Newspaper Page Text
Prejudices were worn away, in the
grateful attrition; new lights were
brought to bear upon the social aspects
of diifering regions ; thought was stim
ulated to fresh researches; and the
general resources of the country, moral
as well as physical, underwent a devel
opment, as grateful and encouraging as
they’ were strange and wonderful to all
the parties.
[To he continued.]
(general Cdrrtir.
From the Dublin University Magazine.
THE GERMAN MEISTERSINGERS—
HANS SACHS.
We once chanced to meet with a
rare old German book which contains
an accurate history of the foundation
of the Meistersingers, a body which ex
ercised so important an influence upon
the literary history, not only of Ger
many, but of the whole European Con
tinent, that the circumstances connected
with its origin, cannot prove uninter
ssting to our readers.
The burghers of the provincial towns
in Germany had gradually formed
themselves into guilds or corporations,
the members of which, when the busi
ness of the day was discussed, would
amuse themselves by reading some of
the ancient traditions of their own
country, as related in the Nordic po
ems. This stock of literature was soon
exhausted, and the worthy burghers
began to try their hands at original
composition. From these rude snatches
of song sprung to life the fire of poetic
genius, and at Mentz was first esta
blished that celebrated guild, branches
of which soon after extended them
selves to most provincial towns. The
fame of these social meetings soon be
came widely spread. It reached the
ears of the Emperor, Otho 1., and,
about the middle of the ninth century,
the guild received a royal summons to
attend at Pavia, then the Emperor’s
residence. The history of this famous
meeting remained for upward of six
hundred years upon record in the
archives of Mentz, but is supposed to
have been taken away, among other
plunder, about the period of the Smal
kaldic war. From other sources of in
formation we can, however, gratify the
curiosity of the antiquarian, by giving
the names of the twelve original mem
bers of this guild:
Walter, Lord of Vogelweid,
Wolfgang, Eschenbach, Knight,
Conrad Mesmer, Knight,
Franenlobof Mentz, | TI ■,
Mergliny of Mentz, 1 Th, “ olo S la ” s ’
Klingsher,
Starke Fapp,
Bartholomew Rogenboger, a blacksmith
The Chancellor, a fisherman,
Conrad of Wurtzburg,
Stall Seniors,
The Roman of Zgwickan.
These gentlemen, having attended
the royal summons in due form, were
subjected to a severe public examina
tion before the court by the wisest
men of their times, and were pro
nounced masters of their art; enthusi
astic encomiums were lavished upon
them by the delighted audience, and
they departed, having received from
the Emperor’s hands a crown of pure
gold, to be presented annually to him
who should be selected by the voice of
his fellows as laureate for the year.
Admission to these guilds became,
in process of time, the highest literary
distinction; it was eagerly sought for
by numberless aspirants, but the ordeal
through which the candidate had to pass
became so difficult that very few were
found qualified for the honour. The
compositions of the candidates were
measured with a degree of critical ac
curacy of which candidates for literary
fame in these days can form but little
idea. The ordeal must have been more
damping to the fire of young genius
than the most slashing article ever
penned by the most caustic reviewer.
Every composition had of necessity to
belong to a certain class; and each
class was distinguished by a limited
amount of rhymes and syllables, and
the candidate had to count each stanza,
as he read it, upon his fingers. The
redundancy or the deficiency of a sin
gle syllable was fatal to his claims, and
was visited in addition by a pecuniary
fine, which went to the support of the
corporation.
Os that branch of this learned body
which held its meetings at Nuremberg,
Hans Sachs became, in due time, a dis
tinguished member. His origin was
obscure —the son of a tailor, and a
shoe-maker by trade. The occupations
of his early life afforded but little scope
for the cultivation of those refined pur
suits which afterward made him re
markable. The years of his boyhood
were spent in the industrious pursuit
of his lowly calling; but when he had
arrived at the age of eighteen, a fa
mous minstrel, Numenbach by name,
chancing to pass his dwelling, the young
cobbler was attracted by his dulcet
strains, and followed him. Numen
bach gave him gratuitous instruction in
his tuneful art, and Hans Sachs forth
with entered upon the course of proba
tionary wandering, which was an essen
tial qualification for Ins degree. The
principal towns of Germany by turns re
ceived the itinerant minstrel, who sup
ported himself by the alternate manu
facture of verses and of shoes. After
a protracted pilgrimage of several
years, he returned to Nuremberg, his
native city, where, having taken unto
himself a wife, he spent the remainder
of his existence; not unprofitably, in
deed, as his voluminous works still ex
tant can testify. We had once the
pleasure of seeing an edition of them
in the library at Nuremberg, contain
ing two hundred and twelve pieces of I
poetry, one hundred and sixtee sacred
allegories, and one hundred and ninety
seven dramas —a fertility of production
truly wonderful, and almost incredible,
if we reflect that the author had to sup
port a numerous family by the exercise
of his lowly trade.
The writings of this humble artisan
proved an era, however, in the literary
history of Germany. To him may be
ascribed the honour of being the found
er of her school of tragedy as well as
comedy •, and the illustrious Goethe
has, upon more than one occasion, in
his works, expressed how deeply he is
indebted to this poet of the people for
the outline ol his immortal tragedy of
“ Faust,” Indeed, if we recollect
aright, there are in his works several
pieces which he states are after the man
ner of Hans Sach.
