Under a larger freedom, we should expect Credit to be organized on a basis of MUTUAL RESPONSIBILITY AND GUARANTY, which would afford a stable and beautiful support to the great systolic and disastolic movements of trade; that it would reduce all paper emissions to their legitimate character as mere mercantile tokens, and liberate humanity from the fearful debaucheries of a factitious money; and that Commerce, which has been compelled hitherto to sit in the markets of the world, like a courtesan at the gaming-table, with hot eye and panting chest and painted cheeks, would be regenerated and improved, until it should become, what it was meant to be, a beneficent goddess, pouring out to all the nations from her horns of plenty the grateful harvests of the earth. THE BUSTS OF GOETHE AND SCHILLER. This is GOETHE, with a forehead Like the fabled front of Jove; In its massive lines the tokens More of majesty than love. This is SCHILLER, in whose features, With their passionate calm regard, We behold the true ideal Of the high heroic Bard, Whom the inward world of feeling And the outward world of sense To the endless labor summon, And the endless recompense. These are they, sublime and silent, From whose living lips have rung Words to be remembered ever In the noble German tongue: Thoughts whose inspiration, kindling Into loftiest speech or song, Still through all the listening ages Pours its torrent swift and strong. As to-day in sculptured marble Side by side the Poets stand, So they stood in life's great struggle, Side by side and hand to hand, In the ancient German city, Dowered with many a deathless name, Where they dwelt and toiled together, Sharing each the other's fame: One till evening's lengthening shadows Gently stilled his faltering lips, But the other's sun at noonday Shrouded in a swift eclipse. There their names are household treasures, And the simplest child you meet Guides you where the house of Goethe Fronts upon the quiet street; And, hard by, the modest mansion Where full many a heart has felt Memories uncounted clustering Round the words, "Here Schiller dwelt." In the churchyard both are buried, Straight beyond the narrow gate, In the mausoleum sleeping With Duke Charles in sculptured state. For the Monarch loved the Poets, Called them to him from afar, Wooed them near his court to linger, And the planets sought the star. He, his larger gifts of fortune With their larger fame to blend, Living, counted it an honor That they named him as their friend; Dreading to be all-forgotten, Still their greatness to divide, Dying, prayed to have his Poets Buried one on either side. But this suited not the gold-laced Ushers of the royal tomb, Where the princely House of Weimar Slumbered in majestic gloom.