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-The child placed himself in the attitude of prayer, and then exclaimed "Mamma, since God was pleased that I should come into the world on the same day with our Saviour, perhaps he will send for me to be present at his festival."-Elizabeth gave a faint smile at this infantine idea; and too much indisposed to reason on such a subject with so young a child, she merely answered" Seek him, my dear, and you shall find him."

Gottfried took the saying of his mo. ther in a literal sense, rose up, and was about to quit the chamber, and which the increasing light from the neighbouring houses prompted him to do with the utmost alacrity. On the noise that he made in opening the door, his mother, who had fallen into a doze, awaked, and said "Where are you going? You know that you are not yet quite recovered, and you see that I am quite alone." "Do not be uneasy, my dear mother," said the child; " I am going to seek my Saviour, and I will bring him to you."-So saying, he disappeared, closing the door after him.

His mother was at first very uneasy; but being too weak to go after him, she comforted herself with thinking that on such a night, the streets being full of people, that he could not lose his way, that he would soon return, and as he scarce ever went out alone he would not go far. "O my beloved child," said she to herself, "it is eight years ago, this day, since I heard thy first cry; how many hours of joy and anguish hast thou made me feel since that period! Yet over thy destiny and mine I ought to shed the continual tears of bitterness: but I am a mother, and sweet are the consolations which that delightful title is capable of affording to the afflicted heart. O my God!" added she, lifting up her clasped hands, "I have sacrificed every thing for my child, and taught him early to know and love thee; take him, I beseech thee, under thy divine protection, that he may become an honest man and a good Christian."-She continued her ejaculations mentally as she waited for the return of her child.

0 ATHENEUM VOL. 7.

When Gottfried found himself in the street, in the midst of the crowd and the illuminations: when he saw the dazzling shops of the merchants, he felt a kind of emotion which seemed almost painful. He involuntarily cast his eyes downwards, but he soon reproached himself for this timidity which deprived him of the pleasure he had so ardently desired; he soon lifted up his head, and this movement carried his looks towards heaven. He saw its clear and azure vault sprinkled over with millions of stars. His malady, and that of his mother, had long concealed from him that sublime aspect, and which Elizabeth had been accustomed to behold with admiration. He now felt all that admiration in its full force; a kind of silent ecstasy pervaded his innocent soul, and he no longer heard the tumult that surrounded him : he no longer beheld the factitious illuminations of the lamps; his whole attention seemed given to the heavens. It seemed to him as if one of those stars was about to descend to bring him a message from the divine child who was born on the same day as himself, or that perhaps he might see him descending. This idea struck his young imagination; he knew not yet how to calculate those ages which have succeeded each other since our Saviour's birth, and he repeated with a feeling of pride and pleasure"We were born on the same day, and his birth-day is also mine."

During this contemplation his sight was struck on a sudden by the sight of another light in the air, but less brilliant than that of the stars, and much nearer the earth. He soon beheld another luminous point which was united to the first, and which added to its splendour; then a third, and then several others, in great numbers, and which formed, at length, the figure of a crown of fire, surmounted by a luminous cross.

Gottfried was lost in wonder, he did not know that it was illuminated in honour of Christmas eve, All on a sudden, as if impelled forward by a force he could not resist, he ran towards that part from whence the pillar of fire seemed ascending to the clouds. He was often stopped by the immensity of the

of the crowd,and sometimes be stopped himself before those shops which were most ornamented, or where the trees were most splendidly illuminated. He was surprised that those little firs could grow in the snow, which had been heaped round them in order to give more effect to the wax lights. All that Gottfried saw seemed the concurrence of supernatural powers for the celebration of this auspicious eve. In the mean time he did not stay long to consider these wonders, but was attracted by that which appeared in the air: he continued, therefore, to move forwards without paying any attention to several groupes of children who were ridiculing his singular costume. He had no great coat, and that he might be defended from the cold, his mother, since his late illness, made him wear a clean shirt over his other clothes; he had kept it on still when he went out. At length he reached the place where the brilliant crown was suspended over his head at an immense height. He found himself at the door of the cathedral, it was open, and he went in.