The Lord of Volgelweid, whose name
we find occupying so conspicuous a po
sition in the roll of the original Meis
tersingers, made rather a curious will
—a circumstance which we find charm
ingly narrated in the following ex
quisite ballad :
WALTER VON DER VOGEL WEID'.
“ Vogelweid, the Minnesinger,
When he left this world of ours.
Laid his body in the cloister.
Under Wurtzburg’s minster towers.
“ And he gave the monks his treasure ;
Gave them all with this bequest—
They should feed the birds at noontide,
Daily, on his place of rest.
“ Saying, ‘ From these wandering minstrels,
I have learned the art of song;
Let me now repay the lessons
They have taught so well and long.’
“ Thus the bard of yore departed,
And, fulfilling his desire,
On his tomb the birds were feasted,
By the children of the choir.
“ Day by day, o’er tower and turret.
In foul weather and in fair—
Day by day, in vaster numbers,
Flocked the poets of the air.
“ On the tree whose heavy branches
Overshadowed all the place—
On the pavement, on the tomb-stone,
On the poet’s sculptured face:
“ There they sang their merry carols,
Sang their lauds on every side ;
And the name their voices uttered,
Was the name of Vogelweid.
“ ’Till at length the portly abbot
Murmured, ‘ Why this waste of food ;
Be it changed to loaves henceforward.
For our fasting brotherhood.’
“ Then in vain o’er tower and turret,
From the walls and woodland nests,
When the minster bell rang noontide,
Gathered the unwelcome guests.
“ Then in vain, with cries discordant,
Clamorous round the gothic spire,
Screamed the feathered Minnesingers
For the children of the choir.
“ Time has long effaced the inscription
On the cloister’s funeral stones;
And tradition only tells us
Whe e repose the poet’s bones.
“ But around the vast cathedral,
By sweet echoes multiplied,
Still the birds repeat the legend.
And the name of Vogelweid.”
THE ENCHANTED BATHS.
These warm springs are natural
phenomena, which perhaps have not
their equal in the whole world. I am,
therefore, quite inconsolable at the
thought of having made the long and
difficult journey from Bona, and having
been five whole days here in Guelma,
within the distance of five-and-twentv
miles from those wonderful springs,
yet unable to see them. At the dis
tance of a mile or two from Hammam
Meskutine, thick clouds of vapour are
seen rising from these warm springs.
The water is highly impregnated with
calcareous properties, whose accumula
ted deposits have formed conical heaps,
some of which are upwards of thirty
feet high. From amidst these cones
the springs jet forth lofty columns of
water, which descend in splendid cas
cade., flowing over the ancient mason
ry, and covering it with a white calca
reous stratum.
The mass produced by the crystaliza
tion of the particles escaping from the
seething waters, has been, after a long
lapse of years, transformed into beau
tiful rose-coloured marble. F
brought me a piece of this substance
from the springs. It is precisely simi
lar to that used in building the church
at Guelma, which is obtained from a
neighbouring quarry. From the re
mains of an ancient tower and a fort,
situated near Hammam Meskutine, it
is evident that these springs were
known to the Romans. An old Arab
legend records that, owing to the ex
treme wickedness of the inhabitants of
these districts, God visited them with
a punishment similar to that of Lot’s
wife, by transforming them into the
conical heaps of chalk I have mention
ed above. To this day, the mass of the
people firmly believe that the larger
cones represent the parents, and the
smaller ones, the children.
Owing to the high temperature, the
surrounding vegetation is clothed in
the most brilliant green ; and the water
of a tepid brook, which flows at the
foot of the cascades, though in itself as
clear as a mirror, appears to be of a
beautiful emerald colour. F told
me that he was not a little surprised
to see in this warm rivulet a multitude
of little fishes sporting about, as lively
as though they had been in the coolest
water. This curious natural phenom
enon is explainable by the fact, that in
this rivulet, which is of considerable
depth, the under-currents are sufficient
ly cool to enable the fish to live and be
healthy, though the upper current of
water is so warm, that it is scarcely
possible to hold the hand in it any
longer than a few seconds. The hilly
environs of Hamman Meskutine are
exceedingly beautiful, and around the
waters perpetual spring prevails.— Tra
vels in Barbary.
lllisrtllnnij.
A SERIOUS KISS.
A CAUTION TO FRANK YOUNG LADIES WITH
MODEST LOVERS.
An Austrian nobleman, one of the
handsomest and most accomplished
young men in Vienna, was passionate
ly in love with a girl of almost peerless
beauty. She was the daughter of a
man of great rank and influence at
court, and on these considerations as
well as regard to her charms, she was
followed by a multitude of suitors.—
She was lovely and amiable, and treat
ed them with an affability which still
kept them in her train, although it was
generally known that she had avowed
a predilection for the Count, and that
preparations were making for their nup
tials. The Count was of a refined
mind and delicate sensibility; he loved
her for herself alone —for the virtues
which he believed dwelt in a beautiful
form. Like a lover of such perfections,
he never approaches her without timid
ity, and when he touched her, a fire
shot through his veins that warned him
not to invade the sanctuary of her lips.
