The Minnesingers, or German Troubudours, were fond of a species of ballad called "wachterlieder" or watchsongs, many of which possess great sprightliness and beauty of description. The engraving, from an illumination in the Manesse MS., is to represent "Her Kristan von Hamle," Christian of Hamle, a minnesinger who flourished about the middle of the thirteenth century. This design would seem a fit illustration for a watch song. The watchsongs generally begin with a parley between the sentinel or

watch of the castle, and the love-stricken knight who seeks a stolen interview with his lady. The parties linger in taking leave; the sentinel is commonly again in troduced to warn them of the signs of approaching morn, and a tender parting ensues. Two specimens are subjoined, both of which are anonymous. The excellent translation of the second is, with two or three trifling alterations, borrowed from the "Illustrations of Northern Antiquities;" it would be difficult for any one to execute a better.-There are pieces

of a somewhat similar character anong the Troubadours, and called by them albas or aubades.

The original of the following is given in the collection published by Görres; but he has neither mentioned the author's name, nor the source whence he took it.

WATCHSONG.

The sun is gone down,

And the moon upwards springeth,
The night creepeth onward,

The nightingale singeth.
To himself said a watchman,
"Is any knight waiting
In pain for his lady,

To give her his greeting?
Now then for their meeting."

His words heard a knight

In the garden while roaming. "Ah! watchman," he said,

"Is the daylight fast coming, And may I not see her,

And wilt thou not aid me?" "Go wait in thy covert

Lest the cock crow reveillie,

And the dawn should betray thee.'

Then in went that watchman

And call'd for the fair, And gently he rous'd her-

Rise, lady! prepare!

New tidings I bring thee,

And strange to thine ear;
Come rouse thee up quickly,
Thy knight tarries near;
Rise, lady! appear!"
"Ah, watchman! though purely
The moon shines above,
Yet trust not securely

That feign'd tale of love :
Far, far from my presence
My own knight is straying;
And sadly repining

mourn his long staying,
And weep his delaying."
Nay, lady! yet trust me,
No falsehood is there."
Then up sprang that lady

And braided her hair,

And donn'd her white garment,

Her purest of white;

And, her heart with joy trembling,
She rush'd to the sight

Of her own faithful knight.

The following is another and the best specimen perhaps that is known of watchsongs; the original has been printed in "Wunderhorn," an interesting, but very

inaccurate, collection of ancient German popular poetry.

I heard before the dawn of day
The watchman loud proclaim :-
"If any knightly lover stay

In secret with his dame,
Take heed, the sun will soon appear;
Then fly, ye knights, your ladies dear,
Fly ere the daylight dawn.
"Brightly gleams the firmament,
In silvery splendor gay,
Rejoicing that the night is spent
The lark salutes the day:
Then fly, ye lovers, and be gone!
Take leave before the night is done,
And jealous eyes appear."

That watchman's call did wound my heart,
And banish'd my delight:

"Alas, the envious sun will part

Our loves, my lady bright."

On me she look'd with downcast eye,
Despairing at my mournful cry,
"We tarry here too long.'

Straight to the wicket did she speed,

"Good watchman spare the joke!
Warn not my love, till o'er the mead
The morning sun has broke;
Too short, alas! the time, since here
I tarried with my leman dear,

In love and converse sweet."

"Lady, be warn'd! on roof and mead
The dew-drops glitter gay;
Then quickly bid thy leman speed,
Nor linger till the day;

For by the twilight did I mark
Wolves hyeing to their covert dark,
And stags to covert fly."

Now by the rising sun I view'd
In tears my lady's face:
She gave me many a token good,
And many a soft embrace.
Our parting bitterly we mourn'd;
The hearts which erst with rapture burn
Were cold with woe and care.

A ring, with glittering ruby red,
Gave me that lady sheen,
And with me from the castle sped

Along the meadow green:
And, whilst I saw my leman bright,
She waved on high her 'kerchief white
"Courage! to arms!" she cried.

In the raging fight each pennon white
Reminds me of her love;

In the field of blood, with mourful mood,
I see her 'kerchief move;

Through foes I hew, whene'er I view
Her ruby ring, and blithely sing,
"Lady, I fight for thee."

Lays of the Minnesingers.

June 2.

PETT, THE MISER.

