Meanwhile the disguised man continued to ring and rattle against the iron bars, till at length there was a strange noise of heaving and struggling within the vault, as if the dead were starting into life. This was indeed Sir Folko de Montfaucon, who now raised himself from amid the bloody clothes in which he had been wrapt, and said in a strange hoarse voice," Good Heavens, how cold and dark is this bed!" Then, after a pause of recollection. he began again. "Or if I am really among the dead, how comes it that I yet feel such burning and feverish pain? And wherefore am I not relieved from this earthly prison, and floating through the wide realms of the blue sky?" "Sir knight," said the disguised man without, " you are indeed alive, only you are not yet recovered from your fever and your wounds. Only be of good courage, and beware of falling into dreams. I shall be with you anon, and will make you sound and well." Thereafter, as the strange man continued to beat upon the iron bars, the Chevalier de Montfaucon felt his senses more and more bewildered, and saw the strangest phantoms floating around him. He felt indeed as one who struggles with sleep and frightful visions, and could have fallen once more into death-like slumbers, had not the mysterious stranger ever and anon repeated in a loud voice the same words,- -"Beware of dreams, knight of Montfaucon! beware of dreams!"

At last the iron wickets no longer resisted; slowly and solemnly they rolled asunder, and the disguised man stept into the house of death. 66 My wounds are become cold," said the chevalier, shivering with fever," and yet are very painful," "Ere long you shall be better," said the stranger, who thereupon drawing forth a light that he had in a dark lantern under his cloak, began to examine the wounds, and poured into them a healing balsam from a vial that he had brought with him. Moreover he gently touched and rubbed them with a glittering gem in the fashion of a ring, and while the knight of Montfaucon felt his pains appeased as by the resistless spells of enchantment, and new strength poured through every limb, he recognized the ring to be the long-contested property of Gabrielle, and in his kind physician beheld the merchant Theobaldo."

Peter Schlemihl' is, as we understand it, specifically a moral tale,' intended to exemplify the sacrifice of reputation to the desire of obtaining wealth, and the consequent temptation to regain character by plunging deeper in crime. Peter, while dancing attendance on a rich parvenu, a Mr. Jones, is surprised by a singular series of prodigies, effected by a personage as mysterious as the wonders themselves.. A large party was rambling in Mr. Jones's gardens.

We reached the rose-grove. The lovely Fanny, the queen, as it seemed, of the day, was capricious enough to wish to gather for herself a blooming branch; a thorn pricked her, and a stream, as bright as if from damask roses, flowed over her delicate hand. This acci dent put the whole company in motion. English court-plaister was

instantly inquired after. A silent, meagre, pale, tall, elderly man, who stood next to me, and whom I had not before observed, instantly put his hand into the close-fitting breast-pocket of his old-fashioned grey taffetan coat, took out a small pocket book, opened it, and with a lowly bow, gave the lady what she had wished for; she took it without any attention to the giver, and without a word of thanks.'

This useful gentleman seems to be present for the mere purpose of supplying all the requirements of Mr. Jones and his intimates. As occasion offers, he produces from the same depot, a telescope, a Turkey carpet, a sumptuous tent, and three saddle-horses! Of course, Schlemihl's curiosity is awakened, but he can find nobody who seems to have observed any thing extraordinary in this ready waiting of fortune's gifts on fortune's favourites. At length, appalled by the presence of this strange being, he leaves the company, but after an interval perceives that he is followed by the grey-coated unknown, who, with much humility and hesitation, proposes to purchase Peter's 'beautiful, beautiful shadow!' The bargain is struck, and the apparently useless appendage is carefully folded up, and committed to the side-pocket, while the shadowless Schlemihl walks off with Fortunatus's inexhaustible purse in his hand. He soon, however, finds that he has made a bad bargain in bartering his indispensable attendant for gold. He becomes bankrupt in fame, in love, in all but miserable pelf, and the demon takes advantage of his wretchedness to ply him with persuasions to repurchase his shadow by the forfeiture of his soul. Peter, however, resists, though his temptations are singularly well imagined: the last scene of this kind is very striking.