Such were his feelings, when one night
at the house of his intended father-in
law, a party of young people assem
bled to celebrate a certain festival. —
Several of the young lady’s rejected
suitors were present. Forfeits was one
of the pastimes, and all on went with
the greatest merriment till the Count
was commanded by some witty young
lady to redeem hisglove by saluting the
cheek of his intended bride. The Count
blushed —trembled —advanced to his
mistress—retreated—advanced again
SOUTHERN LITERARY GAZETTE.
—and at last, with a tremoi that shook
every fibre of his frame, with a modest
grace he put to his lips the soft ringlets
that played upon her cheek, and in ev
ident confusion retired to demand his
redeemed pledge. 11 is mistress gaily
smiled and the game went on.
One of her rejected suitors, who was
of a merry, unthinking disposition, was
adjudged by the same indiscreet crier
of forfeits, “ as his last treat before he
hanged himself,” to snatch a kiss from
the object of his recent vows. A live
ly contest ensued between the lady
and the gentleman—it lasted for a
minute, when the lady yielded, though
in the midst of a convulsive laugh, and
the Count had the mortification, the
agony to see the lips which his delicate
love would not allow him to touch,
kissed with roughness and repetition
by another man, and one whom he des
pised. Without a word he rose from
his chair—left the room and the house
—and by that good natured kiss the
fairest boast of Vienna lost her husband
and her love. The Count never saw
her more.
THE CRAB.
On reaching Brodick, we had leisure,
in waiting for the little boat that was
to land us on the quay, to contemplate
the noble scene —above and around,
and below. lam seldom on the sea;
but when there, l am unwilling to pies
unnoticed the wonders of the deep.-
Oh! how full of wonders is tha:
mighty deep. When we see the Lord’s
wonders in the deep, may they so utter
their voice as to teach us to look up
unto the heavens for greater wonders
there ! Some have a great knack at
drawing useful lessons from the mute
inhabitants of the deep. It was at
Brodick that Mr. .las. Wilson, a dis
dinguished naturalist, observed two
men in a boat looking down intently
into the water, and from time to time
pulling something rapidly up. His cu
riosity was excited ; and, on inquiring
into the nature of their employment,
he found that they were fishermen,
catching crabs in an ingenious manner.
When, through the clear water, they
saw a crab at his morning walk, they
touched him with a long pole’ and in
stantly the crab grasped the pole with
his claws ; they gave another pounce,
and he grasped more firmly ; they gave
a harder jog, and, out of all patience,
he clasped the pole with all his claws ;
and forthwith, ere his paroxism was
over, they hastily drew up the pole,
and landed him in the bottom of their
boat.
The moral inference which Mr. Wil
son draws, and for which 1 have men
tioned this, is exceedingly good. “ 1
saw from this,” said he, “ that it was
not safe for either crabs or Christians,
when exposed to provocation, to lose
their temper.”
Craft. —There was in his native vil
lage a wealthy Jew, who was seized
with a dangerous illness. Seeing death
approach, despite of his physician’s
skill, he bethought him of vowing a
vow; so he solemnly promised that, if
God would restore him to health, he,
on his part, on his recovery, would sell
a certain fat beast in his stall, and de
vote the proceeds to the Lord. The
man recovered, and in due time ap
peared before the door of the syna
gogue, driving before him a goodly ox;
and several Jewish butchers, after ar
tistically examining the fine fat beast,
asked our convalescent what might be
the price of the ox. “ This ox,” re
plied the owner, “1 value at two shil
lings’’ (I substitute English money) ;
“but this cock,” he added, ostentatious
ly exhibiting a chanticleer, “1 estimate
at twenty pounds. ” The butchers laugh
ed at him ; they thought he was joking.
However, as he gravely persisted that
he was in earnest, one of them, taking
him at his word, put down two shillings
for the ox. “Softly, my good friend,”
rejoined the seller, “/ have made a vow
not to sell the ox without the cock ; you
must buy both, or be content with
neither.” Great was the surprise of
the bystanders, who could not conceive
what perversity possessed their wealthy
neighbour. But the cock being valued
for two shillings, and the ox for twenty
pounds, the bargain was concluded, and
the money paid. Our worthy Jew now
walks up to the Rabbi, cash in hand.
“This,” said he, handing the two shil
lings, “I devote to the service of the
synagogue, being the price of the ox,
which 1 had vowed ; and this,” placing
the twenty pounds in his own bosom,
“is lawfully mine own, for is it not the
price of the cock ?” —“And what did
your neighbours say of the transaction?
Did they not think this rich man an ar
rant rogue ?” “ Rogue !” said my
friend, repeating my last words with
some amazement, “they considered
him a pious and a clever man.” Sharp
enough, thought I; but delicate about
exposing my ignorance, 1 judiciously
held my peace.