On the 2nd of June, 1803, died Thomas Pett, a native of Warwickshire. At ten years old he came to London with a solitary shilling in his pocket. As he had neither friends nor relations in the capital, he was indebted to the humanity of an old woman, who sold pies, for a morsel of bread, till he could procure himself a crust. In the course of a few days he was engaged as an errand boy by a tallow-chandler, whose wife could not reconcile herself to his rustic manners and awkward gait; she dismissed him one cold winter's evening, with this observation: "Your master hired you in my absence, and I'll pack you off in his." Her good husband did not desert Tom; he found him out, and bound him apprentice to a butcher, in the borough of Southwark, where he behaved so well during his apprenticeship, that his master recommended him, when he was out of his time, as a journeyman to another of the trade, in Clare Market. For the first five years he was engaged at twenty-five pounds a year, meat and drink. The accumulation and keeping of money were the two sole objects of his thoughts. His expenses were reduced to three heads lodging, clothing, and washing. He took a back room on the second floor, with one window, which occasionally admitted a straggling sunbeam. Every article of his dress was second-hand, nor was he choice in the color or quality: he jocosely observed, when twitted on his garb, that, according to Solomon, there was nothing new under the sun; that color was a mere matter of fancy; and that the best was that which stuck longest to its integrity. On washing, he used to say a man did not deserve a shirt that would not wash it himself; and that the only fault he had to find with Lord North was the duty he imposed on soap. One expense, however, lay heavy on his mind, and robbed him of many a night's sleep; this was, shaving he often lamented that he had not learned to shave himself; but he derived consolation from hoping that beards would one day be in fashion, and the Bond-street loungers be driven to wear artificial ones.

He made a rash vow one night, when he was very thirsty, that as soon as he had accumulated a thousand pounds he would treat himself to a pint of porter

every Saturday: this he was soon enabled to perform; but when an additional duty was laid on beer, he sunk to half a pint, which he said was sufficient for any man who did not wish to get drunk, and die in a workhouse.

If he heard of an auction in the neighbourhood, he was sure to run for a catalogue, and, when he had collected a number of these together, he used to sell them for waste paper.

When he was first told that the bank was restricted from paying in specie, he shook loudly, as Klopstock says, took to his bed, and could not be prevailed on to taste a morsel, or wet his lips, till he was assured that all was right.

On Sundays, after dinner, he used to lock himself up in his room, and amuse himself with reading an old newspaper, or writing rhimes, many of which he left behind him on slips of paper. The following is a specimen of his talents in this way :

On hearing that Small Beer was raised. They've rais'd the price of table drink; What is the reason, do yo think? The tax on malt, the cause I hear; But what has malt to do with table beer? He was never known, even in the depth of the coldest winter, to light a fire in his room, or to go to bed by candlelight.

He was a great friend to good cheer at the expense of another. Every man, said he, ought to eat when he can get it -an empty sack cannot stand.

If his thirst at any time got the better of his avarice, and water was not at hand, he would sometimes venture to step into a public house, and call for a pennyworth of beer. On those trying occasions he always sat in the darkest corner of the tap-room, in order that he might drink in every thing that was said with thirsty ear. He was seldom or ever known to utter a word, unless Bonaparte or a parish diuner were mentioned, and then he would draw a short contrast between French kickshaws and the roast beef and plum-pudding of Old England, which he called the staple commodity of life. He once purchased a pint of small beer; but, the moment he locked it up in his closet, he repented, tore the hair out of his wig, and threw the key out of the window, lest he should be tempted, in some unlucky moment, to make too free with it.

Pett's pulse, for the last twenty years

of his life, rose and fell with the funds. He never lay down or rose that he did not bless the first inventor of compound

interest.

His constant saying was, that gold was the clouded cane of youth, and the crutch of old age.

For forty-two years he lived in Clare Market as journeyman butcher; and lodged thirty years in one gloomy apartment, which was never brightened up with coal, candle-light, or the countenance of a visitant.

He never treated man, woman, or child, to a glass of any kind of liquor-never lent or borrowed a penny-never spoke ill or well of any one-and never ate a morsel at his own expense.

About three days before his dissolution, he was pressed by his employer to make his will. He reluctantly assented, but observed, as he signed his name, that it was a hard thing that a man should sign away all his property with a stroke of a pen. He left £2475 in the three per cents. to distant relations, not one of whom he had ever seen or corresponded with. About half an hour before he died ne wanted to bargain for a coffin.

The following inventory of Pett's goods and chattels was taken after his death. An old bald wig.

A hat as limber as a pancake.
Two shirts that might pass for fishing-

As you are, like me, fond of the song of Philomel, and may have as little leisure to go far to hear it, I give you notice that the nightingale was heard this year on the 17th of March, at Dartford, and may now be heard in full song near London.

