Such was—no, such was not the mistress of Ravenswood. I feel the attempted portrait is inadequate. A passing description cannot do justice to the woman any more than a passing interview. Her superficial blemishes—want of ease in her conversation, or of crinoline in her dress,—were obvious to the casual observer; but the sterling qualities of her character, her truth and honesty, her constancy of affection, her unworldly disposition, her loftiness of soul—all these, as they could only be properly appreciated by those who had known her for years, so can they only be generally and vaguely hinted at in a brief sketch like this. The great mystery was, how she came to marry Carl. Every one said she was too good for him, and he would have been the last man to deny it. Perhaps she was pleased with his simple integrity, and foresaw that he would make a most affectionate husband, though it was not in his nature to be a passionate lover. Perhaps she pardoned his awkwardness in regard for his honesty.
After all, I would not claim that she was morally perfect; very few of us are. I am afraid she was rather censorious, and judged harshly of sinners; that in her own comfortable position she did not always weigh accurately the temptations of others. It is a common practice of very good and moral people to indemnify themselves for their virtue by depreciation of others; 'tis an error that lurks at the heels of Christian duty; for are we notcommandedto hate sin? and the transition from the abstract to the concrete is so easy.
I fancy, too, she did not harmonize altogether with Mrs. Henry Benson. Indeed, the two sisters-in law made little secret of their mutual incompatibility. Clara said that Louisa was very proper and very stupid, regular as a machine, and with no fun or frolic in her—that the only man she ever had about her, her cousin Philip, was as dull as herself,—that she dressed badly, and talked bad French,—that she went to church in the morning, and gossiped in the afternoon, and was more charitable to the bodies of her inferiors than to the souls of her equals. Louisa looked down upon Clara as a worldly and frivolous little creature, who fostered her beauty to attract admirers and worried her husband to death by her caprices, who wasted her time in dancing and flirting, and her money in Parisian nick-nacks, or in giving parties to people who did not care for her. In short, the two ladies said many hard things of each other when separate, and were painfully amiable when together.
But these bickerings did not greatly impair the happiness of our party at Ravenswood. The brothers loved each other as much as if they hadnotbeen brothers, and had not had to divide a large family estate between them. Even their wives' quarrels could not make them quarrel.
Many a jolly turn had they and their guest, lounging with their cigars after breakfast on the vine-trellised stoop, or under the spreading horse-chesnuts at one corner of the house, watching the white sails that glided by on the sunny water, and the fantastic cloudlets that floated in the clear sky; strolling through the winding walks, or across the terrace at evening, when the setting sun had piled red clouds like a huge volcano over the Hudson, and the Kaatskills looked like great blocks of lapis lazuli, their summits half veiled in fiery mist; riding through the adjacent country in bright moonlight nights, now threading their way among the uncertain bridle-paths of a dense wood, and anon startling a village with their clattering hoofs and boisterous merriment as they swept by it at full gallop; driving four-in-hand a livelong day to visit friends who lived north or south of them on the rivers, by roads that rose up over the hills and showed all the glorious panorama of the Hudson, and then dipped down inland among picturesque glens and water-courses and mill-streams. Capital game breakfast they had, which the women were not too sentimental to help them in doing justice to; and excellent plain dinners, with oceans of iced champagne; and when the cloth was drawn, Carl would chirp over his claret with as comfortable a melancholy as ever any "ruined" Protectionist gentleman in Old England gave utterance to.
At a very early period of their acquaintance, Henry Benson had put Ashburner up to the way of getting at the dark side of things in America. "Never assail anything," he said; "if you do, the people will tackle you, from the highest to the lowest.Let an American gentleman talk; give him his head, and he will soon lead you on the track you want." Acting on this hint, the Englishman let his host talk; what little he said himself would come in the form of a query or suggestion. "You lead a very nice life here," he would say, "but it is rather quiet. I should think an active man like yourself would choose some more stirring form of existence." Then Carl blazed out.
"Go into politics, I suppose! A nice business that for an honest man and a gentleman! Why, Ashburner, the democracy of our State, who are always in fear of being reduced to vassalage by a few thousand easy and unambitious rich men, have lost their liberties without perceiving it to hundreds of thousands of alien settlers with their foreign priests. A successful politician here is either a hack lawyer of thirty years' standing, who has had opportunity enough of getting used to the devil's work in his first business, or an upstart demagogue, who has made his way by dint of sheer brass; either a blind partisan, who knows nothing outside of "the regular ticket," or a "non-committal" man, who says everything to everybody, and never gave an intelligible, manly, straightforward opinion in his life. One party would sell us body and soul to the Slaveholders, and the other to the Anti-renters, and both to the Irish. If I could bring myself to enter the lists with such people, I should have to start with the dead weight of being a "millionaire" (as they call every man here who has two or three hundred thousand dollars) and an "aristocrat" (as they call every man who has the habits and education of a gentleman). There is not a voter in this county has less influence than I have;—to be sure, I don't try for any, because I well know that by doing so, I should only make myself more unpopular, without becoming any more influential. Or be a leader of fashion, perhaps—one of those people who talk scandal about one another all day long when they are not dancing, who try to pursue pleasure in a place where every one else is at work, and are so destitute of resources, that they quarrel for pure want of something to do. See what they have made of my brother, who is a clever fellow and a well-educated man, though I say it. He is becoming a third-rate dancer—one of Tom Edwards'scorps; is growing frivolous and scandalous, and getting his earnest honesty knocked out of him every day. Or profess literature, possibly—Henry does a little of that too; you may see him in the magazines sandwiched between the last learned cobbler and the newest Laura Matilda of the West. No, I don't want to belong to any "Mutual Admiration" Society, and if I did, it's too late now. My mind has been spoken so often and so freely,that were I to write a book as good as one of Fenimore Cooper's, (if you can imagine the possibility of such a thing even in hypothesis) no editor would notice it, and no one read it—unless it contained something personal. Here I shall stay and amuse myself in what one of our ex-great men used to call "dignified retiracy;" and if this railroad drives me out, why, then,ingens iterabimus æquor—to England, were I a bachelor, but my wife couldn't live there; no American woman can, after the attention she has been used to at home, except the ambassador's wife—so it will probably be to Italy, or perhaps to Paris, for a man can find occupation there, whatever be his peculiar bent, and fill up his time well in the place without knowing or liking the people."
"It does surprise me," said Ashburner, "that the terminus of a refined American's dream should always be Paris,—that whenever a man has means and leisure, he runs off thither, and stays as long as he can: and if not there, in some other place—anywhere but at home."