Extraordinary Will.— The follow
ing is a copy of the will of John Lang
ley, one of the Cromwell ironsides,
who settled in Ireland during the Com
monwealth, and died there :—“ I, John
Langley, born at Wincanton, in Som
ersetshire, and settled in Ireland in the
year 1651, now in my right mind and
wits, do make my will in my own
hand-writing. Ido leave all my house,
goods, and farm or Black Kettle, of
“253 acres, to my son, commonly called
Stubborn Jack, to him and his heirs
forever, provided he marries a protest
ant, but not Alice Kendrick, who called
me, ‘Oliver’s whelp.’ My new buck
skin breeches and silver tobacco stop
per, with J. L. on the top, I give to
Richard Richards, my comrade, who
helped me off at the storming of Clon
mel, when I was shot through the leg.
My said son John shall keep my body
above ground six days and six nights af
ter 1 am dead: and Grace Kendrick shall
lay me out, who shall have for so doing ss.
My body shall be put upon the oak ta
ble in the brown room, and fifty Irish
men shall be invited to my wake, and
every one shall have two quarts of the
best aqua vitae, and each one skin, dish,
and knife before him ; and when the
liquor is out, nail up the coffin, and com
mit me to the earth, whence 1 came. —
This is my will, witness my hand this
3d day of March, 1674, John Langley.”
Some of Langley’s friends, before his
death, asked him why he would be at
such expense treating the Irishmen,
whom he hated 't He replied, that if
they got drunk at his wake they would
probably get to fighting, and kill one
another, which would be something to
wards lessening the breed.
<duii)uc 4'uniiii.
A PORTRAIT
BY F.I.IZABETH BARRETT BROWNING.
“One name is Elizabeth.”— Ben Jonsos.”
I will paint her as I see her!
Ten times have the lilies blown,
Since she looked upon the sun.
And her face is lily-clear—
Lily-shaped, and drooped in duty
To the law of its own beauty.
Oval cheeks, encoloured faintly,
Which a trail of golden hair
Keeps from fading off to air!
And a forehead fair and saintly,
Which two blue eyes undershine,
Like meek prayers before a shrine.
Face and figure of a child, —
Though 100 calm, you think, and tender,
For the childhood you would lend her.
Yet child-simple, uudefiled,
Frank, obedient, —waiting still
On the turnings of your will.
Moving light, as all young things—
As young bird:-, or early wheat
When the wind blows over it.
Only free from flutterings
Os loud miith that scorneth measure—
Taking love for her chief pleasure !
Choosing pleasures (for the rest)
Which come softly—just as she.
When she nestles at your knee !
Quiet talk she liketh best,
In a bower of gentle looks, — ,
Watering flowers, or reading books.
And her voice*, it murmurs lowly.
Asa silver stream may run,
Which yet feels, you feel, the sun.
And her smile, it seems half holy,
As if drawn from thoughts more far
Than our common jestings are.
And if any poet knew her,
He would sing of her with falls
Used in lovely madrigals.
And if any painter drew her,
He would paint her unaware
With a halo round her hair.
And if reader read the poem,
He would whisper—“ You havt done a
Consecrated little Una !”
And a dreamer (did you show hirt
That same picture) would exclsim,
“ ’T is my angel, with a names
And a stranger,—when he sees her
In the street even—smileth stilly,
Just as you would at a lily.
And all voices that address her,
Soften, sleekerl, every word, —
As if speaking to a bird.
And all fancies yearn to cover
The hard eaith whereon she passes.
With the thymy scented grasses.
And all hearts do pray, ‘ God love her!’—
Ay, and certes, in good sooth,
We may all he sure He doth.
(friginn[ tongs.
For the Southern Literary Gazette.
THE FIRST TI-ME I EVER APPEARED
IN PRINT.
UV J. A. TURNER.
From the days of my baby-hood,
almost, I thought there was something
grand and noble in being allowed to
appear in print. Ever since I had a
wish, 1 have wished to be a writer of
articles, the perusal of which would not
be confined to a few partial friends,
but which would be conned over by
every body that took up the book, pa
per or magazine in which 1 wrote.
I made several efforts in my child
hood, dear reader, it my memory is
not telling me a fib at this time —a
thing she don’t often do, by the way —
to get the Editors of newspapers to
print for me, and most signally failed.
I could not be brought to believe, at
that time, that it was because my arti
cles were unworthy of publication, but
I very charitably attributed their non
appearance to want of discernment on
the part of those whom I first favoured
with the corruscations of my infantile
genius. My mind is not much changed
at this time—not because I am certain
that I was then in'the right, but because
there is a strong pertinacity of opinion
clinging to my moral and mental con
stitution.
I longed for an appearance in print.
At last I wrote a piece for the Temper
ance Banner, published in Penfield,
and directed it to “Uncle Ben,” that
whole-souled old chap who could never
find it in his heart to refuse an article
sent to the Banner , though it might be
as destitute of interest as the note of
a bankrupt who can’t even pay the
principal.
Well, after 1 had sent off my piece
over the signature of “Orion,” I waited
as impatiently for the next, number of
“Uncle Ben’s” paper as 1 have since
waited for the issue of a certain other
matter “ taken under consideration.”
The printing of “Orion” was the last
thing 1 thought of at night, and the
first thing in the morning, for nearly
two weeks —the. Banner being then
published only semi-monthly. Time
dragged along very heavily, I thought,
but the two weeks at length rolled
away, though they seemed as long as
four months—and J have seen the time
when four months appeared to me an
eternity almost.