The church was empty, and feebly lighted by a couple of wax candles on the altar; the exterior illumination darted through the painted windows its long pale beams on the pavement of the temple, and which were gloomily shaded by the pilasters; the tombs that ornamented the lateral naves were al most hid in darkness. A sacristan walked slowly round the church and drew down a lustre suspended to the dome, in order to light it up. When little Gottfried had crossed the thresh old, he remained at the entrance as if rooted there, with a mixture of terror and surprise. The poor child was seized with an ague fit, and his whole body trembled: it seemed to him as if the ground shook under him, and that he was sinking into an abyss. He fell on his knees, he joined his hands together, with resignation, only saying-"O mamma, shall I then never see you again?" But soon the darkness was dispelled the great chandelier, now lighted up, shed around a brilliant illumination. Gottfried saw it rise up as if self-lifted, and lighting every place

in its ascent, and at length stop at a certain height, and throw round the vaulted roof a light equal to that of the brightest day, while at the lower part of the church was a soft light like that of early dawn. Gottfried then felt as if he had arisen from the abyss he had seemed sinking into: he still trembled, but the excess of his wonder and his admiration prevented him from feeling it. The splendour of the light increased every moment in this vast edifice, several other lustres were lighted up, and innumerable lamps were fixed round the pillars; while the wax candles placed on the altars threw streams of radiant illumination in every direction, and the images became more visible, and charmed the child who had never before seen any thing like it. An image of the Virgin, glittering with jewels, arrested his looks for a long time; she held the infant Jesus in her arms: he thought of his mother, and that she had brought him forth on the same day. By degrees he felt his courage revive, and he cast his eyes around without any sentiment of terror. It seemed to him as if this beautiful temple would become his dwelling place; sometimes, however, he felt himself in pain, the result of that malady from which he was scarce yet recovered. The coldness of a winter day, the thinness of his clothing,and his inward agitation augmented his ague; but at the same time the succeeding fever fit bore him up, and gave him a factitious kind of strength and animation.

As he cast his looks round the church, he perceived a man leaning against a pillar, whose face was turned towards a very fine painting that was suspended to a pillar in another direction. The appearance of this man sensibly struck Gottfried; he regarded him as one sent from heaven, and advanced in order to see his face. His costume was most magnificent: he wore a close coat of green velvet, and to a baldric of red, embroidered richly with gold, was attached a sword most splendidly decorated. On his head he wore a cap of green velvet, surmounted by a plume of heron's feathers, as white as snow. The sacristan approached

the Knight, he made the sign of the cross, and placed himself in silence directly opposite to him, still standing. He cast down his eyes, but lifted them up occasionally, and regarded him in a timid and tender manner. The Knight was some time before he perceived him; at length he saw him, and darting on him a piercing look, he asked him abruptly and haughtily" What is it you want of me?" The sacristan bowed respectfully, and replied:-"My lord Duke, if you still remember Hantz, the guardian of your infancy, if you can recollect how often I have borne you in my arms to this holy place; how often I have appeased your tears and cries in showing you the beautiful ornaments of this temple, how often I have felt touched and gratified to see the germ of fervent piety in your young heart; if you can recollect this, you will easily conceive how much I must be afflicted to be compelled by the office I exercise here to forbid you this sanctuary. I am here the servant of God, and I ought to order you instantly to quit this holy temple, from which you have been excommunicated; but it is on my knees (and he knelt down) I implore you to enter again into the right path,

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whereby alone you can obtain salvation; by the true Christian faith you will obtain the pardon of God and of our blessed Saviour. You contemplate the painting that hangs opposite to you; oh! how many times have I seen you, when but a little boy, stretch out your hands towards the infant Jesus, who is there represented, and say to me, with that sweet voice- Hantz, how I love that child! I wish he were my friend.' And now, O God! what a difference!"

The Knight was in a reverie. "Certainly," said he, as if scarce knowing what he said, "this painting is superb; it is a masterpiece; but leave me, let me be quiet, you old dotard.”The sacristan rose, and heaving a deep sigh, said-"O my dear, my once pious young Otto, what art thou now?" -The Knight then regarded the sacristan with more mildness, and said"Yes, little Otto was good when he was a child, you were good enough too, but we change as we grow older. Go, now, if you please, and leave me to myself, I wish to be at peace."-" Peace!” repeated the sacristan,as he went away; "poor Otto, it cannot be with thy conscience."