"Come now," broke in Henry Benson; he had retired with the ladies after dinner, and now rejoined the men to have some more claret,—"don't you English run over to Paris perpetually, and all around the continent? Don't we meet you everywhere in the four quarters of the globe? You don't like to stay at home any more than we do; only we are franker than you, and avow it."
"Wegoaway from home, but we don't like tostayaway," replied the Englishman.
"Exactly; and if we had apied-à-terreclose to the continent as you have, we should not like to stay away from home either—more than half the year. Here has Carl been making his moan to you about our unappreciated condition; it's always his way over the decanters—one of his amusements merely. (Carl, old fellow, pass the Laffitte this way.) Well, I think," and he paused to fill a brimming glass, "that we are very jolly victims; and for my part, I am quite disposed to play, regardless of my doom. Look at our wives and children, our houses and horses, our whole style of living. Ponder well on thisBourdeaux;ruminate on those woodcocks we have been discussing. What miserable misused fellows we are! Wedolive in a great country—we have such civil and religious liberty as is enjoyed in only one other country in the world; and if we don't have the management of the government, why no one here or abroad holds us responsible for what the government does, and that is just the condition Plato thought a philosopher should pray for. Fill up again, brother mine, and thank your stars that you have your time to yourself, and are not a parliament man, as Ashburner is going to be, and are not set to work twelve hours a day among blue books and red tape."
And now, reader, these papers, which have been running on for a year or more, are wound up. I did not begin them intending to give you anything marvellous, or new, or profound about the aspect, prospects, and destiny, political, religious, or literary, of the great people among whom I am a small unit. I only intended to present you with some phases of outward life and manners—such things as would strike or interest a stranger in our beloved Gotham, and in the places to which regular Gothamites—American cockneys, so to speak—are wont to repair. For I am but a cockney in my own country; I have never travelled far in it,—good reason why, when they are apt to hang up a man at one end of the Union for what is a sort of religion at the other. They did not aspire to be "Sketches of American Society" (that was an honorary prefix of yours, Mr. Editor), nor even Sketches of New-York Society, but only of a very small class of persons in New-York; and therefore I had originally headed them "The Upper Ten Thousand," in accordance with a phrase established by Mr. Willis, though even that is an exaggeration, for the people so designated are hardly as many hundred. In truth, I began the series chiefly to amuse some Cantab friends of mine, who were curious to know how the gentlemen that were their contemporaries and representatives in our Atlantic cities, lived, and eat, and dressed, and amused themselves; what their habits and pursuits and propensities were. The last thing that I expected was that any of them should be read, much less republished, on my side the water. To a New-Yorker, many things which they contain must necessarily appear stale, stupid, and commonplace. For instance, in one number half a page is taken up with the description of a trotting-wagon; to an American I should as soon think of describing a pair of boots; the one is as familiar an object to him as the other. But at the very first number, some clever folks took it into their heads that they were to be very personal,—that every character described or even alluded to in them was to represent a real living prototype; that was enough to make them sought after. And it really did happen that in that first number I had described a sleigh which actually existed in real wood and iron somewhere about the city; and the inference above detailed was obvious. It is not every story in Gotham that has so much foundation; in fact, they get them up frequently without any foundation to speak of, only unfortunately the narratives don't fall to the ground as readily as the houses do. It is hardly worth while contradicting such idle rumors, but to my American readers (since I have some, much to my own amazement) I wish to say one thing once for all—that Harry Benson is not meant to represent any living individual whatsoever, and that his wife, house, horses, and other accessaries, are not designed afterthe corresponding appurtenances of any real person. And the same remark applies with equal force to all the appendages of Carl Benson, as delineated in this very sketch.
Still, I suppose I ought to be obliged to the members of "our set" who got up this idea; for the factitious interest thus communicated to these papers has caused them to be reprinted (in the cheap and multitudinous style of American reprints), and thus to become known to the outsiders both of our own city and of other parts of the country, who could perhaps judge them more fairly on their own merits, from having no knowledge of, or interest in, the local celebrities supposed to be portrayed in them. Some have been disposed to accept them as what they were really meant for—light sketches of life and manners in a certain circle; some have had the bad taste to wax furious at them. I understand that a few southern editors have departed from their usual stoical calmness and dignified reserve on the subject, to assail me for my occasional allusions to "the peculiar institution;" and am told (life is too short, and time too precious, to read such things oneself, but there are always good-natured friends to put you up to them) that a correspondent of theOchloratic Review and No Government Advocate, who probably never wore a decent coat in his life, and regards every man in a clean shirt as an oppressor of the people, has seriously taken me to ask for representing some of my characters as elegantly dressed! If this individual could find nothing worse to say of my papers,after nine months examination of them, methinks he might have continued to hold his tongue; but I suppose any trash will do for theOchlocratic.
Whether the abuse of these persons, or the praise of others, or my own inclination, may tempt me hereafter to essay something more definite and connected, I will not say at present. Of the things that "lie on the knees of the Gods," it becomes no man to speak prematurely. Meanwhile, make a long arm across the Atlantic—So—shake hands, and good-bye!
Frank Manhattan.
FOOTNOTES:[20]A literal fact. Washington Irving's residence was among those disfigured by this operation, which made havoc of all the oldest and most beautiful properties in the State.[21]Commonly writtenCatskill; but I believe the above is the genuine Dutch orthography.
[20]A literal fact. Washington Irving's residence was among those disfigured by this operation, which made havoc of all the oldest and most beautiful properties in the State.
[20]A literal fact. Washington Irving's residence was among those disfigured by this operation, which made havoc of all the oldest and most beautiful properties in the State.
[21]Commonly writtenCatskill; but I believe the above is the genuine Dutch orthography.
[21]Commonly writtenCatskill; but I believe the above is the genuine Dutch orthography.
Karl Herwitz is a German. He is about fifty years of age, and one of the most original of characters. Since I have know [known] him, I have passed whole nights in listening to his adventures, which are in general as instructive as they are amusing. Married at a very early age, he left the military career for that of inventions. He had a most marvellous talent for conceiving novel machines, often of practical utility; but his soul was set upon perfecting a flying machine. To this he had devoted nearly his whole life. He made models, he tried experiments, he brought to bear all his prodigious knowledge of mathematics on the subject of travelling in air, with an enthusiasm, a childish earnestness, which is not uncharacteristic of genius. He studied every natural law which was likely to advance him towards the consummation of all his hopes and desires—namely, the ability to fly. At one time his little garden was turned into an aviary. He filled it with birds of various kinds, to study the mechanism of their powers of flight. There was the eagle and the dove, the vulture and the sparrow, all of which were made subservient to his darling object. He has often explained all this to me. "The Golden Eagle," he once said, "can cleave the air at the rate of forty miles an hour. Now, if I can succeed in imitating the mechanism by which he travels in space, exactly and efficiently, of course, my machine will move in the air at the same pace." What could I say? No argument, no warning, availed. Still he went on, hoping and working, and buying expensive tools and materials. He completed aërial ships one after another; and although none of them answered, he was never discouraged.