On Monday morning, at day-break, I walked in company with a cutcher (!) from Dartford to New Cross: he had been out for his third and last trip, and had sixteen with him, making forty-three birds caught since the 9th. All the way, on each side of the road, he called, and they answered him; so that I think at least twenty must have sung. They are now laired, and not worth catching, so the lovers of song may have a treat.

There is one at the end of the College, Blackheath Corner, the best I ever heard, and I suppose by this time they are to be found in Kensington Gardens; for they appeared to be travelling westward. The birds the catcher had were very lean.

Those who wish to hear nightingales in the day time may be gratified by going to Champion Hill, leading to Lordship-lane : I heard four yesterday at two o'clock. There is a beautiful view over Norwood, Dulwich, &c., from that spot: the sight of the green trees, the rich grass, and the hearing of those birds, with the song of a good robin, and some few chaffinches, joined to the warble of a fine lark, is worth the while of any one who has "music in his soul," and an eye for the beauties of nature.

Roaming on, the nightingale

Sang sweetly in my ear;
And, by the greenwood's shady side,
A dream came to me there;

Fast by the fountain, where bright flowers
Of sparkling hue we see,
Close sheltered from the summer heat,
That vision came to me.

All care was banished, and repose
Came o'er my wearied breast;
And kingdoms seemed to wait on me.
For I was with the blest.
Yet, while it seemed as if away
My spirit soared on high,

And in the boundless joys of heaven
Was wrapt in ecstacy,

E'en then, my body revelled still

In earth's festivity;

And surely never was a dream

So sweet as this to me.- -VOGELWEIDE.

BIRTH DAY OF KING GEORGE III.
Edinburgh Celebration.

From the time of the Restoration, when the magistrates celebrated the "glorious twenty-ninth of May" upon a public stage at the Cross, down to the year 1810, when the last illness of King George III. threw a damp over the spirits of the nation at large, Edinburgh was remarkable for her festive observance of the "King's BirthDay."

By the boys, in particular, the "Fourth of June" used to be looked forward to with the most anxious anticipations of delight. Six months before that day, they had begun to save as many of their Saturday's half-pence" as could possibly be spared from present necessities; and, for a good inany weeks, nothing was thought of but the day, and nothing was done but making preparations for it. White-washing and partly-painting stairfits was one of the principal preparations. A club of boys, belonging perhaps to the same street, or close, or land, would pitch upon a particular stair-fit, or, if that was not to be had, a piece of ordinary dead wall, as much out of the way as possible; and this became, for the time, the object

of all their attentions, and their ordinary place of meeting. Here, upon the great day, they were to muster all their arms and ammunition, kindle a fire, and amuse themselves from morning to night, with crackers, serpents, squibs, and certain Lilliputian pieces of ordnance, mounted upon the ends of sticks, and set off with matches or pee-oys.

For a fortnight immediately before the day, great troops of boys used to go out of town, to the Braid and Pentland hills, and bring home whins for busking the lamp-posts, which were at that period of the year stripped of their lamps,-as well as boughs for the adornment of the "bower-like" stations which they had adapted for their peculiar amusement. whom had come from a great distance, to Of course, they were not more regular in these forages than the magistrates were with edicts, forbidding and threatening to punish the same.

One of the most important preliminaries of the Birth-day was the decoration with flowers of the statue of King Charles in the Parliament-square. This was always done by young men who had been brought up in Heriot's hospital,— otherwise Auld Herioters,"-who were selected for this purpose, on accouut of the experience they had in dressing the statue of George Heriot, with flowers on his birth-day, which was always held on the first Monday of June.

The morning of the birth-day was ushered in by firing of the aforesaid pieces of ordnance, to the great annoyance of many a Lawn-market and Luckenbooths merchant, accustomed, time out of mind, to be awaked four hours later by the incipient squall of the sautwives and fish-wives at eight o'clock. As for the boys, sleep of course had not visited a single juvenile eye-lid during the whole night; and it was the same thing whether they lay in bed, or were up and out of doors at work. Great part of the morning was spent in kindling the banefires, preparing the ammunition, and

The obscure and long-disputed word, Luckenbooths, is evidently derived from Lucken, close or shut; and booths, shops or places for exposing merchandise. This ancient row of houses must have been originally distinguished from other booths, by being shut in all round, instead of having one side open to the street. All shops may now be said to be luckenbooths