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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.