At one time, however, he thought he had succeeded. His contrivance was a curious affair, shot out of a bomb; but it was about as buoyant as a shot, fell, and failed, disheartening everybody but the persevering projector. Still he did not wholly neglect useful productions, and several times made improvements in mechanism, and sold them for very good prices. But the money went as fast as it came. His winged Pegasus was a merciless Ogre, which swallowed up all the money the old German earned.
Last Christmas-eve, in Paris, five of us were collected, after dinner, round a roaring fire, half wood, half charcoal. For some time the conversation was general enough. We spoke of England and of an English Christmas. The magic spell of the fireside was felt, and the word "home" hung on the trembling lip of all; for we were in a foreign land; we were all English, save one. There was a lawyer, the most unlawyer-like man I ever knew, a noble-hearted fellow, whom to know is to like; there was a poet, of an eccentric order of merit, whose love of invective, bitter satire, and intense propensity to hate—whose fantastic and Germanic cast of philosophy will ever prevent his succeeding among rational beings; then there was an artist, a young man well known in the world, not half so much as he deserves, if kindness of soul could ever make a man famous; there was Citizen Karl Herwitz, as he loved to be called; lastly myself. I had been speaking of some far-off land, relating some personal adventure; and, with commendable modesty, feeling that I had held possession of the chair quite long enough, paused for a reply.
"Tell us your adventures at the Court of Konningen," said the poet, standing up to see that his hair hung tastefully around his shoulders, addressing at the same time Karl, and mentioning the name of one of the smaller German states. "I have heard it before,but it will be new to the rest, and I promise them a rich treat."
"Ah!" sighed the German, with a huge puff at his long pipe; "thatwasan adventure—or rather a whole string of adventures. I have told it several times; but, if you like, I will tell it again."
All warmly called on the German to keep his promise. After freshly loading his pipe, and taking a drain at his glass, he drew his arm-chair closer to the fire, settled his feet on thechenets, and began his narrative in a quaint and strange English, which I shall not seek to copy:—
"I had spent all my money. I had sold all my property. There remained nothing but a little furniture in my house, which was in a quiet retired quarter of the town; but then I had completed a machine, and sent it for the approval of the Minister of the Interior, who promised to purchase it for the government. I now looked forward with delight to a long career of success, and saw the completion of my flying machine in prospect. On this I depended, and still depend, for fame, reputation, and fortune.
"I had then a good wife and four children; she is dead now." The German paused, puffed away vigorously at his pipe, and tried to hide his emotion from our view by enveloping himself in smoke.
"I was naturally impatient for some result," he continued, when his face became once more visible.—"I used to go every day to the Minister, and wait in the antechamber, with other suitors, for my turn. Weeks passed, and then months, and yet it never came. But we must all eat, and six mouths are not fed for nothing. We had no resources, save our clothes and our furniture. My clothes were needed to go out with, so the furniture went first. One article was sold, and the produce applied by my careful wife to the wants of the family. We had come to that point when food is the only thing which must be looked on as a necessity. We lived hardly indeed. Bread, and a little soup, was all we ever attempted to indulge in."
Six months passed without any change for the better. I went to the Minister's every day; sometimes I saw him, and sometimes I did not. He was always very polite, bowed to me affably, said my machine was under consideration, should be reported on immediately, and passed on his way. It was the dead of winter. Every article of furniture was now gone, my wife and children having not gone out for two months for want of clothes. We huddled together, for warmth, on two straw mattresses, in the corner of an empty room, without table, without chairs, without fire. Catherine had nothing to wear but an old cotton gown and one under-garment. We had not eaten food for a day and a night, when I rose in the morning to go to the Minister's. I felt savage, irate, furious. I thought of my starving and perishing family, of the long delay which had taken place in the consideration of my machine. I compared the luxurious ease of the Minister with my own position, and was inclined to do some desperate act. I think I could have turned conspirator, and have overthrown the Government. I was already half a misanthrope.
When I entered the Minister's antechamber, I placed myself, as usual, near the stove. I kept away from the well-dressed mob as much as possible. They were solicitors, it is true, and humble enough, some of them; but then they had good coats on, smart uniforms, polite boots, and came, perhaps, in carriages. I came on foot, clad in a long frock reaching almost to my heels, patched in several places; with trousers so darned about the calves as to be almost falling to pieces; with boots which were absolutely only worn for look, for they had no soles to them. My hat, too, was a dreadful-looking thing. This day, being faint with hunger, and pinched by the cold, the heat of the room overcame me, and I grew dizzy. I am sure I knew nothing of what passed around. I saw my wife and children, through a misty haze, starving with hunger and cold. A basket full of logs of wood lay beside my knee. Reckless, wild, not caring who saw me, I took a thick log, huddled it under my frock, and went away. I passed the porter's lodge unseen; I was in the open air; I was proud, I was happy.I had stolen a log of wood; but my children would have fire for one day.
When I got home I went to bed. I was feverish and ill; wild shapes floated round me; I saw the officers of justice after me; I beheld a furious mob chasing me along interminable fields; and on every hedge, and every tree, and every house, and every post, I read, in large letters, the word "thief." It was evening when I awoke. I looked around for some minutes without moving or speaking; a delicious fragrance seemed to fill the air, a fire blazed on the hearth, and round it huddled my wife and children, sitting on logs of wood. I rubbed my eyes. The presence of these logs of wood seemed to convince me that I still dreamed. But there was an odor of mutton broth, which was too real to be mistaken.
"Catherine," said I, "why, you seem to have some food."
All came rushing to my bedside, mother and children. They scarcely spoke; but one brought a basin of broth, another a hunch of bread, another a plate of meat and potatoes, which had been kept hot before the fire. I was too faint and sick to talk. I took my broth slowly. Never did food prove a greater blessing. Life, reason, courage, hope, all seemed to return, as mouthful by mouthful I swallowed the nourishing liquid. It spread warmth and comfort through every fibre of my frame. When I had taken this, I ate the meat, and vegetables, and bread, withoutfear. While I did so, my wife, sending the children back to the fire-place, told me, in a whisper, how she had procured such unexpected subsistence. It seems that scarcely had I got home, and, after flinging my log on the ground, rushed to bed, when a knock came to the door. Catherine went to answer it. A man of middle age entered. He gave a hurried glance around, seemed to shudder at its emptiness, looked at the next room through the open door, saw that it was as bare as the other, turned his eyes away from the crouching form of my half-dressed wife, and spoke:—
"Have you any children?"
