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phical allusion in the sign of a shoemaker, who had enclosed himself, his tools, and his stock in trade, together with a variety of boots and shoes, in a small box, about the dimensions of Diogenes' tub. His sign was a ship with sails set, and flags floating in the wind, beneath which ran two lines of patriotic poetry, conveying the spirit of the design, and of the shoemaker. Many, I am assured, must recollect that industrious cordwainer, distinguished as he was by an indefatigable melody, while he stitched in time to the tune, as boatmen sometimes row, or beat an accompaniment on his lap-stone. Now it is not easy to imagine any connection between a ship and the manufacture of shoes; nor did the cobler think there was, for he chose his design from the circumstance of his having previously been in the naval service, on which he prided himself, and took his sign therefore as knights used to do their coats of arms, from some notable action or expedition in which they had been concerned.
The satirical sign, perhaps, is more estimable in its genius than the generality, since it is intended to correct the vices and follies of mankind, while it is unfortunately the object of many others to promote them. One of this description I once observed over an inn door, wherein was represented a man in good apparel, of a pretty sufficient compass of person, and a self-complacent look, weil mounted, and appearing to be well satisfied with himself and the world, with these words issuing from his mouth, “ I am going to “ law.” Opposite to him in the sign, he is meeting another of a lean habit of body, in a worn-out dress, and of a repenting aspect, with his legs hanging on each side of a bareboned jade, and replying in this manner, I have been to law." Yet, however just and pungent this satire might have been upon the particular profession which it aimed at, I must confess I never yet saw a public-house sign representing one man reeling away from an inn door intoxicated, and another going towards it sober.
Not many miles from London, I once saw, and I dare say it is still to be seen, a sign, which, in the ingenious conceit that it put forth, at least had the merit of frankness. A tailor adorned his shop door with the representation of an enormous cabbage, the top of which had recently been snipped by a pair of shears (also shewn), which appeared to be just in the act of repeating the operation,
“ Still opening to devour.” But lest his customers should think him guilty of any extraordinary offence, he surrounded the whole with the motto in capital letters, of “ Evil be to him, who evil thinks."
THE WARRIOR'S GRAVE.
The red-cross Warrior sleeps
Far o'er the Eastern waves,
And the Syrian whirlwind raves.
No marble decks the ground,
No cypress droops her leaves,
In the desert o'er him heaves.
The only wanderer there ;
Hies him on to scenes more fair.
Who knew nor fear, nor shame;
So regardless of his fame?
We bonor not his clay;
'Tis to that we homage pay.
To mark where fell the brave?
And his country's heart his grave.
THE PERIODICAL LITERATURE OF GERMANY.
It has lately transpired, somewhere or other, that the Germans are not only writing crazy folios on metaphysics, and sickening stories of “ the wild and wonderful,” but that they are doing a vast deal besides, especially in the line of periodical literature. We have for some time been in the habit of considering their literature as peculiarly fertile in those elegant and short-lived annual productions, which are now naturalized among ourselves : things which make their appearance at a season devoted to merriment, when the graver pursuits of literature are for a while laid aside, and when, besides their own gay flighty host,
spirit dares stir abroad.' We have been told of their Forget-me-nots and Moss-roses, of their Minervas and Uranias, and the like names of sweet flowers and heathenish goddesses. We have seen these rivalled, too, by flowers sprung up in our own clime, and which, for aught we know, a good Christian may take up without being thought of the worse for it. Mr. J. even says, be believes he has seen all productions of that sort, published at home or abroad; and he gives us to understand, that still the one, for which he,“ the witty Mr. J.," bas occasionally been inditing his own good things, is far the best of them all-the very paragon of Taschenbuch. We may, perhaps, be tempted, in a subsequent number, to pass in review those that we have seen--and we are afraid they are not all; but this time we propose to confine ourselves to the daily publications of Germany.
Of newspapers, we speak not. When the press is in a state as it is now in Germany, any thing like an interesting political journal is out of the question. The best thing of the kind that they have, the Allgemeine Zeitung, derives its chief merit from the circumstance that it professedly disclaims having any opinions of its own. cases, it lends its columns to be the organ of both parties, always taking care, that the liberal may keep within the limits of moderation; and, which is still more difficult to effect, that the servile may not be guilty of too glaring a violation of common decency. Thus there is continually a double set of articles from Paris—the one from a correspondent belonging to the cóté gauche, the other from one who has taken up his abode in the happy mansions of the coté droit. Its sentiments on home politics are still of a lower key; that is to say, it takes things as they come, and the Editor is understood to receive a certain round sum annually from the cabinet of Vienna, to induce him to speak tenderly of the wisdom of that government*.
of their newspapers, then, we speak not; but have to inform our readers, that the daily publications, which we are about to mention, are, each and all, things that we should call reviews or magazines. While we are treasuring up our fond records and saws of books, up to the first of the month, it is the duty, and we louk upon it as rather a hard one, of a German Inspector to give his readers a literary treat every morning of their lives, Sundays excepted. Now, if this be hard for the editor, it must certainly be a little awkward for his readers, too; for, if their breakfast tables are stored thus every morning, it must leave a singular blauk on the first of the month; for one used to our doings, at least, it must be a sad disappointment, and must make him lament bitterly, with Horace, that he knows not what to do on the first of the month-
“ Cælebs quid agam Calendis." But then, in the time of the poet, it must have been still worse; literature had not yet been taught to keep pace with the seasons; time rolled on without having its divisions signalized by their representatives, rousing the world at destined epochs, shorter or longer
“ A dextra lævaque dies, et mensis, et annus,
Sæculaque, et positæ spatiis æqualibus boræ." Meaning by the Horæ, as is clear from the context, the quarterly publications. But at the luckless time we speak of, the heavenly bodies were not yet shining on others, moving in somewhat a lower sphere-planets and satellites, whose revolutions are analogous to their own, circling as they are around the centre of their orbits——the public, of which, as of the sun, it is still a matter of dispute among some irreverent philosophers, whether it be, originally, an opaque, or
* The Allgemeine Zeitung circulates daily 18,000 copies. The Hamburgh Correspondent circulates nearly 24,000; it is of great local and commercial interest in the north of Germany; but is not so well conducted as the Allgemeine Zeitung, which, in any thing except politics, is admirable.