To be continued.

THE ORPHAN HOUSE OF LANGENDORFF.
Extracted from the Literary Gazette, Jan. 1820.

HRISTOPHER BUCHER, a Saxon by birth, had from his youth felt an irresistible inclination to devote himself to the education of children. His benevolence was particularly directed to orphans. Serving as hostler at the inn at Weissenfells, he took pleasure in teaching some poor children, and often went to talk upon subjects of education with the clergyman of his village, who encouraged him to follow his impulse. One day he was at Leipsig, without money, and without means to procure any. In his distress he retired into a corner of the stable, and throwing himself on his knee, implored the divine assistance. Finding himself strengthened by this pious act, he went to take a walk out of the gates of the town. A paper, containing some pieces

of money, which a passenger had dropped, caught his eye; the sum was sufficient to relieve him from his embarrassment; he made inquiries, but in vain, to discover the owner; and thought he saw in this combination of circumstances a manifest sign of divine protection. Some time had elapsed, when he found that he had acquired by his industry the sum of a hundred florins (about ten pounds), two carts; aud three horses. He happened to break a wheel in the village of Langendorff: this accident appeared to him to be an invitation from providence to begin in this place the execution of his favourite project. The plan for building an Orphan-House was soon fixed upon. Two workmen who assisted him in building, were the first benefactors to the intended

establishment, one giving twelve gros- are employed in the internal economy,

chen (eighteen-pence) and the other ten groschen. A gardener of the name of Dunkel joined in this good work: he put the garden in order, and planted a

vine.

It was with such slender means, but with confidence in God, that Bucher commenced what he had long considered as the object of his existence in this world. In 1712 he took up his abode here with four orphans.

Pray and work this was his principle according to this he regulated the habits of his pupils, that they might, above all things imbibe the fear of God; and then that they might learn to provide themselves for all their wants. Instruction according to him, should tend to give to man the knowledge and use of his own powers.

These principles, which he exemplified by practice, produced the happiest effect. Poor, but ardent in the cause of truth, persevering in the conviction that he had found it, Bucher made his enterprize succeed. In 1720 bis pupils amounted to fifty-one; and he then received some assistance from the Duke of Weissenfels, and a hundred crowns per annum, with exemption from certain taxes, from the Elector of Saxony. Dunkel the gardener remained faithful during his life to his first resolution, and bequeathed to the establishment the fruits of his savings.

Bucher died in 1729. The simple and just ideas which had guided him, were abandoned after his death. It was desired to do better: the Directors introduced the study of the dead languages, and the school of Langendorff suffered by it. It was not till the year 1811, that the spirit of the founder resumed its influence. At this period the orphans of Langendorff were united with those of Torgau, and the two combined establishments were placed under the direction of the Rev. Mr. Wurker.

The number of pupils is now a hundred and sixty ninety-eight boys and sixty-two girls. The former cultivate a piece of ground of 130 acres, and make their own clothes and most of the instruments which they use the girls

and in the labours belonging to their sex. This education is directed by the influence of the good examples which they receive from their superior, and give to each other, without any emulation but that which proceeds from the desire of doing well, having neither rewards nor punishments. Idleness is represented to them as the most dangerous enemy to man; and this is a maxim which they soon comprehend, because all the produce of their labour is employed in increasing their own comforts. They are taught reading, writing, and arithmetic, with a little history and geography.* Religious instruction is particularly attended to. Most of the teachers are former pupils in the establishment, assisted in their functions by the eldest of the present pupils, who, together with the directors, keep the books, and make the reports to the government. At the age of fifteen, they may quit the house, and choose themselves a profession; but they still continue their connection with the director, who pays for their apprenticeship on account of the establishment.+ The girls are put out to service in good families, and keep up, until they are of age, a correspondence with the director, a highly respectable man, and indeed their father; it is by this name that the teachers as well as the pupils call him. The merit of having brought back to its true destination, an establishment so interesting in its origin--a truly Christian charity; a great deal of simplicity, which does not exclude firmness of character; great talents, and indefatigable activity, tempered by a patience which is proof against every trial, eminently distinguish the Rev. Mr. Wurker.