"Four," said Catherine, tremblingly; but, still, answering at once, so peremptory was the tone of the stranger.
"How long have you been in this state?"
"Six months."
"Your husband is Karl Herwitz, the mechanist?"
"He is, sir."
"Well, madam, please to tell him that I recognized him as he came out of the Minister's of the Interior, and, noticing what he clutched with such wild energy, followed him here. Tell him, I am not rich, but I can pay my debts; I owe him the sum contained in this purse. I am happy to pay it."
"And did he owe it you?" said I, anxiously.
No, replied Karl; he had never seen me or heard of me before. Generous Englishman! I shall never forget him. I found out afterwards that he was a commercial traveller, with a large family and a moderate income. On what he left we lived a month, by exercising strict economy. I did not go to the Minister's for several days. I feared some one might have seen me, and I was bowed by shame. But, at last, I mustered courage, and presented myself at the audience. I was, as usual, totally unnoticed, and I resumed my wretched dangling in the antechamber, as usual. The result was always the same. Generally I caught a glimpse of the Minister; but, when I did, it was eternally the same words. Meanwhile time swept rapidly by, and soon my misery was as great as ever. My children, who during the past month had recovered a little their health and looks, looked pale and wan again. I was more shabby, more dirty, more haggard and starved-looking than ever. Once again I went out, after our all being without food for some twenty-four hours. I knew not what to do. I walked along the street turning over every possible expedient in my mind.
Suddenly I saw, on the opposite side of the way, a lieutenant belonging to the regiment I had quitted. He had been my intimate friend, but so shabby was I, that I sought to avoid him. He saw me, however, and, to my surprise, hurried across and shook me heartily by the hand. I could scarcely restrain tears; so sure was I, in my present state, to be cut by even old friends. But, in my worst troubles, something has always turned up to make me love and cherish the human heart.
"My poor Karl," said he, "the world uses you badly."
"Very;" said I: and in a few words I told my story.
"My dear Karl!" he exclaimed, when I had concluded, "I was going to ask you to dine with me on what I have left. I am come up to claim a year's arrears of pay, and have been sent back with a free passage and promises. But I have a little silver; and, as I said, meant to ask you to devour it. But after what you have told me, will you share my purse with me for your wife and children's sake?" And he pulled out a purse containing about the value of five shillings English, forced me to take half, shook me heartily by the hand, and hurried away to escape my thanks.
Home I rushed with mad eagerness, a loaf in one hand, the rest of the money in the other. My poor wife once more could give food to her little ones. On the morning of the third day after I had obtained this little help, I lay in bed, ruminating. I was turning over in my mind every possible expedient by which to raise enough money to go on with, a brief time, until my machine was really decided on by the Government. Suddenly I sat up in my bed and addressed my wife:
"How much money have you got left, Catherine?"
She had threepence of your money.
"Can you manage with the loaf of bread then, and three-halfpence for to-day?"
"I have often managed on less," said she.
"Then give me three-halfpence to take out with me."
"But what are you going to do? We may have nothing to-morrow, and then the three-halfpence will be missed."
"Give!" said I, rather sternly, reflecting as I was on my scheme; "be assured, it is for our good."
My poor wife gave me the money with a very ill grace, but without another word; and, rising, I went out. When in the street, I directed my footsteps towards the outskirts. They were soon reached. I halted before a tavern frequented wholly by workmen, and going into the public room, called for achoppeof beer. I had purposely chosen my position. Before me was a handsome, neatly-dressed young workman, who, like all his companions, was smoking and drinking beer. Quietly, without saying a word, I drew out a small note-book and a drawing-pencil. I was then considered a very good artist; but had only used my pencil to sketch models. But I now sketched the human face with care and anxiety. Presently, as my pencil was laid down, a man sitting next to me peeped over my shoulder.
"Why!" he cried, "that's Alexis, to the life."
"How so?" said the man I had been sketching, holding out his hand, into which I put my note-book.
"Good!" cried he, while a smile of satisfaction covered his face. "Will you sell this? I should like to keep it."
"I will sell it if you like," replied I, as quietly as I could, though my heart was nigh bursting with excitement.
"How much?"
I knew my man, and asked but six sous, threepence, which the workman gladly paid, while five others followed his example, at the same price. I went home a proud and happy man with my thirty-six pence of copper. Would you believe it? that was the commencement of a long and prosperous career, which lasted until the Revolution of 1848 threw me back again. Six months after, I received a thousand florins for a portrait in oil of the Grand Duchess of B——; and about the end of the same year I drove up to the Hotel of the Minister of the Interior in a splendid carriage, a gentleman by my side; it was the English commercial traveller.
We had a letter of audience, and were admitted at once. The Minister rose, and after a very warm greeting, requested us to be seated. We took chairs.
"My dear Herwitz," said the Minister, a little, bowing, smirking man, "what can I do for you? Glad to see you doing so well. The Grand Duchess says wonders of you. I will have the committee on your machine."
"I beg your pardon," said I, "but I have come to request your written order for its removal. I have sold it to the English house represented by this gentleman."
"Its removal!" cried the astonished Minister; "impossible! so excellent an invention should not pass into the hands of foreigners."
"So I thought," replied I, coldly, "when for nine months I waited daily in your antechamber, with my family starving at home. But it is now sold. My word is my bond."
The Minister bit his lip, but made no reply. He took up a sheet of paper, and wrote the order for removal. I took it, bowed stiffly, and came away.
We all heartily thanked the old German for his narrative. Since the Revolution, and the consequent impossibility of selling his machines in Germany, he has come to Paris, and taken to portrait-painting once more. His perseverance and endurance are untiring. His wife died long since, and he is like a mother to his four girls;—all of whom are most industrious and devoted. He still believes in his flying machine; but, for the sake of his parental love, his hard-working head and fingers—for the sake of his goodness of soul, his eccentricities, he must be forgiven for this invincible credulity.
None can fail to admire the original dreamer when he is also a practical worker; while few will be willing to patronize the mere visionary, who is always thinking and never doing.
"What is the highest degree of expression that art can delineate?" said Piombino. "Sleep," replied the master, to the surprise of all present, not excepting Leonardo. "I will explain," resumed Michael Angelo, "lest you should have misapprehended me. When I say that sleep is the highest expression that artist can put into form, I mean that it is the last and crowning effort of art; that it is the figure surmounting the pyramid on whose sides are prefigured life's many phases—all passion, emotion, thought. And to elevate the idea to its highest limit, it is necessary to depict it in youth—witness the Venus asleep—in order that man may feel how turbulent a sea of life is calmed under its spell." "But would not death itself express as much—a peace to the same passions, a peace more lasting?" said Piombino. "No," said Michael Angelo, "the passions live in sleep; are growing; in death they are at an end; hence in sleep the eye is closed to hide the naked forms of passion that lie within; in death the eye is open and sightless, a circumstance so effectually related in marble—a material in which the open eye has a look of death united to immortality."...