But, as I said, the two weeks at last
passed off, and, going to Eatonton one
Saturday—l was at school other days—
I found the Temperance Banner in the
office for my father. I took tlie paper
and commenced unfolding it with a
trembling hand and a palpitating heart.
Destiny seemed to hang upon the issue.
Lo, and behold, on the second page, at
the bottom of a communication, the
signature “Orion,” in large capitals.
Gods! how the hot blood shot up into
my temples, where I felt a load of fame
and immortality sitting in their super
abundance of weight and heaviness. 1
gazed upon the nagne “Orion,” as I
would upon an apparition of Cock-
Lane horrifferousness. My under jaw
dropped, and —so did my paper from
my hand. Stooping down to pick it
up, I awoke from my revery, and felt
as foolish as 1 did when I forgot where
my hat was, on a certain occasion, when
—but 1 wont say arty thing, lest I grow
personal.
I left the Post Office iustanter, and
went and got upon my horse —a sober
old dobbin, for I was almost a baby
then, and hadn't commenced fox-hunt
ing and riding fiery coursers—l say I
got upon my dobbin and read my arti
cle over and over all the way home.
The first person I met, after getting
home, was an old negro man whose
name was Juba. Now, Juba I always
considered a negro of fine taste and cri
tical acumen. My reasons for enter
taining this opinion will not seem
strange, for after having read my arti
cle to him—for read it to him I did,
kind reader—he pronounced it very
good.
Juba was a coloured gentleman in
whose estimation I always desired to
stand high, for lie never thought much
of anything unless it was something.
Whatever passed the severe ordeal of
his skeptical judgment, was of no ordi
nary merit—in his opinion. Juba has
a great contempt for small things, and
for small persons—at both of which he
curls his upper lip in the most approved
style. lie is willing to allow the palm
of superiority to his master and his
“master’s folks,” but after them, lie,
Juba, is undoubtedly the greatest man
alive. 1 was brought up in great ven
eration for the opinion of Juba on mat
ters and things in general, and now I
w as to have his literary opinion.
Imagine me, reader, in all the green
ness of boyhood’s greenest age, read
ing an essay on the subject of temper
ance to one who stood listening with as
much complacence as that with which
Augustus listened to Horatius before
admitting him to his Court. Imagine,
if you can, my unspeakable joy and
unutterable pride when, as the last
sentence was uttered, and 1 raised
my eye to meet that of my coloured
Mentor, a loud ha, ha, greeted my ears,
and there broke from Juba’s lips the
words, “God knows, master, it same as
preachin’!”
The compliment w hich “lhide Ben”
paid me in his editorial—for “Uncle
Ben” did do that—was forgotten in the
whirl-pool of pleasure which sent my
brain round and round in a giddy maze.
All things else w r ere forgotten save what
J üba had said to me.
Reader, l have received many com
pliments—who has not, where the voice
of flattery is so universally heard ?—1
have received many compliments in my
time, but none ever came with such
stentorian power and effect as the words
of commendation which fell upon my
childish ear—“ God knows, master, it
same as preachin’!”
For the Southern Literary Gazette.
EGERIA:
Or, Voices from the Woods and Wayside.
NEW SERIES.
LX IX.
Severity of Judgment. The indigna
tion which we proclaim at the faults
and errors of our neighbour, is always
loud in due degree with our anxiety to
conceal our own deficiencies of the
same description. We would all of us
seem desirous to avoid the danger of
suspicion and detection, by showing
that we at least have no reluctance to
hurl the first stone. It would be the
most terrible misfortune to the wrong
doer, were he always yielded up to the
tender mercies of those who are them
selves guilty.
LXX.
Witnesses Against Us. Have I any
reason to doubt that the bird which
chirrups in my evening walk, as if thus
decreed to be the minister to my hap
piness, is also conscious that 1 enjoy
his attentions, and that his antics and
his song are not in vain? If thus de
creed to minister, he is probably not
ignorant of his uses, and knows my
duties as he does his own. Alas! if
this be true, what thousand witnesses
exist against us, whom we have never
feared, who can testify to our improvi
dence, our hardness of heart, our pro
fligacy and wantonness —our selfish en
joyment of the blessing, without making
the acknowledgment —our thoughtless
indifference to the humble servant who
has served without favour, and has
perished without reward.
LXXI.
The Worst Enemies. Our worst en
emies are those who have wronged us
and whom we have forgiven. Their
continued hostility is only a proof that
they have not yet forgiven themselves.
LXXII.
Wants and Necessities. Our abso
lute necessity is one thing which we
need not here consider. But the nu
merous wants of man are due quite as
much to his social condition as to his
nature. It is not inconsistent with a
proper humility that he should desire
to sustain himself in this portion of his
caste and family; nor is there any re
proach to his religion, if, while he ne
glects no becoming duty or relation, he
seeks still to rise above the social con
dition in which he finds himself.
LXXIII.
Impolicy of Inferior Standards. —
There can be no greater error in the
policy of soc*etv, than in placing too
humble an estimate upon humanity.
To suppose men base is to make them
so. It is in proportion to the exactions
and expectations of society that they
rise or fall. We endow the individual
to whom we open the moral vista; we
drive him to utter despair, if we show
the gates shut against him. To insist
upon his susceptibilities for excellence,
is in most cases to make him excel.
