Loe raamatut: «The Mirror of Literature, Amusement, and Instruction. Volume 13, No. 372, May 30, 1829», lehekülg 4

Various

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There is something characteristic in the indolence of these sombre beings. They will travel immense distances; but to steady labour they are, generally speaking, not prone. It is told of them, that in one of the most fertile districts (the Baxio) it is not unusual for an Indian, on receiving his wages, to get thoroughly drunk, go to sleep, and on awakening renew his potations and repose, until the exhaustion of his finances compels him to return to labour. In some parts, however, there are exceptions to this observation.

Education has been more attended to, by some of the leading personages, than could have been expected in a society that had been so much kept in the shade. We apprehend the advantages are chiefly prospective, and may be well defined in another generation; at present they are but small. The whites have been, and still are, the most educated portion of the Mexicans, owing, no doubt, to their greater opulence, and having access to official rank. The mass of ignorance, however, among all classes, is inconceivable to any one who has only moved in the principal countries of Europe. Nor is it confined to the lower classes, but finds protection among the highest in the community. We heard a reverend canon of the metropolitan church gravely inquire, whether it was possible to reach London except by sailing up the Thames. And we knew a very pretty, agreeable young lady, moving in the first circles, who could not write a single letter at the age of seventeen. She has been since married, and has, we are informed, been taught to write by her husband, who is not a Mexican. The religion of all classes resembles too much that of the Indians; and the practical morality and general tone of society are by no means refined. If one half of the scandalous tales in circulation be true, the former ranks with that of Paris in its worst periods, and the latter is assuredly gross to a degree that would surprise even an inhabitant of Madrid. The familiarity with which every subject is treated at first excites emotions in an Englishman of the most unpleasant kind, which gradually subside, from the frequency with which they are discussed by young and old; by high and low, of both sexes.—Foreign Quarterly Review.

Notes of a Reader

SIR WALTER SCOTT'S NEW WORK

We detach this little descriptive gem from Sir Walter Scott's "Anne of Geierstein," just published. An outline of this very delightful novel will be found in a SUPPLEMENT with the present number of the MIRROR.

"The ancient tower of Geierstein, though neither extensive, nor distinguished by architectural ornament, possessed an air of terrible dignity by its position on the very verge of the opposite bank of the torrent, which, just at the angle of the rock on which the ruins are situated, falls sheer over a cascade of nearly a hundred feet in height, and then rushes down the defile, through a trough of living rock, which perhaps its waves have been deepening since time itself had a commencement. Facing, and at the same time looking down upon this eternal roar of waters, stood the old tower, built so close to the verge of the precipice, that the buttresses with which the architect had strengthened the foundation, seemed a part of the solid rock itself, and a continuation of its perpendicular ascent. As usual, throughout Europe in the feudal times, the principal part of the building was a massive square pile, the decayed summit of which was rendered picturesque, by flanking turrets of different sizes and heights, some round, some angular, some ruinous, some tolerably entire, varying the outline of the building as seen against the stormy sky."

THORWALDSEN

Since the death of his illustrious contemporary, Canova, Thorwaldsen, born at Copenhagen in 1771-2, has occupied the public eye as head of the modern school. The character and powers of this master are doubtless of a very elevated rank: but neither in the extent nor excellence of his works, do we apprehend his station to be so high as sometimes placed. The genius of the Danish sculptor is forcible, yet is its energy derived more from peculiarity than from real excellence. His ideal springs less from imitation of the antique, or of nature, than from the workings of his own individual mind—it is the creation of a fancy seeking forcible effect in singular combinations, rather than in general principles; therefore hardly fitted to excite lasting or beneficial influence upon the age. Simplicity and imposing expression seem to have hitherto formed the principal objects of his pursuit; but the distinction between the simple and rude, the powerful and the exaggerated, is not always observed in the labours of the Dane. His simplicity is sometimes without grace; the impressive—austere, and without due refinement. The air and contours of his heads, except, as in the Mercury—an excellent example both of the beauties and defects of the artist's style—when immediately derived from antiquity, though grand and vigorous, seldom harmonize in the principles of these efforts with the majestic regularity of general nature. The forms, again, are not unfrequently poor, without a vigorous rendering of the parts, and destitute at times of their just roundness. These defects may in some measure have arisen from the early and more frequent practice of the artist in relievos. In this department, Thorwaldsen is unexceptionably to be admired. The Triumph of Alexander, originally intended for the frieze of the government palace at Milan, notwithstanding an occasional poverty, in the materials of thought, is, as a whole, one of the grandest compositions in the world; while the delicacy of execution, and poetic feeling, in the two exquisite pieces of Night and Aurora, leave scarcely a wish here ungratified. But in statues, Thorwaldsen excels only where the forms and sentiment admit of uncontrolled imagination, or in which no immediate recourse can be had to fixed standards of taste, and to the simple effects of nature. Hence, of all his works, as admitting of unconfined expression, and grand peculiarity of composition, the statues of the Apostles, considered in themselves, are the most excellent. Thorwaldsen, in fine, possesses singular, but in some respects erratic genius. His ideas of composition are irregular; his powers of fancy surpass those of execution; his conceptions seem to lose a portion of their value and freshness in the act of realizement. As an individual artist, he will command deservedly a high rank among the names that shall go down to posterity. As a sculptor, who will influence, or has extended the principles of the art, his pretensions are not great; or, should this influence and these claims not be thus limited, the standard of genuine and universal excellence must be depreciated in a like degree.—Meme's History of Sculpture, &c.

SIGN OF THE TIMES

One of the singularities of the time is an unwillingness to tell the truth, even when there is no ground for suppressing or perverting it. It is so frequently under or overstated by most persons in this country who speak and write, according to the side they have espoused, or the inclinations and political principles of those by whom they are likely to be read or heard, that they at last persuade themselves there is a sort of impropriety in presenting facts in their proper colours.—Quarterly Review.

A DUTCH TALE

A ballad of Roosje is perhaps the most touchingly told story which the Dutch possess. It is of a maid—a beloved maid—born at her mother's death—bred up 'midst the tears and kisses of her father—prattling thoughtlessly about her mother—every one's admiration for beauty, cleverness, and virtue—gentle as the moon shining on the downs. Her name was to be seen written again and again on the sands by the Zeeland youths—and scarcely a beautiful flower bloomed but was gathered for her. Now in Zeeland, when the south-winds of summer come, there comes too a delicate fish, which hides itself in the sand, and which is dug out as a luxury by the young people. It is the time of sport and gaiety—and they venture far—far over the flat coast into the sea. The boys drag the girls among the waves—and Roosje was so dragged, notwithstanding many appeals. "A kiss, a kiss, or you go further," cried her conductor—she fled—he followed, both laughing:—"Into the sea—into the sea," said all her companions—he pushes her on—it is deeper, and deeper—she shrieks—she sinks—they sink together—the sands were faithless—there was no succour—the waves rolled over them—there was stillness and death:—The terrified playmates looked—

"All silently,—they look'd again—
And silently sped home—
And every heart was bursting then,
But every tongue was dumb.

"And still and stately o'er the wave,
The mournful moon arose,
Flinging pale beams upon the grave,
Where they in peace repose.

"The wind glanc'd o'er the voiceless sea,
The billows kissed the strand—
And one sad dirge of misery
Fill'd all the mourning land."