"But you have not told us," said Leonardo da Vinci, on observing that Piombino was satisfied, "in what consists this long debated notion which we call the fine ideal?" "By the fine ideal," said Michael Angelo. "I presume we both understand not the work of art itself, but the conception out of which it springs. Art is the exercise of an imitative faculty upon visible things; but fine art is the transcendental idea entertained after the study of nature, and transferred from the mind itself to the canvas or marble." "How is that idea acquired?" asked Leonardo. "The study of unsophisticated nature yields the ideal, or similitude of things seen; and this study, impressing the recollection, affords in due time a conception of abstract beauty itself to curious and sensitive minds." "By what process can such conception be achieved?" "Alas! to make real progress in this enterprise demands, on setting out, the possession of the finest faculties; powers so transcendental as few are able to value. Such is, however, the prospect of all who deserve success in the highest departments of knowledge." "Let us suppose one to be thus endowed; what then?" "Well, let him go forth in a genial mood and make himself master of the real; this done, he will have observed the groupings of inanimate forms, and have learned nature's failures and successes in giving features to the world. He will then ask what each feature would express, whether it be not something spiritual which lies deeper than the outer shape. Does the human face alone give utterance through its lineaments to thought and feeling? are not those of the landscape also pregnant with meaning?"
The Vegetarians lately held a meeting in London, under the presidency of Mr. Brotherton, M.P. There were about 400 persons present; as many women as men; a great many children, and a great many Quakers; and as in that country people dineà proposof everything, even when they only live on vegetables, there was a banquet of Vegetarians. We have no need to say that the flesh of all kinds of animals was rigorously excluded; the bill of fare consequently could be neither so brilliant nor so full of variety as those of Guildhall or the Hotel de Ville. These was only little pies of mushrooms, toasted bread and parsley, rice cakes,blanc mange, cheese tarts, and all sorts of pastry. The desert was composed of raspberries, cherries, and preserves; the whole washed down with tea, milk, coffee, and iced water. After dinner there naturally came speeches. It is probable, from the bill of fare, that the speakers were in full possession of theirsang froid; they have then no excuse for making, and it is not permitted for any one to make, after such dinners, such speeches as they delivered. If a speech be inevitable in an English banquet, there is also something inevitable in the speech, a quotation from the Bible. The Bible (we ask pardon for the expression on account of the circumstance) is served up with all sorts of sauce. The President of the Vegetarians, then, relied on the verse in Genesis, in which it is said: "And God said—Behold, I have given you every herb bearing seed, which is upon the face of all the earth, and every tree in which is the fruit of a tree yielding seed: to you it shall be for meat." That is very good, but something else is to be found in the Bible; and if the Vegetarians quote to us the 29th verse of the first chapter of Genesis, we may answer them with the 28th, in which God, after having created man and woman, said: "Be fruitful and multiply, and replenish the earth, and subdue it: and have dominion over the fish of the sea, and over the fowl of the air, and over every living thing that moveth upon the earth!" So much for the theological part of the question; but there remains the political part, that of economy and health. In a political point of view, the Vegetarians place their panacea above all others; according to them, society will not be regenerated until all men shall live on parsley and tapioca: "Passing in review," says the report, "all the plans of social reform, the Peace Congress, popular education, &c.," the chairman expressed the opinion that none of these plans attack the root of the evil, and that a reform in eating and drinking should precede all others, "For," said he, "a man who, from conscientious motives, shall abstain from the slaughter of animals, will not be guilty of murder of his fellow creatures." As to the economic part of the question, the Vegetarians are decided free-traders, decided partisans of direct exchange. "It has been proved," said the chairman, "that the nutritious quality of animals is derived from vegetables, and, consequently, men take their good second-hand." The Vegetarians declare then for the abolition of intermediaries and for direct consumption. As for health, the advantages of the vegetable system are presented to us under the most encouraging colors. Thus, the East Indians, the porters of Cairo and Constantinople, and in general a great part of the Orientals, never eat meat, and yet they are the finest types of the human race. The Russians eat black wheat, the Scotch oats, and they are very industrious laborers. To this it may be answered, that if the Orientals eat little or no flesh, it is probably for them an affair of temperature as well as of temperament; that the conditions of health are not the same in all countries; that if the peasants of the North do not eat meat, it is probably because they cannot get it; if the English army were fed on rice, oats, and milk, instead of roast beef and beer, we should be curious to know the results of therégime. But that does not prevent men from being in good health by indulging in an enormous consumption of parsley; that herb is only fatal to parrots. The chairman of the Vegetarians, Mr. Brotherton, is a living proof of it. For forty two years he has followed the vegetablerégime, and he affirms that it suits him. There was also in the meeting an American, who came expressly all the way from Philadelphia, and who had belonged to the fraternity for forty years. He declared that he enjoyed the best health, that he had five children, all well, that his children had married vegetarians, that he had twenty-one grandchildren, who could never be made to taste meat. There is in the societyonemember of parliament, and, we may perceive sometimes, that the others do not live on raspberries and cream; there is a magistrate, before whom there will be no necessity of appealing to Philip Sober; there is an alderman, and we hope that he was not the other day at the Hotel de Ville; there are 21 medical men, but they are there for the sake of experiment; there are ten members of the clergy, but that is not many; there are ten literary men—alas! it is, perhaps, not their fault! And there are 50 lawyers, 26 merchants, 11 fundholders, 871 workmen—in all 718, of whom 513 are men, and 205 female. We remember having seen at Paris an Englishman who made a very large fortune by selling pills entirely composed of extracts of vegetables. A caricature once represented his patients in full flower, that is covered with carrots, turnips, and potatoes, proving the success of the medicine. Perhaps we shall see it proved that it is forbidden to men to eat animals, and we do not despair of seeing it proved that it is permitted to animals to eat men.
The magazine literature of Germany is quite different from ours, a fact which generally speaking is not to its discredit. Indeed there are several periodicals in Germany which may be compared with the best English magazines for their varied excellence, while their cost is comparatively trifling. Among these are theDeutsche Monatschrift, a republican monthly, edited byAdolf Kolatscheck, and published at Stuttgart; and theGrenzboten, a weekly, of conservative and constitutional opinions, edited byGustav Freytag, andJulian Schmidt, and published at Leipzig. The American reader of these two periodicals, will have an excellent apprehension of the general scope and tendencies of current thought in Germany, as well as some knowledge of the new books as they make their appearance. Those who wish a convenient and cheap mode of becoming acquainted with the productions of German novelists, may find it in theIllustrirtes Familienbuch, (Illustrated Family Book), published monthly at Treves. This is mainly made up of romances by the best writers of the day; there is also a department for artistic criticism, but it is not very good. The engravings are tolerable.