We may punish a fault, but not by ex-
posure. To disgrace the offender is to
destroy him. Eugene Sue makes a
ease of this sort in the instance of
Chowrincin, who is rescued from the
stews of Paris, by being simply taught
that whatever his vices and degreda
tion, he has not lost his honour; has
not sunk into obtuseness in regard to
his condition, and is not beyond regene
ration and redemption. Would you
have your beast become a man, do not
forget your own humanity—w ould you
have him a gentleman, treat him as if
you thought him such.
LXXIV.
Variety. Variety is, perhaps, one
of the most perfect sources of the ami
able. Those who live upon the praises
of their neighbours, must expect to pay
for them. They are amiable and soli
citous, indulgent and agreeable, —for a
consideration. Deny these persons the
aliment they seek only suggest a
doubt of their perfection—and the
shock you give to self-esteem endan
gers the whole fabric of its virtues.
To be truly amiable, one must show’
that he does not lose his temper in the
mortification of his vanity—a painful
test which very amiable people find it
difficult to undergo.
(Dur iL'rttrrs.
Correspondence of the Southern Literary Gazette.
NEW YORK, July 13, 1850.
Every thing gives place to-day to the
expressions of grief and sympathy that
are called forth by the sudden bereave
ment of the nation in the death of Pre
sident Taylor. The spirit of party is
hushed ; politicians of every shade and
colour unite to do honour to his me
mory ; his defects as a statesman are
lost sight of in the view of his sincere
and robust and personal virtues.
The places of public business are all
closed. Emblems of mourning are
suspended from the principal hotels
and other buildings in Broadway. At
twelve o’clock, the stores will be shut
up, and the tolling of hells and the
firing of minute guns will express the
sympathy of the city with the obse
quies at the Capital.
A more formal demonstration will
take place, by direction of the city au
thorities, on Tuesday, the 23d instant,
when a grand civic and military pro
cession will be formed, accompanied
with appropriate solemnities.
The atmosphere, this morning, seems
pervaded with a spirit ofgeneral gloom.
The intense heat of last week is miti
gated, but there are no signs of joy in
the leaden sky. The hush that now
begins to creep over the city, with the
gradually subsiding hum of business,
seems like the preternatural stillness
that often precedes some great physi
cal portent. What is more sublime
than this sudden pause of a thronging
city at the impulse of a universal moral
sentiment! Delightful is it to see the
living human heart not wholly buried
beneath the load of “earking cares,”
and refreshing the o’er wearied world
with a gush of true vitality. The roll
of active, material life is here so rapid,
and so exclusive, that any thing which
causes its mighty waves to rest even
for a short time, seems almost as won
derful as the sight which was shown to
the Hebrew Seer at the burning bush.
There has been no very important
literary movement this week. Tenny
son’s new poem, “ In Memoriam,” is
announced by Ticknor & Cos., Boston,
though 1 believe no copy of this edition
has yet reached New York. You will
find it one of the noblest and truest of
all Tennyson’s productions. As you
are aware, it is the outpouring of his
poet’s sold in bitterest grief, at the
early death of one for whom he seems
to have had a love “passing the love of
woman.” This was Arthur llallarn,
the son of the English historian, whose
engagement to a sister of the poet was
one of the slenderest ties which bound
their hearts in mystic friendship. Their
union was far closer than that of bro
thers. Every image of tenderness and
pathos is lavished by the survivor on
the memory of his friend. He exhausts
the graces of language to dress out his
solemn grief. At one time, you are
reminded of the simple w r ail of Mos
chus in lamenting the favourite of the
Sicilian muses, then of the elaborate
splendor of Adonais. and again of the
sweet and profuse natural imagery
with which Milton adorns the “watery
bier” of his lost Lycidas, But in gen
uine tenderness and depth of feeling,
and in the rarest beauties of poetical
expression, this poem of Tennyson has
certainly never been surpassed by the
mightiest masters of song. It breathes,
too, the most elevated religious spirit,
a beautiful trust without presumption,
and a cheerful, humanitary hope, which
relieve the poem from the too sombre
cast which might be expected from the
sad monotony of the theme. By this
production, the name of Tennyson w ill
be more closely entwined than ever
before, with the deepest experiences of
many hearts, giving utterance, as he
does, to the emotions of a great sor
row, in words that will find a universal
echo.
We have the seventh number of Car
lyle’s “ Latter Day Pamphlets,” both
in the Boston and New York editions.
