What is this mortal insect that has stung the youth of Werther? Mistake it not, it is the spirit of doubt, the spirit of the eighteenth century; and it is not Werther only that the insect has stung--it is Goethe himself. Goethe belongs to the eighteenth century; he is its disciple, its heir; he is, like it, the sceptic, but he is also the poet. It is this which conceals his universal doubt. Besides, as he perceived, with that admirable tact which accompanies his genius, that his scepticism would injure his poetry, he has laboured to correct its influence, and, for this purpose, has called to his aid all the resources of art and science. He has adored nature, he has been a pantheist, he has distributed God everywhere, to compensate for not having him in his own heart; he has adored Greece, and rendered a sort of worship to beauty such as the Greeks conceived it, and endeavoured to find an enthusiasm in the arts; he has adored the south, and sung the Land of the orange grove, because the south is the region of strong faiths, and is repugnant to scepticism; he has adored the middle ages, because they were ignorant of doubt, everywhere he has sought to cure the wound of that insect which had stung his youth. But no; his scepticism pierces through all his enthusiasm, and the very variety of his inspirations proves his indifference. He is neither philosopher, nor devotee, nor Christian, nor pagan, nor courtier, nor citizen, nor of times ancient or modern, nor of the north, nor of the south-or rather, he is all these at once. He is the echo of nature, he repeats to us all her harmonies; but he fails to add that utterance, which unites so well with the harmonies of the world the utterance of his own heart. Ask of Goethe to represent man and nature in all their variety and extent, and he will do it. There is one thing you must not ask of him--himself. This _self_ fails in Goethe; not the self which knows it is a great poet, and will to be one; but that other self, which has a thought, a principle to contend for, which, in short, believes in something. It is there the insect stung; both in Goethe and in Werther. After discussing the character of modern French literature, there remains the important question to determine, how far the state of literature represents the state of society--how far the one is a faithful picture of the other. Upon this subject M. Girardin concludes his volume with some excellent remarks; but here we must also conclude our notice of this interesting work. LORD ELDON.