German Poets are prolific just now. Mr.Hopplhas brought out a volume at Stuttgart, full of suppressed tears and melancholy miseries. He is unloved and unappreciated, and must, therefore, have a bad time in this dreary and woeful world. Of a similar strain is the second edition ofCarl August Lebret'sGedichte, likewise published at Stuttgart; if anything he is more pitiable and stupid than Hoppl.Adolph Glassbrenner, of Berlin, serves up poems of another sort, in his freshly printed third edition. He is known to every reader of current German literature as a comic writer of no small ability, and these poems prove his talent. They are mostly political in their tendency, and are good of their kind.Dunkles Laub(Dark Leaves) is a youthful poem of Mr.Frederik Ruperti, published at Bremen. It recounts the awful experiences, and spiritual and other struggles of the author's youth. He suffers especially from an unhappy passion, and is apparently convinced that the man never lived who endured so much. Still, he shows great poetic ability, and now that his youth is disposed of something may be hoped from him.
Freiligrath, the German poet, is the subject of a searching, yet mildly expressed criticism, in that excellent periodical, theGrenzboten, of Leipzig. The writer finds that he is superficial in feeling, without a genuine sense of poetic melody, and not remarkable for mental power.
A tenth edition ofBrockhaus'sConversations-Lexiconis now passing through the press. The first edition was published in 1796. Of the fifth edition, which appeared in 1818, 32,000 copies were sold; of the seventh (1826) 27,000; of the eighth (1832) 31,000; of the ninth (1843) 30,000. The supplementary works issued between the editions, and devoted to current matters, have also had a large sale. Ofthe Conversations-Lexicon der Neuesten Zeit und Literatur, (4 vols. 1832-34) 27,000 copies were sold; of theConversations-Lexicon der Gegenwart(4 vols. 1838-1841) 18,000; and theGegenwartwhich is now appearing is also sold largely. The new edition promises to be written in the same spirit of moderation and liberalism as its predecessors, but if the articles of theGegenwartafford an indication, it will be more "progressive" and radical, and less careful to satisfy all parties.
An excellent German critic says of the preface toLamartine'sHistory of the Restoration, that it is as coquettish as everything in the historic way that has come from Lamartine's pen of late years. He coquets with the conflict of his own understanding and sentiments. His heart still beats for the ancient dynasty; his mind decides for the republic—a very serious state of things, not only for a statesman, who is called to share in the immediate development of affairs, and who can never arrive at unity of action, as long as feeling and reflection impel him to different courses, but also for the historian. Lamartine, says the writer, is a remarkable example of that mixture which is often found among the French, of fantastic sentimentality, and frivolous, superficial reflection. He is especially remarkable, because he has converted this mixture, of which in most cases, the person is unconscious, into a sort of system, and justifies it accordingly. The understanding says Yes, the heart says No, but both speak vivaciously and clearly, showing that he has them both in a high degree. This consoles him for the want of harmony between the two; he never thinks that in such harmony the reality of both consists.
Robert Prutz, the well-known German historian, has just made his appearance as a novelist with a romance in three parts, calledDas Engelchen(The Little Angel). A large portion of it has been previously published in theDeutsche Allgemeine Zeitung, where it has excited a profound interest. From the author's previous achievements as a lyric and dramatic poet, his success in this new sphere is only what was to be expected. The Little Angel is a novel of modern society.
Zwrei Monate in Paris(Two Months in Paris), byAdolphe Stahr, is published by Schulze in Oldenburg. Lest our readers should infer from the name of the author that this is a political work of solid character, we subjoin the following remark by a German reviewer, "Written in a light, easy, careless vein, this work helps to augment the already colossal pile of books relating to Paris, but is by no means such as we should have expected from the representative of the Prussian revolution. Nay, it has been already surpassed by two recent and similar productions—the one by a lady, a little art-criticism, a little literature, a few theatrical items, abal mabille, a visit to Heine, and the sketch of a meeting of workmen, with their songs, all written in that tolerably piquant, lively style, with which we have however of late been surfeited, form a book, agreeable enough, it is true, but not such as we should, in these earnest, serious times, have expected from such a writer." The American reader may however draw a very different conclusion from that of this "earnest and serious reviewer."
The last lesson usually taken by the student of ancient art is that in gems—cameos, intaglios, and the like—a fact the more surprising since nine-tenths of the spirit of classic life and beauty is thus extant in miniature. The Venus di Medicis and the Apollo Belvidere, the Parthenon and the Temple of the Winds—every variety of mosaic, and half-obliterated scrap of fresco are familiar to the dilettante, ere he reflects over the incredible grace, beauty, and spirit displayed in the exquisite design of nearly every classic gem. Those, however, who have learned to appreciate this department of ancient art, will welcome the appearance ofKohler'sGesammelte Schriften, (and the collected essays ofH. K. E. Kohler), forming the best work known on this subject. In it we find, treated in a masterly manner, all the intricate methods of judging of ancient gems with modern inscriptions, gems of an uncertain era, and modern imitations of ancient cutting. The "darker side" of the work consists of violent and unmerited attacks on rival writers. Published by Leopold Vossin, Leipzig.
Among the cheapest and most attractive books for children which we have met with are the recently publishedMunich Bilderbücher, or picture-books, consisting of thin folios of all manner of neatly-designed fancies, many of them by eminent artists. They contain fairy tales, humorous sketches, historical illustrations, and a vast number of pictures in the well-knownSlovenly Peterstyle, but far more attractive. Many are colored, and the publisher has judiciously printed a number on thick, parchment-like paper, well adapted to withstand the wear and tear of the nursery.