The subject professes to be the “Statue
of Hudson,” but has less to do with
the celebrated deposed King of Rail
ways, than with the despair and deso
lation with which Carlyle now wraps
himself as in a mantle. Not anew
idea rays out in the midst of the tere-
brific darkness which broods over his
soul. He seems sick unto death with
moral dyspepsy. He has fed on the
follies of the age, till he can no longer
digest any thing. Wine and milk both
turn on his stomach into the most cor
rosive acid. What a pity that his
friends will not take care of him 1 He
is no more fit to be out than a raving
maniac from Bedlam. lam informed
that he has long indulged in the rashest
looseness of conversation, satirizing
every thing such extravagance as to
take all point from his satire, and ex
pressing a) almost demoniac scepticism
in the existence of goodness, or wisdom,
or manhood, in modern times. I can
not forgive Carlyle, after his long “ ap
prenticeship” to the serene and smiling
wisdom of Goethe, that he should end
with such acrid misanthropy, assuming
the character, not of Faust, for which
there might be some excuse, but of
Mephistopheles, scoffing in bad English
at the “dream of his youth,” and at
every noble and hopeful sentiment
which gave such a radiant charm to his
earlier compositions. The world is bad
enough, and foolish enough, in all con
science, but why grin and gird at it,
with sardonic glee, like a malicious
monkey, instead of waiting with good
humoured patience, until the planet
shall come to years of discretion and
lay aside the weakness of infancy, ex
changing its swaddling clothes for the
virile robe!
1 think you will be pleased with
“Heloise,” a novel just out by “Talvi,”
which every body knows means the
accomplished lady of Prof. Robinson,
the eminent Oriental scholar. Her
success as a translator and writer on
literary history, has encouraged her to
undertake this original composition,
and, as 1 think, she has shown in it tal
ents of no common order for fictitious
creation. The interest of the work
depends lesson the construction of the
plot than on the truthfulness and skill
of the ‘author in the delineation of
character. She is well initiated into
the secrets of human fancies, and re
veals the workings <>f the feminine
heart with an insight that none but a
woman could command. I should not
be surprised to hear of some objections
from precisians on the score of its mo
rality, though, in tact, the whole ten
dency of the work is favourable to the
strictest virtue. Some of the charact
ers, around whom a great interest is
thrown, are placed in relations that
savor more of European freedom than
of American austerity, but none but a
profligate could be blind to the delicacy,
elevation and truthfulness which form
the essential staple of the story.
Amusements have been rather flat
this w eek. With the exception of the
Havana Opera Company, nothing is
before the public worthy of notice.
They are now performing to crowds at
Castle Garden, alternating between the
Opera and Concerts. Three or four
thousand persons visit the Garden every
night.
The Rochester Ghosts are coquetting
with Capt. Rynders. With his keen
scent for a humbug, lie is obliged to
knock under to the knockings. it is
harder to get at the secret than it was
to find the man who turned the crank
of Reidheiffer’s Perpetual Motion.
The Montreal papers, I see, have
their columns in mourning on account
of the death of the President. T.
THE NATIVES IN NEW .JERSEY.
A Yankee in New .Jersey writes to
the Boston Transcript concerning the
people of that State, and their manners
and customs, as follows:
They are the kindest hearted, most
hospitable people in the world, but far
behind the same classes in New Eng
land in education and general intelli
gence. Men worth thousands do not
even take a newspaper or have a dozen
books in their houses, crowded with
everything else. The pronunciation
would amuse you, to say nothing of the
grammar. Many say w for v: wisit
and M'assinate, ?eil, and wase. M.
says she has tried hard to learn her
children to say v, and cannot. I wonder
if it as a peculiarity of the language of
the Danes, who first settled Jersey, or
of the Swedes, Finns, and Dutch, who
came after and left their strange, out
landish names? Then they say “ be-
Fase” for because; “his’n” for his;
“cheer” for chair; “keer” for care;
“dumb” lor dull, as “a dumb boy;”
only yesterday a lady said “ her eyes
were quite dumb;"’ “I are” instead of
1 am; a man on horseback “a horse
backer;” and instead of frightening the
children with ghosts and witches, they
tell them of wool-baggers and spooks.
They also tell of “eating tea;” (I've
not heard of drinking breakfast yet);
ask the school madam , as they call her,
what time she “puts on school,” and
when she “takes it off;” and call the
wench, as they style the coloured help,
(for there are many negroes here,) to
“bring a file and file up the stove and
hearth,” as they call a floor-cloth a “file.”
They wisit a great deal. About 4or
5 o'clock, I*. M., a carriage full of com
pany arrives, with or without an invi
tation. There is bustle in the kitchen
if they come without: a turkey is killed,
roasted, and served at 8, 9 or 10 o’clock;
when it is removed from the table, the
dinner plates are changed for tea plates,
and without knife or fork, you eat
sweetmeats, and various kinds of cake,
cheese, beef, &c.; and whether they are
the next door neighbours, or live five
miles off, they never leave till 11 or I*2
o’clock—probably to make us twice
ghid.
On Sabbath we ride four miles to a
village to .attend church. There is but
one service—the morning—at the close
of which, plates are passed around to
collect pence for the poor, and after the
people have exchanged salutations at
the door, we return home between 1
and 2 to dinner, and the neighbours
come in and chat a while, or the family
g.. and call on them, till an early bed
time. They call a funeral a “ burying ’’
and give the dominie, as they call the
minister, a scarf and gloves— gl oveß
also to the bearers. After marriage, the
bride remains at home for some months
often a year- and when the husband
takes her home to her own house, the\
usually give a second party, called an
in (n!) tare, or home bringing.
What I would do. —If I were pos
sessed of theVnost valuable things in
the world, and was about to will them
away, the following would be my p] iln
of distribution :
I would will to the world (and the
rest of mankind) truth and friendship
w hich are very scarce.
