RULES OF LIFE, FOR MYSELF AND THE PRESS. 9 tions and remembrances like these-and we ask not that more dazzling, noon-tide show of fame, with its ringing echoes, its highth of dizzy honor, its withered charities, and its heart-consuming cares, which waits on him who, at such a price, has won his laurels, to wear them some brief day of this passing life. May we urge, for a single moment, on the youthful readers of the Microcosm, and on those who influence their destinies, earnest attention to this subject. Will not some one who can do it more justice than either our time or abilities permit, make it the theme of reflection, and favor others with the result. For our readers and ourselves, it is our fervent prayer-May youthful feelings breathe their lasting fragrance over all the wanderings of our pilgrim-life, go with us into the retreats of declining years, soothing, as we pass on, the heart, amid its sorrowsblending, even upon the bed of death, the soft visions which memory brings of childhood's hopes and joys, with present peace of assured trust in God, and with the coming anticipations of a brighter morning, in a world where immortal youth shall never wax old, and its new-born energies and duties never cease. S. G. E. New-Haven, Oct. 21, 1836. RULES OF LIFE, FOR MYSELF AND THE PRESS. FROM THE GERMAN OF JEAN PAUL FRIEDRICH RICHTER. LITTLE joys refresh us constantly, like house-bread, and never bring disgust; and great ones, like sugar-bread, briefly, and then bring it. Trifles we should let, not plague us only, but also gratify us; we should seize not their poison-bags only, but their honey-bags also: and if flies often buzz about our room, we should, like Domitian, amuse ourselves with flies; or, like a certain still living Elector, feed them. The loftiest mortal loves and seeks the same sort of things with the meanest; only from higher grounds and by higher paths. Be every minute, Man, a full life to thee!-Despise anxiety and wishing, the Future and the Past!-If the Second-pointer can be no road pointer into an Eden for thy soul, the Month-pointer will still less be so, for thou livest not from month to month, but from second to second! Enjoy thy Existence more than thy Manner of Existence, and let the dearest object of thy Consciousness be this Consciousness itself!-Make not the Present a means of thy Future; for this Future is nothing but a coming Present; and the Present, which thou despisest, was once a Future which thou desiredst!-Stake in no lotteries,-keep at home,-give and accept no pompous entertainments,-travel not abroad every year!— Conceal not from thyself, by long plans, thy household goods, thy chamber, thy acquaintance!-Despise life, that thou mayst enjoy it! In. spect the neighborhood of thy life; every shelf, every nook of thy abode; and nestling in, quarter thyself in the farthest and most do. mestic winding of thy snail-house!-Look upon a capital but as a collection of villages, a village as some blind-alley of a capital; fame as the talk of neighbors at the street door; a library as a learned conversation; joy as a second, sorrow as a minute, life as a day; and three things as all in all: God, creation, virtue! Carlyle's "German Romance," Vol. 3. pp. 299-301. SIMPLICITY OF CHARACTER. In the last number of the Microcosm, I offered some thoughts on "Simplicity of Character." I am aware that the virtue recommend. ed, like all other virtues, has its counterfeit. Despised as it is by the multitude, there are not wanting those who have thought it worth their while to steal its garb, and attempt to pass themselves off for Nature's children. Excited, perhaps, by the admiration bestowed on some one to whom the merit of simplicity belongs of right, many have endeavored, by a servile and wretched imitation, to win for themselves a like applause. But, in my view, the affectation of simplicity is even more disgusting than the opposite extreme. A cold, formal, artificial being, who is always governed by policy, and distrusts all impulses but those of selfishness, is indeed a disagreeable and forbidding object. But a shallow, vain, hollow-hearted pretender to naturalness of character, is, in the last degree, sickening. Both are actuated by the same passion for display; they only adopt different methods to gratify it. Ever since it became fashionable to admire Wordsworth, (for the critical reviewers have, at length, decided that even he is to be admired, and the crowd, of course echoing their decision, now huzza the name they lately hissed,) we have had no want of scribblers in poetical simplicity. Vainly hoping to attain by rule, what exists in him as an original law of his nature, they have nauseated their readers with the dribblings of weak thoughts in still weaker language. How often are we reminded of Coleridge's amusing caricature! "Oh, I do love thee, meek Simplicity! For of thy lays the lulling simpleness, Goes to my heart, and soothes each small distress, SIMPLICITY OF CHARACTER. 11 Nor is this foolish conceit confined to poetical imitators. Many are addicted to it, who never ventured to indite a sonnet. They are such delicate creatures, forsooth, (according to their own account,) are so exquisitely attuned to all the harmonies of nature, that the gentlest zephyr rolls delicious surges of music through their souls. They are like an Æolian harp, which instantly and necessarily responds to each caressing breeze. A butterfly, a flower, a fish, a stream, a tree, a mountain, will throw them (so they say) into perfect ecstacy. Lest the fact should not otherwise be discovered, they will very modestly inform us, (looking the while unearthly things,) that they are so in love with Nature, they are so imaginative and sympathetic, as to be sometimes almost overwhelmed with their emotions. And that you may fully appreciate their native susceptibility, they will tell you to a minute, how long they have stood entranced, on a mountain or before a water fall. Because Henry Martyn "felt himself in good company with a withered straw," and Wordsworth could make poetry on a falling leaf, they think they must be in raptures with the very rubbish of the streets. "Oh!" said Angelina, who had just come in from a walk, "I have picked up a leaf in the street, and it is so faded!" She said no more. Too full for utterance, this eloquent burst of feeling was followed by a most expressive silence! "Sweet sensibility, O la!" It is remarkable that these creatures never know what to admire until they are told. I knew a lady who, in visiting a celebrated spot, took a professed artist with her, for the purpose, as she said, of pointing out its beauties; in other words, that he might tell her what to admire! So it is with the multitude; when they ascertain, from those to whom they look up for opinions, that this scene or that object is considered beautiful, then they will be heard in its praise. How many are delighted with a painting, the original of which they have seen a thousand times without interest! A flock of sheep feeding on the hill side, or a herd of cattle grazing in a meadow, they would regard with indifference. But when they see these beautiful groups sketched on canvass, and learn that Rubens or Poussin, or some other great master has done it, and that the work is generally admired, why then the case is materially altered; they will know thereafter, that these objects are beautiful, and will admire them accordingly. But alas! "Opinions formed from opinions, what are they, but clouds sailing under clouds, which impress shadows upon shadows." Such people are, of course, liable to unfortunate mistakes. They are in most alarming danger (should they have no Oracle at hand) of expressing opinions which they will be under the awkward necessity of retracting as soon as uttered. For in matters of taste they have no confidence in their own judgment. They may be obstinate enough in adhering to the opinion of others; but as for their own, inasmuch as it is rooted in no good reason, so it can be easily blown away. It is pitiable to see their slavish dependence, and then what notions! With some, every thing is pretty, from Mignionette up to Mont Blanc; with others, every thing is splendid, from Niagara down to Celadine. Such, or something like this, is the counterfeit of that simplicity or naturalness of character, which is, at the same time, so beautiful and so rare. But there is little difficulty in distinguishing between the true and the false. Nature possesses her own secret, and never will give the key to a pretender. Those who honor her, she will delight to honor, and will open to them her richest treasures. But those who seek her. not for her own sake, but as a means to their selfish gratification, will find no entrance to her inner temple. She never will lend her mighty aid to any who suppose her capable of becoming a means to so vile an end. Indeed, it is impossible to attain, by a system of rules and efforts, that, which to exist at all, must flow forth spontaneously, like the stream from its fountain. There is an undefinable ease and gracefulness in genuine naturalness of character which no art can reach. Art may perhaps dress up a figure that shall look like life, at first view; but the cheat cannot long be concealed; some stiffness of position, awkwardness of motion, or rattling of buckram, will betray the imposture. The pretender always discovers an anxiety to maintain his assumed character; an anxiety which results in part, doubtless, from a consciousness, more or less distinct, that it is assumed, but mainly, of course, from the love of display. The true character, on the other hand, betrays no such feeling. Having no part to act, he has no appearance to put on. Seeking no applause, he is content not to shine. The former talks to every body; he makes no discrimination between those who can and those who cannot appreciate the things he professes to admire. He is as likely to inflict his studied rhapsodies on a utilitarian as on a poet. Not so with the latter. In early life, it is true, through inexperience of the world, he will occasionally fall into this mistake; and when he does so, the discovery that his words have no meaning to his auditor, is like cold iron to his heart; a feeling of which the pretender knows nothing. But he will soon learn that all men are not alike; that many are strangers to that world which has opened such glories to his beholding; that few and far between are the children of nature. Yearning for sympathy, he wanders through the crowd, seeking kindred spirits with whom he may find communion. Small pleasure does it afford him, to talk of the mysteries his soul hath loved, to those who understand him not. It is sympathy he craves, not admiration. One heart that meets his own in full and blessed fellowship, is more to him than the plaudits of a nation. The consequence is, that he will fail to sustain his reputation as a lover of Nature, with those whom he regards as strangers to her power; for he will be slow to express what he feels in their presence. They will be astonished to find him silent, when every one else is trumpeting forth his admiration of some majestic scene. "Why, I thought you were fond of Nature," exclaims one after another. Most true, he is; but he cannot join his voice in such boisterous admiration. He would stand hushed and breathless, to receive the full impression of the scene before him. Nor can this reserve be justly attributed to pride or unsocial feeling. It is a law of his nature and must be obeyed. I repeat it, therefore; we may very easily distinguish between genuine simplicity of character, and its counterfeit. The best imitation is but a thread-bare covering. We hope if any readers of the Microcosm are disposed to assume this character, they will count the cost. All pretension to that which is not our own, is wicked and contemptible. How much better is it to confess our poverty, than attempt to hide it with borrowed gilt. If we were more concerned to be than we are to appear, we should have discovered the true secret of Simplicity of Character. B. STANZAS. "The boast of heraldry, the pomp of power, The paths of glory lead but to the grave." And more-the lyre of genius, must be swept And oft must sleep, at Heaven's dread command. But, 'tis the form alone that sleeps in dust; The glad, unfettered spirit doth arise, To join the glorious throng beyond the skies. Earth's melancholy shall ne'er enter there No more shall dark and gloomy thoughts, and sad Within that glorious clime-all hearts are glad. Onward, still onward to increasing bliss, Their spirits shall, through boundless ages, roam- With God conversing, and high heaven their home. Who would not welcome e'en the lowly tomb, When man, beyond it, may taste such a boon- C. D. Y. A GLIMPSE OF JOANNA BAILLIE. BY THE REV. C. B. TAYLER. [We extract this article from a work entitled, "The Living and the Dead." Its author is a clergyman of the Church of England, and author of "May you like it," "Records of a good man's Life," "Social evils and their Remedy," and other works. "The Living and the Dead," was published, we believe, in |