Books are no longer written in Latin. For literature and learning that good old language has finally given way, in almost every country, during the present century. In the United States there have been produced some fifty volumes in Latin since the Revolution, nearly all of which are by foreigners. The Life of Washington, by Francis Glass, a western schoolmaster, is the most considerable contribution to Latin literature by a native American. In Europe only a few pedantic churchmen continue to write to dead nations, and it is perhaps well enough that they should do so, since scarce any of them have fit thoughts for the living age, or for tongues that have been used by free and thinking men. We find an exception to the prevailing law inDe Caroli Timothei Zumptii Vita et Studiis Narratio August. Wilh. Zumptii. Every body is familiar with the name of Zumpt as that of one of the most learned Latinists of the last half century, and it is appropriate that his life should be written in a language to the study and illustration of which it was almost entirely devoted. The Lives of Hemsterhuys by Ruhnken, of Ruhnken by Wyttenbach, and of Wyttenbach by Mahne, have long been the delight of scholars, and have furnished some of the best specimens of modern Latinity. Zumpt will not take rank among philologers with these great lights of the eighteenth century, but he rendered services to learning which will deserve a memorial, and in moral qualities he was not inferior to any of them. He became in succession a teacher in other Gymnasia in Berlin, and ultimately Professor of History in the Military College, and of Latin Eloquence in the University. He published the first edition of his celebratedGrammarin 1818, and it soon became known throughout the civilized world. Of his other publications the most considerate is his edition of theVerrine Orations of Cicero; hisDissertations on the Population of the Ancient World, De Legibus Judiciisque Repetundarum, and several others, show that he was well versed in antiquities, but grammar, criticism, and style were his proper field. Wolf pronounced himself and Zumpt the only men in Berlin who could write Latin. His incessant labors undermined his constitution, and brought on a premature decay; and for some time before his death he had become entirely blind. He died at Carlsbad in 1849.
A third edition ofThibaut'swell-known work,Uber Reinheit der Tonkunst, with a preface by the Minister R. Bahr, and a portrait of Palestrina, has just made its appearance, from the establishment of the well-known publisher Mohr, of Heidelberg.
A new course ofProces Celebresis to be published by Brockhaus, of Leipsic. Number one contains theProces du Comte et de la Comtesse Bocarme.
Remak Rob. Untersuchungen über d. Enturckelung der Wirbelthiere, Berlin, 1851. All who are interested in theories of the development of organic life will welcome the appearance of this work, which has been received with cordial approbation by the most eminent German physiologists. This second volume is devoted to the development of "the chicken in the egg," and is illustrated with seven admirable copper-plates. Notwithstanding the researches of Everard Horne, Ratke, and others into this department, this work of Remak's is distinguished by an even more accurate and detailed examination of phenomena, and it may confidently be classed among the first of the age. This is the opinion ofThe Centralblatt. The engravings are by Haase. This Robert Remak is the brother of Gustav Remak, an eminent German lawyer in Philadelphia.
In theArchives for the Study of Modern Languages and Literaturewe observe a paper by oneG. Jap, entitled,Why does the English Language, in its acquisition and combination of new words, rather incline to the classic tongues than the copious and flexible German element?To which we may answer, "Alas,why, indeed?" Why is not the study of the Saxon Testament generally introduced? and why are not school-boys familiarized with the older forms of our own language—as they are in Germany made to study the Neibelungen Lied, and Wackernagel's Reader? We can imagine no argument in favor of a study of Greek which might not be with equal force applied to Saxon and goodoldEnglish.
A work has recently appeared in Breslan bearing the title,The Higher Classes, as they are, and as they should be, by CountArnim Blumberg:written in the month of February, 1851. That the aristocracy of Germany at the present day are far from being the practical philanthropists which they should be is beyond a doubt, but that they will become such by inspiring them with piety, in the unfortunate, melancholy sense in which that word is generally taken at the present day on the continent, is still more doubtful.Not slothful in business, fervent in spirit, serving the Lord, is piety in America—something contrasting remarkably with the mystical and world-renouncingpietismusof modern Germany.
A second "completely renewed and greatly increased" edition ofBerthold Auerbach'sDeutsche Abende, or German Evenings, has been published by Bassorman, of Mannheim. Auerbach is in this country rapidly attaining the popularity which was held a few years since by Zschokke. Apropos of the latter, we remark a neat and very cheap edition of all his works, now publishing by Sauerländer, of Aarau.
One of the most important architectural works which has ever made its appearance is now being published by Meissner, of Hamburg, bearing the titleDenkmaler der Bankunst aller Zeiten und Lander(Monuments of the Architecture of every Era and Country), byJules Gailhaband, and published for Germany under care and contribution of Dr. Franz Kugler. The literary and artistic excellence of the original work is too well known to render description necessary, and its improvement is guaranteed from its being under the care of Kugler, who is perhaps better qualified, æsthetically, for such a task, than any German, or indeed any one living. The 197 and 198livraisonswhich now appear, contain engravings of the Chateau Chambord in France, the Mosque of Hassan in Cairo, the Temple of Gerschen in Nubia, the Baths of Caracalla, sketches of bridges of the middle ages, the Palace of Strozzi, and many others. In connection with this we may mention theEntwurfez Land-und. Stadt Gebauden, or Sketches for Domestic Architecture byF. W. Holz, a work which may be commended assuggestiverather than practical, but still on that very account to be commended to young architects desirous of developing their creative powers.
Without wishing to render aught save honor to all who diligently pursue the minutest departments of science, we are still at times reminded, by occasional works, of the professor who was honored as one inspired by "a full German blood and a Fatherland's spirit," for a book—the result of thirty years' unwearied application—on bigamy and polygamy among grasshoppers. We are irresistibly reminded of this anecdote by a "preliminary notice" of some thirty odd years' observations of "certain varieties of thrushes," which are shortly to appear in an ornithological magazine at Stuttgart.
Among a mass of Lutheran Church literature recently published in Germany, we observeVogel Ernst Gust'sBibliotheca Biographica Lutherana, Ubersicht der zedruckten Dr. Martin Luther betreffenden biograph. Schriften, id est, (Gustavus Ernst Vogel's Biographical Lutheran Library: a notice of all the printed works extant referring to the life of Dr. Martin Luther.) This work will be found extremely interesting to all readers of the History of the Reformation, since it embraces notices of many important works which might otherwise escape attention.
A work interesting to those who like to follow out the different political trains of thought developed in these "working" times, has recently been published by Rumpfer of Hanover, bearing the title.The Excellence of a Constitutional Monarchy for England, and its inapplicability to the other countries of Europe.
The German critics notice an increased interest in what relates to Art and Literature in the Middle Ages. Among other singular but interesting works, we observe the commencement of a series of "Manufacturing or Trade Chronicles" of that time, containing "researches into the mediæval sources and archives of many German cities, and consisting of items never before printed," published at St. Gall, in Switzerland, by Scheitlin and Zollikoffer. As Switzerland is eminently the country wherein the ancientguilds, or business associations of the Middle Ages, have longest continued in their original form, we may remark a peculiar appropriateness in the fact that such a work should there make its first appearance. This volume consists ofThe Chronicles of the honorable Association of Butchers. Also, the publication of a manuscript,Thetmari magistri, iter ad Terram Sanctum, 1217, (Thetmar's Journey to the Holy Land, in 1217,) by Huber & Co., of St. Gall: edited byT. Tobler. With which we would citeKoninc Ermenrikes Düt. The death of King Ermenrich, an old Flemish Song and Legend of Theodoric, discovered with notes, by Jac. Grimm, Hanover: pub. by Ehlerman, price 15s. groschen. This work, which we have as yet not seen, has, however, been spoken of in terms of high praise, as "although in many places wanting, still excellent, as giving yet another glance into the rich vein of German Legendary, and Lyrical Life." Fault is, however, found with the publisher for a want of precision and accuracy.Conrad Schwenckpublishes throughSaunerlander, a "Mythology of the Ancient German" while the "Origin of the three oldest cities on the Rhine," namely, Mayence, Bonn, and Cologne, by Franz Ritter, is not without claims to interest.