I would give an additional portion of
truth to lawyers, traders and merchants
I would give to physicians skill and
learning.
I would give to printers their pa\
To gossipping women short tongues
To young women, good sense, mo
desty, and natural teeth.
To young sprouts or dandies, com
mon sense, little cash, and hard labour.
To old maids, good temper, smooth
faces, and good husbands.
To old bachelors, love for virtue,
children and wives.
iT'lir ?nrrri) Mar.
A OEM ANTIQUE
[While looking, the other day, over u copy
of an English volume, containing “ More of
Lady Willoughby’s Diary,” our attention was
arrested by the following beautiful Sacred
Lyric, which must have been written early in
t:e seventeenth century. We quote it as it
stands in the “ Diary:” —Editor Gazette .]
“ These by Dr. Peter Heylin qireit irith a
Biller’
Could this outside beholden bee
To cost and cunning equally;
Or were it such as might surprize
The luxurie of curious eyes:
Yet would I have my Deere.-t looke—
Not on the Cover, but the Hooke ‘
If thou art merie, here are aires,
If Melancholie, here are prayers:
If studious, here are those things writt.
Which may deserve thy ablest wit
If Hungry, here is food Divine,
If Thirsty, Nectar, Heavenly Wine.
Reade then, but first thyself prepare
To reade with Zeal and mark with Care;
And when thou read’st what there is wriit—
Let thy best practice second it:
So twice each precept read shall bee—
First in the Book, and next in Thee ’
Much reading may thy spirits wrong,
Refresh them, therefore, with a song:
And that thy musicke praise may merit
Sing David’s Psalms with David’s spirit
That as thy voice doth pierce men’s ears—
So shall thy Prayers and Vows the spheres
Thus reade, thus sing, and then to thee—
The very Earth a Heaven shall bee:
If thus thou readest thou shah firide
A private Heaven within thy minds ;
And singing thus, before thou die,
Thou sing’t thy part to those on High.
Lesson for Sunday, July 21.
THE DIVINE PREFERENCE.
“The Lord loveth the gates of Zion more than all the
dwelling? of Jncoh.” — P-alm Ixxxvii. 2.
In this psalm glorious things are
spoken of the literal Mount Zion, as
typical of the Gospel church. One of
these we have before us. Let us notice
The places mentioned. “The dwell
ings of Jacob, and the gates of Zion.’’
By the dwellings of Jacob we are to
understand religious families, where se
cret and social prayer are observed,
and the Almighty is both acknowledged
and adored. Respecting such families
it may be said, Jehovah Shamrnah, the
Lord is there. llow delighful would
it be if in every dwelling there was an
altar erected to God ! The gates of
Zion denote public religious assemblies.
Every ordinance may be called a gate
of Zion : here the righteous desire to
be found ; here they knock, and wait,
and watch; and here they are welcome.
The preference given. The language
is forcible: —“ The Lord loveth the
gates of Zion more than all the dwell
ings of Jacob.” But why is this the
case ?
Because there he is more glorified. —
A public acknowledgement of the ex
cellencies of an individual tends more
to his honour than a private encomium.
It was more honourable to David and
Saul that a multitude publicly shouted
the praises of their victories, than if one
or two had spoken of it in the social
circle. God is glorified in families
where a few exalt his name, but more
so in his temple, where every one
speaks of his glory.
Because there he displays more of his
power in the conversation of sinners.
There his goings forth are seen, there
he performs wonders by the rod of his
strength, there he builds up his church,
there continual accessions are made to
its numbers ; there, when the mind is
shaded by solemn reflection, rays of
glory shine from above, and heaven is
brought down to man.
Because it more resembles heavenly
worship. There are no secret or pri
vate acts of worship in heaven, all is
public. What a vast assembly, even
heart tuned to Jehovah’s praise, and
no jarring sound to disturb the harmo
ny ! If God loves the gates of Zion,
shall not we? O yes, we will
•• We have been there, and still would go,
“Tis like a little heaven below.”
Thk Dairyman’s Daughter.—Some
years ago, a vessel, which was blessed
with a pious chaplain, and was bound
to a distant part of the world, happen
to be detained by contrary winds, oyer
a Sabbath, at the Ise of \\ ight. Ihe
chaplain improved the opportunity to
preach to the inhabitants. His text
was, “Be clothed with humility.
Among his hearers was a thoughtless
girl, who had come to show her tine
dress, rather than to be instructed. Ihe
sermon was the means of her coin vi
sion. Her name was Elizabeth aH
bridge, the celebrated Dairyman b
Daughter, whose interesting histon
by Rev. Leigh Richmond, has been
printed in various languages, and w h *’
ly circulated, to the spiritual benefit o
thousands. W hat a reward was tin
for a single sermon preached “ 011 f °
season!”
Not Dealing in Script tKE y
woman went one day to hear r
preach, and, as usual, carried a p°‘
Bible with her, that she might turn
any of the passages the preacher nng 1
happen to refer to. But she foun * e
had no use for her Bible there; am (l| i
coming away, said to a friend, s 11111
have left my Bible at home to-day, ana
have brought m y dictionary. The doc
tor does not deal in Scripture, but in
such learned words and phrases as re
quire the help of an interpreter to ren
der them intelligible.