But a negative judgment is not enough for a final estimate of Heinrich Heine. Much of his service to literature and to mankind was of a very positive character. As a man of letters he created a prose style unequalled in clearness and brilliancy by anything previously known in German literature--Goethe's prose is ponderous in comparison--and its influence will be felt long after certain of its mannerisms have passed into oblivion. His wit is destined to immortality by reason of the serious purpose that underlies it. It has a spontaneity which no wit exercised merely for its own ends can ever have. Those who call Heine frivolous and a mocker, simply because he can jest at serious things, can only know him very superficially or else must be ignorant of the real part which humor has to play in the world. Perhaps there never was a writer who shook himself so free of all conventionalities of style. His very mannerisms--and his writings abound in them--have a spontaneity about them, and only become affectations in the innumerable imitations which cluster around all his literary productions. This is his service to literature: his service to posterity was as great. He did some goodly service in the "War of Liberation of humanity," if in no other way, by setting the example of a man who could speak unflinchingly for principles at a time when such utterance was not easy. It will not be possible to follow up these general statements with any further examination of Heine's life or his writings. It has been the present purpose to indicate only in the broadest outlines the scope and general character of the man and his work, and leave to the reader to prove the truth of what has been said by his own investigation. There is no single literary figure that is better worth the task of study than Heine, and to sum up briefly what this article has been mainly designed to show, we must pronounce him if not one of the greatest, at least one of the most original, figures in all literature. A. PARKER. DAWN. What was thy dream, sweet Morning? for, behold! Thine eyes are heavy with the balm of night, And, like reluctant lilies, to the light The languid lids of lethargy unfold. Was it the tale of Yesterday retold-- An echo wakened from the western height, Where the warm glow of sunset dalliance bright Grew, with the pulse of waning passion, cold? Or was it some heraldic vision grand Of legends that forgotten ages keep In twilight, where the sundering shoals of day Vex the dim sails, unpiloted, of sleep, Till, one by one, the freighting fancies gay, Like bubbles, vanish on the treacherous strand? JOHN B. TABB. MRS. MARCELLUS. BY A GUEST AT HER SATURDAYS.