July 4.--On this day, in the year 1715, was born at Haynichen, near Freyberg, in Saxony, the German poet, CHRISTIAN FURCHTEGOTT GELLERT. Gellert was not a man of the highest genius; but appearing at a favourable time, being animated by the finest spirit of benevolence and virtuous ambition, and possessing just the talents and character of mind suited to the task which he undertook, that of awakening the general body of his countrymen to a taste for literature, he produced as great and as gratifying an effect by his works as, perhaps, any writer that ever lived. His father was a clergyman, and he was originally intended for the same profession; but his first attempt in the pulpit convinced him that his constitutional timidity would probably prevent him from ever becoming an effective public speaker. He then resolved to devote himself to the instruction of his countrymen through the press. At this time Germany was almost destitute of a national literature. The country had given birth to many great scholars; and both classical learning and the abstruse philosophy of the middle ages were cultivated with zeal and success in its colleges. But scarcely any one had yet arisen to write for the people. This Gellert and a few of his friends resolved to do. Discarding all the repulsive technicalities of the schools, they proceeded to expound and illustrate the great principles of morality, metaphysics, and criticism, for the use of society at large, in a natural and popular style, such as was fitted to be intelligible and interesting to all. In this patriotic enterprise Gellert may be said to have spent his life. Every successive work which he produced was received with delight by Germany; but his celebrated ‘Fables’ were read with rapture by all classes of the population. One day a peasant appeared at Gellert’s door in Leipsic, with a waggon loaded with fire-wood. “Is it not here,” asked the man, “that Mr. Gellert lives?” On being told that it was, he desired to see the master of the house; and having been brought to him, “Are not you, sir,” he said, “the author of the ‘Fables?’” “I am,” replied Gellert. “Well then,” said the other, “here is a load of wood, which I have brought you, to thank you for the pleasure which your book has given to myself, my wife, and my children.” By such a heart as Gellert’s this was probably felt to be a more touching tribute to his powers than the plaudits of crowded theatres would have been. Another time he was standing in the workshop of a bookbinder, when a villager came in with a book in his hand. “Here,” said he, “I want this book strongly bound.” “Where did you pick up this book?” asked the binder. “I bought it in our town,” replied the delighted possessor of the treasure; “it has made the steward of the manor and the schoolmaster laugh till they have almost split their sides: I have a little boy, who is now a tolerably good reader; he shall read from this book to me in the evening, while I smoke my pipe, and I