One of the most exquisite artistic literary productions which has for years appeared in Germany, is that which has lately been published byRudolph Besser, of Hamburg, bearing the title,Dr. Martin Luther, der Deutsche Reformator: In bildlichen Darstellunzen von Gustav König; in geschichtlichen Umrissen von Heinrich Gelzer. (Dr. Martin Luther, the German reformer: artistically illustrated by Gustavus König, with historical sketches, by Henry Gelzer.) This is one of the works of which Protestant Germany may well feel proud, inasmuch as it has in every line the impress and spirit of national art. The entire work sets forth the artistic feeling which characterized the Nuremberg artists of the sixteenth century, and we are continually and irresistibly reminded, in turning over these exquisite engravings, of Albert Dürer, Cranach Wohlgemuth and Hans Sebald Beham. The work consists in a great part of short sketches and scenes from the life of Luther, illustrated, as the title implies, by the eminent artist König, who, though an artist of Munich, is by birth a Coburger. From Munich he has, however, drawn all the learning and inspiration of the middle age and high Catholic art, the which knowledge he has however admirably and consistently applied to an eminently Protestant subject. Peculiarly in the modernised Dürer style, is one of the first engravings representing Luther as a boy singing for bread, (as is even yet the custom in some parts of Germany,) before the door of a house. Luther gives himself a naive account of this: "They say, (quoth Luther,) and truly, that the Pope himself hath been in his time a wandering student, therefore let us not despise the lads who beg before the doors 'panem propter Deum', and sing for bread. Such an one have I also been, and received bread before the doors of houses, particularly at Eisenach, in mine own dear town." Very animated and expressive is also the scene representing Luther as accidentally coming upon a copy of the Bible for the first time in the University Library. In his left hand he holds a massy folio Aristotle, and near him lie tomes of scholastic philosophy and theology, while his eye with the rapid glance of intelligence and conviction peruses the history ofAnna. This is in short a work which every patron of art will certainly obtain, nor will it prove less acceptable to the scholar and theologian from the graphic and excellent character of the literary matter.
Deutsches Volkskalender auf das Jahr, 1852.Herausg, von Gustav. Nientz.There are two works, which, generally speaking, are found in every Christian family—the Bible and—the almanac. The Almanac has in fact the greater antiquity of the twain, for in the remote East, as in Norway, it was universally published "for the million," on blocks of wood or stone, or on walking-canes, even in the days of paganism. And since itisso generally distributed, would it not be well for some of our higher literati to take the matter in hand, and make it a medium for something better than criminal trials, quack advertisements, and similar subjects? This of Nieritz is well gotten up, and contains excellent contributions from Jer. Gotthelf, Karl Barth, A. Wildenhahn, Karl Simrock, and A. Grube. The best in the collection appears to beThe Broom-maker of Rychiswyl, by Gotthelf. All of the engravings are admirable, and the work is published for "next to nothing."
AnAustrian Biographical Dictionaryis now publishing, by Moritz Bermann, at Vienna; useful to students of history and politics.
InSweden, is the title of two volumes ofSketches of Travel, byHans Christian Andersen, just published at Leipzic. They are replete with all the poetic charm and genial humor which his pen imparts to every subject it touches.
Henrich Zeiseis a Danish novelist with whose works we have in this country no acquaintance, but who has just been introduced to the Germans by a translation into their language of hisNovels of Christian Winther, which are praised by the critics as not only well written, but as affording an excellent idea of Danish social life. Zeise is the son of a country parson of Lolland; was born in 1796; and first distinguished himself by his fugitive poems, which in 1820 were collected in a volume. He travelled in Germany, Switzerland, and Italy, and in 1832 published a collection of translations from the German poets and other writers. In 1835, he brought out a second series of his own poems, in which he abandoned to a great degree his previous popular style, and put on the manners of fashionable society. This was not a successful experiment. His novels are more recent; the best,Osterie, was published in 1843. In 1849 he translatedReinecke Fuchsinto Danish, preserving the original metre. He now has a pension from government, and lives at Copenhagen.
Tegner, the great Swedish poet, is known to American and English readers throughFrithiof's Sagaand Longfellow's translations of hisChildren of the Lord's Supper. A German version of his more recent writings is now making its appearance at Leipzic. The first number containsGerda, a fragment of an unfinished heroic poem which is spoken of as very admirable, and a few little comic poems which are said to be charming. Adam and Eve figure in one of these.
Heinrich Von Ortenburghas published a second edition of his poetical tale, entitledNachtbluthen—Night-blooms, or Night-flowers—andJohn G. Seide, the Viennese, an increased edition ofThe Songs of the Night. The two will serve to bind up withVoices of the Night—though perhaps thereareGerman or Sclavonic poems that would better serve this purpose.
Bomische Rosen, Czechische Volkslieder(Bohemian Roses, or National Songs), byIda Von Duringsfeld, and published by Kern, of Breslau, will undoubtedly attract the attention of the rapidly increasing circle of friends of Sclavonic literature. Also Sketches of Travel, by the same authoress, published by Schlodtmann, of Bremen.
An edition ofHoffman von Fallersleben's Heimatklange, or Regrets for Home, a collection of songs, has just made its appearance. Apropos of ultra-liberal political bards, we see thatFreligrathpublishes the second volume ofNeuere Polit und Sociale Gedichte, or Recent Political and Social Poems, by Schaub, of Düsseldorf. Freligrath's reputation as a poet appears to have much advantage from his persecution as a patriot.
The Italians were surprised lately by the announcement that the ex-ministerGuerrazzi, who is in prison awaiting trial for high treason, was about to publishAn Apology for his Political Life, and that sheets of this Apology are from time to time forwarded to Signor Lami, Minister of Greece and Justice, who revises them, when they are returned to Guerrazzi for final correction. It seems incredible—altogether inconsistent with Italian policy—that a state prisoner should thus be suffered to pre-occupy the public mind with his defence. But the ministerial paper of the 8th of August indiscreetly solved the mystery with the following notice: