sensitive and kindly moulded heart. Their very attitudes distinguish their remorses, and are described with the true and graphic pencil of a master. Ottavio is found lying with his face upon the sofa; his hands in his fine hair, and his whole countenance bearing traces of the convulsions of his mind." The young robber sits on the ground; his elbows on his knees, his head resting between his clenched fists, and his eyes fixed on the earth with an expression of sad and bitter rumination.' There is a stretch of probability in the readiness of the Robber's confidence, which the writer seems to be aware of, and attempts to explain; but the fact is, that in story telling, there are many minor improbabilities which must of necessity be tolerated, for the sake of the opportunities that they bring along with them. In the Robber's story, there is a tragic action and dramatic unity perfectly sustained. The incidents are finely associated and proportioned. The rage of the jealous lover and the murder of the bridegroom; the impassioned interview of the robber with Rosetta in the vineyard; her resistance and capture by the troop; the brutal violence offered by the captain; the condemnation of the unransomed victim to immediate death, and the voluntary execution of the sentence by the girl's own lover, are so many links in a chain of poetical fatalities powerfully conceived. The stoicism of the father, in refusing to purchase the release of his violated daughter is somewhat unnatural; and some will object to the strange perversity of feeling which urges the robber to solicit the dreadful privilege of becoming the executioner of his mistress. Yet this, we doubt not, would be the natural and necessary result of all the previous circumstances. The death of the girl is inevitable; and to a soul of stern temper, heated by impetuous affections, and stung by the sense of his mistress's dishonour, it must be a painful consolation, to have converted, by an act of self-devotion, a murder to a sacrifice. However this may be, we cannot here avoid inserting the whole passage which describes, with great power, the catastrophe of the story.

"I hastened to seize my prey. There was a forlorn kind of triumph at having at length become her exclusive possessor. I bore her off into the thickness of the forest. She remained in the same state of insensibility and stupor. I was thankful that she did not recollect me; for had she once murmured my name, I should have been overcome. She slept at length in the arms of him who was to poniard her. Many were the conflicts I underwent before I could bring myself to strike the blow. My heart had became sore by the recent conflicts it had undergone, and I dreaded lest, by procrastination, some other should become her executioner. When her repose had continued for some time, I separated myself gently from her, that I might not disturb her sleep, and seizing suddenly her poniard, plung

ed it into her bosom. A painful and concentrated murmur, but without any convulsive movement, accompanied her last sigh. So perished this unfortunate."

A notice of the humorous or mixed articles, particularly of those in the fourth part, which contains several admirable tales in a style of genuine Knickerbockerism, we reserve for a future opportunity, on which occasion, we shall freely enter our objections to some of the lighter stories in the three first parts.

Pleasures of a Country Life.

Happy the man, remote from toil and care,
As in the golden age men were;

Who ploughs his native field with his own team,
And hath no debts of which to dream!
Who starts not to the trump's shrill reveillée,
Nor views with fright the raging sea;
Shuns the boarse forum and the haughty gate
Of wealth, and of the vulgar great:

Well pleased around his poplars tall to twine
The tendrils of the wedded vine;

To prune the useless shoots, and in their place
Engraft a more prolific race.

In the far deepening vale, wandering at ease,
Joyous his lowing herds he sees,

In shining jars the clear pressed honey pours,
Or gathers in his fleecy stores;

Or when dame Autumn rears her honoured head,
With her ripe fruitage garlanded,

Large drooping from the boughs, the yellow pear
And purple grape reward his care;

Thy votive gift, Priapus! Sylvan, thine,

Protector of the bounding line!

How sweet to lie, neath some old oak reclining,
Or where the tall grass round is twining;

Through its tall banks the still stream glides along,
Birds wake their sadly pleasing song,

And fountains near their murmuring descant keep,
Inviting calm and holy sleep!

But winter comes, at thundering Jove's command,
With storms and snows in either hand:

Then on the savage boar the dogs are set,
And drive him to the entangling net;

Or for the glutton thrush he lays his snares,
And light extended gins prepares;

Here caught, the trembling puss, the stranger crane

Give sport in hoary winter's reign.

Who thus employed, has time or wish to prove

The pangs and cares of cruel love?

But ah! should some chaste dame adorn his hall,
Whose home and children were her all,
(Like fair Sabina, or the browner bride,
Gracing the swift Apulian's side,)

Who bids the sacred hearth more brightly burn,
Against the weary man's return,—

Folds up the herd right glad her cares to meet,
And drains each well distended teat,-

Then from the well loved cask the wine draws forth,
Cheering, though of little worth,—

And joyous, for her lord, with active zeal,
Prepares the frugal, unbought meal—
With such, nor Lucrine oysters more I'd prize,
Nor turbot of majestic size,

Nor scarcer fish, if any winter bore,

From eastern waters near our shore.
Not Afric's fowl could prove a daintier treat,
Nor Asia's partridge seem more sweet,
Than the ripe olives hanging thick and low,
Plucked from the most luxuriant bough;
Or wholesome mallows, or green sorrel, still
Wandering o'er the meads at will;
Or the kid rescued from the wolf's fell bite,
Or victim lamb at festal rite.

And at the feast, how pleasant to behold
The flocks swift bounding to the fold;
To mark the weary oxen dragging slow,
With drooping necks the inverted plough;
And all the household slaves, a swarming band,
Around the glittering lares stand.