*It seems singular that natural history is not included among the branches of instruction. To initiate children into the secrets of nature increase, their reverence for their Creator; and, for those who labour in the fields, it renders agriculture doubly interesting; and consequently, tends to make them love the station which God has assigned them. Proofs of this truth, if it needed any, might be found at Hofwyl.

At Hofwyl, they remain in the establishment till the age of twenty-one years, serving where the good results of their education may their apprenticeship before they quit the sphere be the best consolidated.

From the Literary Gazette.

POPE'S ESSAY ON MAN, TRANSLATED INTO PORTUGUESE.

BY THE VISCOUNT DE SAO LOURENZO.

THE
HE nations of Europe have at dif-
ferent periods maintained stations
as diverse in the ranks of literature, as
in the field of arms. Italy was the an-
cient haunt of the muses, and the
swarms of her earlier hive poured all
their honey on the lips of their succes-
sors. Spain, the land of romance, gave
fresh expression to enthusiasm, and ad-
ded" another hue" even "unto the vio-
let." France triumphed on the oppo-
site shore of poetry, and saw her sway
almost universal. At a later period,
England held on the ascendant, and
Germany, borrowing her light, now
strives to shine alone. During the
whole of this contest for litetary superi-
ority, Portugal remained an unconcern-
ed spectator. It should seem as if
the complaint, which Camoens so pa-
thetically poured forth of his country,
bad clouded the spirit and damped the
ardour of all her later bards.

Those sunshine smiles that fan the poet's fires,
She beams not, no, she chills his fancy's bloom;
In lust of gold her sympathy expires,

Shrouded in harsh and apathetic gloom.

Within these two years, however, there have been signs of change, and presages of amendment. In 1817, a magnificent edition of the immortal production of the Portuguese Milton, issued from the Parisian press, at the cost of an individual of rank, a countryman, and enthusiastic admirer of the neglected bard. The publication before us is the second attempt to arouse the energies of an hitherto inert people, and to point to literary glory as an "aim, a hope, and an achievement." The work is professedly a lineal version of The Essay on Man, but contains, in addition, a translation of Pope's Messiah, and also of the 13th and 14th chapters of Isaiah, intermingied with several minor pieces, and an immense body of notes, forming at least five sixths of the volumes, which, besides some very interesting citations from many Portuguese poets, hardly known

in England, even by name, comprehend selections of parallel passages from the literature of several nations. The book is printed in a very splendid form, each epistle having a corresponding illustration, tastefully designed and beautifully engraved in the line manner; there is also a portrait of the Portuguese nobleman, and a very fascinating likeness of the bard of Twickenham, in which we recognise the soft expression of his eye, the feeble character of his frame, and his slender legs "enlarged with three pair of stockings."* It is stated to be from a painting by Jervas; and, in contemplating the pensive features of the great subject of his pencil, we are reminded most forcibly of the verses addressed by the poet to the painter:

Thou but preserv'st a face, and I a name.

A century only has passed away, and the colors of Jervas can hardly preserve a face, whilst envy and malignity strive to darken the fame, and "spit their venom at the dust of Pope."

The Portuguese translation of the Essay on Man is executed in blank verse, and, as well as the version of the Messiah, is generally faithful, spirited, and harmonious.

The notes are by far the most curious part of the work, and contain an infinite variety of matter of every description. Many of them are metaphysical, critical, and historical, besides some very acute political disquisitions. The criticisms on English literature, as well as the passages quoted, display a very intimate acquaintance with our poets, from Chaucer to Darwin. We can only afford room for one short extract from these annotations, which we translate, because it relates a very extraordinary fact of natural history, that we do not remember to have been mentioned before. It forms part of a note on these

lines:

who bid the stork, Columbus like, explore
Heav'ns not his own, and worlds unknown before?

* Johnson's Life of Pope,

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