ns
sympathies, and dies away.... And history has pronounced her final
verdict. It is the last negative instance which we oppose to Mr.
Macaulay's assertion. Bacon's philosophy has not been the end of
all theories, but the beginning of new theories,--theories which
flowed necessarily from Bacon's philosophy, and not one of which
was practical in Mr. Macaulay's sense. Hobbes was the pupil of
Bacon. His ideal of a State is opposed to that of Plato on all
points. But one point it shares in common,--it is as unpractical a
theory as that of Plato. Mr. Macaulay, however, calls Hobbes the
most acute and vigorous spirit. If, then, Hobbes was a practical
philosopher, what becomes of Macaulay's politics? And if Hobbes
was not a practical philosopher, what becomes of Mr. Macaulay's
philosophy, which does homage to the theories of Hobbes?"

We have somewhat abridged M. Fischer's argument, for, though he writes
well and intelligibly, he wants condensation; and we do not think that his
argument has been weakened by being shortened. What he has extended into a
volume of nearly five hundred pages, might have been reduced to a pithy
essay of one or two hundred, without sacrificing one essential fact, or
injuring the strength of any one of his arguments. The art of writing in
our times is the art of condensing; and those who cannot condense write
only for readers who have more time at their disposal than they know what
to do with.

Let us ask one question in conclusion. Why do all German writers change
the thoroughly Teutonic name of Bacon into Baco? It is bad enough that we
should speak of Plato; but this cannot be helped. But unless we protest
against Baco, _gen._ Baconis, we shall soon be treated to Newto, Newtonis,
or even to Kans, Kantis.

1857.

XII. A GERMAN TRAVELLER IN ENGLAND.(36)

A. D. 1598.

Lessing, when he was Librarian at Wolfenbuettel, proposed to start a review
which should only notice forgotten books,--books written before reviewing
was invented, published in the small towns of Germany, never read,
perhaps, except by the author and his friends, then buried on the shelves
of a library, properly labeled and catalogued, and never opened again,
except by an inquisitive inmate of these literary mausoleums. The number
of those forgotten books is great, and as in former times few authors
wrote more than one or two works during the whole of their lives, the