." Such is their difference in respect of purport: no
less striking is it in respect of manner, talent, success and all
outward characteristics. Thus, if in Schlegel we have to admire the
power of Words, in Hope we stand astonished, it might almost be said,
at the want of an articulate Language. To Schlegel his Philosophic
Speech is obedient, dextrous, exact, like a promptly-ministering
genius; his names are so clear, so precise and vivid, that they almost
(sometimes altogether) become things for him: with Hope there is no
Philosophical Speech; but a painful, confused stammering, and
struggling after such; or the tongue, as in dotish forgetfulness,
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