I was

• Visions of old time floated in my soul. I enquired hastily: "Did Mr. Jones give you his signature?" He smiled:" With so good a friend it was not necessary." "Where is he-where? By heavens I will know!" He put his hand slowly into his pocket, and drew out by the hair the pale and ghastly form of Thomas Jones. Its blue and deadly lips trembled with the dreadful words: "Justo judicio Dei judicatus sum; justo judicio Dei condemnatus sum." horror-struck-I dashed the clinking purse hastily into the abyss, and uttered these last words: "I conjure thee, in the name of God, monster, begone, and never again appear before these eyes." He rose up with a gloomy frown, and vanished instantaneously behind the dark masses of rock which surrounded that wild and savage place. I sat there shadowless and pennyless, but a heavy weight had been removed from my bosom, and I was calm.'

He still finds his want of a shadow so inconvenient that he determines to seek employment in a mine, and wholly to

take leave of the light of day. His intentions are changed by the following adventure, which strikes us as admirably told.

A couple of rainy days helped me far on my way, but at the cost of my boots, whose soles were made to suit Count Peter, and not a running footman: I soon walked on my naked feet, and was obliged to procure another pair of boots. The next morning I attended earnestly to this affair in a village, where a fair was held, and where old and new boots were exposed in a shop for sale. I selected and bargained for a long time. I was obliged to abandon a new pair which I wished to possess-I was frightened by the extravagant price, and satisfied myself, therefore, with old ones, which were yet firm and strong, and which the fair and light-haired shopboy handed to me for my ready cash with a smile, while he wished me a prosperous journey. I put them on immediately, and went away through a door which lay to the north.

I was lost in my own thoughts, and hardly observed where I put my foot-for I was still planning about the mine whither I hoped to arrive by the evening, and hardly knew how I should manage to introduce myself there. I had not advanced two hundred paces ere I discovered that I had lost my way; I looked around, and found myself in an antique and desert wood of firs, to the roots of which it appeared the axe had never been laid. I still hastened onwards a few steps, and perceived I was among dreary rocks, surrounded only by moss and stones, between which lay piles of snow and ice. The wind was extremely cold, and when I looked round, the forest had wholly disappeared. Yet a few paces forward, the stillness of death possessed me-the ice on which I stood stretched boundlessly before me-a dark mist hung over it-the red sun looked from the edge of the horizon. The cold was intolerable-I knew not how it had happened, but the benumbing frost forced me to accelerate my steps. I heard the roar of distant waters-another bewildered step, and I was on the icy borders of the ocean. Countless herds of seals dashed splashing into the stream. I followed the sea-shore, and saw again naked rocks, land,-forests of birch and pine-trees. I moved forwards a few minutes-it was burning hot-around me were richly cultivated rice-fields under mulberry-trees,-in whose shadow I sat down, and looking at my watch, found it was less than a quarter of an hour since I left the village-I fancied I was dreaming-I bit my tongue to awake myself, and I was aroused most thoroughly. I closed my eyes in order to assemble my thoughts. I heard strange nasal sounds I looked around-two Chinese, whose Asiatic countenances I could not mistake, were saluting me according to the custom of their country, and in their own language. I arose, and walked back two steps. I saw them no longer-the landscape was wholly changed; trees and woods had succeeded to the rice-fields: I looked pensively on the trees and plants which were blooming around me, and saw that they were the productions of South-eastern Asia. I went towards a treeand all again was changed-I walked forwards like a drilled recruit, with slow paces. Wonderful varieties of countries, fields, meadows,

mountains, wastes, and sandy deserts, rolled along before my astounded sight; doubtless I had the seven-league boots on my legs.'

The remainder of his life is occupied in the pursuits of science, aided by his preternatural powers of locomotion.