a luminous body. We are, of course, of the latter opinion. But if the ancients were woefully deficient in regular gratifications of their literary taste, still there was among them a race of similar publications, which is not yet quite extinct; phenomena which were thought rather irregular at the literary horizon, and eccentric in their appearance; comets with a formidable tail, to lash the follies of the day. Such were the Satires of Horace, of Juvenal, of Persius; such the Epigrams of Martial; such are now in France the pamphlets of Monsieur de Pradt; such were the several cantos of “ Don Juan;" such are, at present—but no matter, our business is with the German periodicals.
Of these, we shall first pay our compliments to the Morgen Blatt. It has been fourishing for twenty years; and, if not the first, at least ranks amongst the first of its contemporaries. It is regularly published every morning, as its name implies, except Sunday; and contains original papers on the different departments of the Belles Lettres; popular essays on scientific subjects; original poetry; extracts from interesting new publications, and specimens of yet unpublished works, and ample reports from all quarters on the drama, and on news of literature and fashion.” Besides this, it is attended by four or five weekly supplements, exclusively devoted to reviews of new works; and three or four supplements, containing a gazette of the fine arts, with engravings*.
Of the original papers, the tales and minor novels are considered the most attractive. There is scarcely an eminent novel writer of the day, scarcely an author, that delights his readers with the lovely and ethereal forms of celestial maidens, or haunts them with the ghosts of their departed aunts, or frightens them out of their wits with omens and mysterious words and signs, or softens them again by moonshine; scarcely a man of note, whose name is whispered in the drawing rooms of Berlin, or reviewed in Blackwood, but is at present, or was at some former time, favoring the Morgen Blatt, in the language of one of them, with “ the youngest progeny of his " muse.
The fertility of many of these writers is prodigious. There are several who write for three or four of the periodicals, and who, at the same time, favor the world, at Christmas, with divers heart-breaking tales, and with a host of poems in the Taschenbücher. Every third or fourth year they publish a collection of these separate performances, having previously rummaged Willdenow's Botanical Dictionary for the Linnæan name of some flower, both novel and harmonious, to parade on the title page. Nor is this all: for, besides these, their minor lucubrations, they would think it wrong to forego the laudable custom of writing novels in three volumes, post 8vo. We believe we are correct in stating, that there are, at present, upwards of seventy volumes, containing novels and tales, published under the name of
The second and third series here mentioned sell also separately, under the title of “ Litteratur Blatt,” and “ Kunst Blatt."
Lafontaine, the indefatigable patriarch of the fraternity. We say under his name, for we have it from the very best authority, that several of the most popular novels that go by his name (among them, for instance, Die Familie von Halden) have flown from the pen of a worthy lecturer at one of the German Universities, on national economy. That gentleman happened to catch his particular manner and style so well, that he one day surprised his friend Lafontaine with three neatly written quartos, and a humble query whether he thought them deserving to be ushered into the world under the spell of his name? Lafontaine was highly amused; it had always been his ambition to “ astonish the natives” by the number of his productions, and thus the work of his friend was, without hesitation, sent to the
press. It had a great run at the time, and the example was soon followed by other productions, which Lafontaine occasionally retouched, but which had less success. Besides Lafontaine,-Laun, Kind, Claurin, and La Motte Fouqué, are, perhaps, the most fertile of the novelists of the day; and some of their best things contributed in establishing the reputation of the Morgen Blatt for its entertaining and romantic tales.
Poetry is not much the fashion, at present, in Germany. In this department, the Morgen Blatt is much at a level with the other periodicals; that is to say, very indifferent. It does, perhaps, more often induce us to read its poetry on account of a name, from which we had hoped better things. We must certainly say, that there are exceptions, and that we are sure, from time to time, to meet an old favorite who will never disappoint us. But, in general, we find our time wasted whenever we are tempted to take up any of the poetry in the Morgen Blatt,-thus we have lately noticed a poem by Goethe -a welcome in a Masonic circle at Weimar, to the Duke Bernard upon bis return home-but it is, as every thing that Goethe has published within the last fifteen years, trivial in the extreme.
It is no doubt a curious fact, that there should be the same dearth of good poetry abroad, while the taste for works of fiction is equally prevailing as both are at home. We must, however, except the drama; in dramatic literature the Germans have unquestionably done a great deal in the last ten years.
Though they have not, at present, a writer of the os magna sonaturum,” that might promise to rival the later productions of Schiller, or the earlier ones of Goethe; yet there are some dramas by living poets, that would stand among the very first in the second rank in
literature. Speaking of the drama, we may as well add a word or two on the theatricals in the Morgen Blatt. "That subject is taken up with much more interest, and conducted upon a much more extensive scale, than we have ever seen assigned to it in any of our journals, not excepting the Opera-Glass, a publication expressly devoted to it, which we have pleasure in mentioning, having lately seen soine papers of much taste and merit in it. If the reader has hitherto conceived, that London theatricals, for instance, are not known on the other side of the water-that Paul Pry has travelled only in the