Thus spoke the usurer Alphius, in his thought
His house and farm already bought,

He called in all his funds in the Ides; but when
The Calends came-he loaned them out again.

X.

We have this moment been favoured, by the kindness of a friend, with the London Edition of the Tales of a Traveller, in which to our surprise we find a preface, and four tales not contained in the American Edition. In the preface, (which is dated from the Hotel de Darmstadt, cidevant Hotel de Paris, Mayence,) we are informed that the circumstances in the Adventure of the Mysterious Picture, and in the Story of the Young Italian, are vague recollections of anecdotes related to the author some years since, and that the Adventure of the Young Painter among the banditti, is taken almost entirely from an authentic narrative in manuscript.

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The four tales are. the Adventure of the German Student,, related by the old gentleman with the haunted head-' Noto

riety,' ' A Practical Philosopher,' (these two can scarcely be called tales, being little more than short essays of no great value,) and a story-inferior in interest and finish to very few among them all The Benighted Travellers."

As our readers may not have for some time an opportunity of seeing the parts omitted in the American edition, we take the liberty of presenting them an abstract of the Adventure of the German Student, the latter part of which is founded, says our author, on an anecdote related to him, and said to exist in print.

Gottfried Wolfgang is a German Student of a visionary and enthusiastic turn of mind, and obstinately impressed with the belief that there is an evil genius hanging over him, seeking to ensnare him and ensure his perdition. He is sent to Paris by his friends, in hopes that his mental malady will best be cured by the splendour and gayeties of the metropolis. First captivated, then disgusted by the false doctrines of the day, (for the stormiest period of the Revolution had just commenced,) he secludes himself in a solitary apartment in the Pays Latin. Here, again and again he dreams that he sees a woman of transcendent beauty, of whose image he becomes passionately and desperately enamoured. Returning home late one tempestuous night, he finds himself close by the guillotine. As he shrinks back in disgust and dismay, he perceives seated at the foot of the scaffold, a female figure, her face hid in her lap, and her long dishevelled tresses streaming with the rain. He approached her, and she raises her head, and gazes wildly at him. To his amazement, he sees the very face which has haunted him in his dreams, pale and disconsolate, but ravishingly beautiful. He conducts her to his lodgings, where he has a better opportunity to contemplate her exquisite and dazzling beauty. Her dress is black, and of great simplicity. The only ornament she wears, is a black band round her neck, clasped by diamonds. They are impelled towards each other by the influence of irresistible passion. Wolfgang was tainted with the new philosophy. "Why should we separate," said he, (we give the rest in the words of our author,)

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"Why should we separate? Our hearts are united; in the eye of reason and honor we are one. What need is there of sordid forms to bind

high souls together?"

The stranger listened with emotion; she had evidently received illumination at the same school.

“You have no home nor family," continued he; "let me be every thing to you, or rather let us be every thing to one another. If form is necessary, form shall be observed-there is my hand. I pledge myself to you forever." "Forever?" said the stranger solemnly. "Forever!" repeated

Wolfgang.
Vol. II. No. I.

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The stranger clasped the hand extended to her: "Then I am your's," murmured she, and sunk upon his bosom.

The next morning the student left his bride sleeping, and sallied forth at an early hour to seek more spacious apartments, suitable to the change in his situation. When he returned, he found the stranger lying with her head hanging over the bed, and one arm thrown over it. He spoke to her, but received no reply. He advanced to awaken her from her uneasy situation. On taking her hand, it was cold-there was no pulsation-her face was pallid and ghastly.-In a word, she was a corpse. Horrified and frantic, he alarmed the house. A scene of confusion ensued. The police was summoned. As the officer of police entered the room, he started back on beholding the corpse.

"Great heaven!" cried he, "how did this woman come here ?"

"Do you know any thing about her," said Wolfgang eagerly.

"Do I?" exclaimed the police officer:-" she was guillotined yesterday!"

He stepped forward; undid the black collar round the neck of the corpse, and the head rolled on the floor!

The student burst into a frenzy. "The fiend! the fiend has gained pos

session of me!" shrieked he: "I am lost forever!"

They tried to soothe him, but in vain. He was possessed with the frightful belief that an evil spirit had reanimated the dead body to ensnare him. He went distracted, and died in a mad-house.

Here the old gentleman with the haunted head finished his narrative. "And is this really a fact?" said the inquisitive gentleman.

"A fact not to be doubted," replied the other. "I had it from the best authority. The student told it me himself. I saw him in a mad-house at Paris."*

A Midsummer Day's Dream. A Poem, by Edwin Atherstone, Author of the Last Days of Herculaneum, and Abradates and Panthea. London. 1824.

This a wild and somewhat incoherent collection of 'indescribable imaginings.' The idea of deriving from a vision, a knowledge of the beauties and the mysteries of the fairy world of Fancy, is as old as poetry itself. The information obtained from such a source can seldom be very satisfactory, we think; and where the dreamer sees nothing but incongruous magnificence and gorgeous incompatibilities, we can scarcely expect to be much instructed or even much amused by his empyreal excursions. Mr. Atherstone, however, has contrived to atone for the offence of inutility by the charms of an easy, graceful, and spirited versification. The language is, for the most part, po

*We have this moment been informed that the difference in the two editions is owing to some delay which attended the transmission of the omitted articles to the American publishers. ED.