We have no leisure to analyse the three volumes of romances. Some of them are good of their kind. Wake not the dead,' is an appalling and well-told tale. The Fatal Marksman' is the Der Freischutz' of melodramatic notoriety. The Bottle Imp, the Treasure-Seeker, and the Spectre-Barber are good specimens of old wives' stories. The Collier's Family' pleases us much, and must, we think, belong to La Motte Fouqué. The wood-cut prefixed to the first volume, by way of vignette, representing the Treasure-seeker in the enchanted caverns, is a fine specimen both of design and execution.

The Popular Stories' are a selection of nursery tales, and possess much of that sort of interest that is to be found in Jack the Giant-killer and Cinderella. They were chiefly collected from the oral traditions of different parts of Germany by Messrs. Grimm, and they are now translated for the benefit of all who may feel inclined to employ themselves in similar pursuits.

Two of these volumes are decorated with etchings by George Cruickshanks. Those to Peter Schlemihl are, with one exception, rather common-place, and that one exhibits the apparition of Thomas Jones is a very appropriate way. Mr. C. bas succeeded better in his graphic illustration of the Popular Stories.-The laughing fire-side,--The disenchantment of Jorinda,- Heads off!-The dancing Elves,-Rumpel-stiltskin with his foot in the floor,-are designed with great spirit, and etched with consummate mastery.

Art. IV. Devotional Verses; Founded on, and Illust ative of Select Texts of Scripture. By Bernard Barton. 12mo. pp. 252. Price 6s. 6d. London. 1826.

T is with us a sound canon of criticism, that every work ought to be judged of by its adaptation to the design of the Author; which design, if it be a good one, he has the best right to choose for himself, although a good-natured public may sometimes be disposed to choose it for him. Now the design of a Writer in putting forth a volume of poetry, more especially of religious poetry, may admit of being viewed in very different hights. We have several volumes of this description now lying before us, the titles of which we had proposed to ourselves to

place to ether at the head of this article; but, on second thoughts, we have determined to notice them singly, because they have little in common except their consisting of devotional verse. The Christian Psalmist, noticed in our last Number, which unites the character of a selection of hymns to that of a partly original work, appears to have been designed to furnish a manual of devotion,- for prayer, meditation, thanksgiving, and every other purpose which, as Scripture auxiliaries, ⚫hymns are calculated to answer. This comprehensive design it is admirably adapted to answer, although; as a selection for public worship, we could not pronounce it unexceptionable. Mr. Montgomery seems, however, to intimate his intention, which we shall be well pleased to see fulfilled, to shew, by a selection of devot onal poetry that shall take a wider range, that Dr. Johnson's assertion respecting the incompatibility of poetry and devotion, is amply refuted by existing fact. Hymns," properly so called, form but one class of sacred poetry. The names of Spenser, Milton, Young, Herbert, Quarles, Blair, and many more will immediately occur to the reader, among those who have largely contributed to the stock of religious poetry, but whose compositions, 'yrical as well as didactic, do not class, with hymns. The volume before us is chiefly of a didactic character. It does not rest its claims to the attention of the Christian public on the same grounds as the Author's former volumes,-composed of miscellaneous poetry; nor is it meant as a hymn-book, or as a new set of Hebrew Melodies Barton seems rather to have taken for his model, if not in point of style, yet, as regards the character of his work, writers of elder times, such as the admirable Author of the Temple, and to have aimed less at giving to the work the attractions of poetry in the eyes of general readers, than at securing the higher objects and reward of a religious writer, who adopts verse as the most natural vehicle of his thoughts. But he shall speak, for himself.

Mr.

• One of his chief aims, in his selection of passages from the Old Testament, has been the devotional illustration of such as appeared to him to harmonize with the New, by reference or allusion to the gracious and glorious scheme of man's redemption by and through a crucified Saviour. Should he, in his desire to inculcate, enforce, and magnify this sublime and consoling truth even to iteration, have been somewhat negligent of minor points, inattentive to minor graces, careless of the seeming vantage-ground afforded by circumstance or scehe trusts that such of his readers as may vitally feel the all-abnery; sorbing importance of this fundamental doctrine, will forgive what he has not done, for the sake of what he has been desirous of doing so far, at least, as his humble means and limited opportunities have enabled him.