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soldiers' graves, as summer seas dimple over the place where many a tall ship lies buried ;-and a tableau of Paris at the Restoration-filled with a restless, roaming population, hanging about like lowering clouds that linger after a storm, and giving a strange air of gloom to the otherwise gay metropolis. A few stories and legendary narratives, too, are given, in the vein of Tales of a Traveller; the Widow's Ordeal, a tradition of judicial trial by combat, indited in the story-teller's airiest, smoothest style; the Knight of Malta, a ghostly fragment, which, once told vivâ voce (and we presume fuscâ voce, or raucâ, befitting the theme), for the entertainment of a youthful circle round the Christmas fire, sent a due proportion of them quaking to their beds, and gave them very fearful dreams;-Don Juan, another spectral research-in introducing which the writer, in his olden characteristic manner, says: "Many have supposed the story of Don Juan a mere fable. I myself thought so once; but seeing is believing.' I have since beheld the very scene where it took place, and now to indulge any doubt on the subject would be preposterous." This pleasant way of wresting logic to an impotent conclusion, is a notable repetition of the knock-down argument of Smith the Weaver in "King Henry VI."-when, Jack Cade having asserted his relationship to Mortimer's eldest son (who,

-being put to nurse,

Was by a beggar-woman stolen away;
And, ignorant of his birth and parentage,
Became a bricklayer, when he came to age:
His son am I; deny it, if you can),

Dick the Butcher, in mood corroborative, adds: "Nay, 'tis too true; therefore he shall be king,"—and thereupon Smith the Weaver, in terms unanswerable, and as an ultimate clincher, exclaims: "Sir, he made a chimney in my father's house, and the bricks are alive at this day to testify it; therefore, deny it not." Our traveller saw with his own eyes the convent and cemetery of St. Francisco, in Seville, where was brought about that dreadful liaison between the Don and the marble statue,— and henceforth became a believer, as in duty (if not by logic) bound.

The pen that wrote tales of the Alhambra, and records of Spanish and Moorish life, in times of chivalry and high emprise, also furnishes us in the present volume with kindred morceaux of legendary lore. For lovers of this class of fiction, there is the "Legend of the Engulfed Convent," a type and shadow of the woes of Spain; and there is "The Adelantado of the Seven Cities," a mystic memorial of that phantom Island of St. Brandan, stigmatised by ancient cosmographers with the name of Aprositus, or the Inaccessible, and by sceptics pronounced a mere optical illusion like the Fata Morgana, or classed with unsubstantial regions like Cape Fly-away, as known to mariners, or the coast of Cloud Land, as told to the marines. And again there is "The Abencerrage," a tale of Moslem honour and old-fashioned Spanish courtesy,— as heard by the writer from the tuneful lips of a Castilian beauty, on a sweet summer evening, spent in the hall of the Abencerrages, while the moon shone down into the Court of Lions, lighting up its sparkling fountain.

Moreover, if in these pages Geoffrey Crayon walks and talks before

us, so does the veritable Diedrich Knickerbocker. The volume, indeed, takes its name from a little old-fashioned stone mansion, with more gable ends by a powerful multiple than Hawthorne's grim tenement could boast, and as full of angles and corners as an old cocked-hat: the cocked-hat of Peter the Headstrong (vide Knickerbocker's "New York") being, in fact, its supposed model, just as the gridiron of the blessed St. Lawrence was the model of the Escurial. It was once a fastness in the wilderness, whither one Wolfert Acker retired world-weary and war-sick, to seek Lust in Rust, or pleasure in quiet-whence the name Wolfert's Rust, inde Roost. Hither in after-days came the indefatigable Diedrich Knickerbocker-taking up his abode in the old mansion for a time, and rummaging to his old heart's content among the dusty records it contained-documents of the Dutch dynasty, rescued from the profane hands of the English by Wolfert Acker, and which the quaint archæologist set to work with professional zeal to decipher-mementoes of his sojourn still being cherished at the Roost-his elbow-chair and antique writing-desk retaining their place in the room he occupied, and his old cocked-hat hanging on a peg against the wall. Of the papers in this collection more particularly Knickerbockerish, are "Broek, or the Dutch Paradise," and "Guests from Gibbet Island"-both humorous, the latter with a strong spice of the witching. There is a narrative at some length of the experiences, as hunter, trapper, and general adventurer, of "Ralph Ringwood," alias (i. e. in reality) the late Governor Duval, of Florida. Another narrative, of a more imaginary cast, called "Mountjoy," which records the love-passages of a dreamy, priggish, very learned youth, has the disadvantage of breaking off abruptly in the very heart of the subject. It is a compliment to the author to make this a ground of complaint. He avows himself prepared to proceed with it, if his readers wish. He is now, being confessedly liable, admonished to keep good faith; and at once, under the penalties and in the language of police, to move on." We own to a malicious interest in seeing Harry Mountjoy palpably and effectually snubbed. Mr. and Miss Somerville, it is evident, can do it with consummate ease and politeness; and we await the result with confidence, though with some impatience as to the time when, and curiosity as to the manner how. "Mountjoy" is virtually a pledge of Mr. Washington Irving's reappearance with a new batch of chronicles, essays, legends, whim-whams, and sketch-book sweepings.


"Wolfert's Roost," it should be added, is the fourth volume of a highly meritorious series, published by Messrs. Constable, and entitled "Miscellany of Foreign Literature"-the former volumes being devoted to translations of Jokai's "Hungarian Sketches," of Hettner's "Athens and the Peloponnese," and of the celebrated Flemish novelist, Hendrick Conscience's, Tales of life in his own fatherland. The series deserves large encouragement; these initial volumes have certainly been selected with tact and discriminative taste, as they are also produced with elegance, at a price temptingly low, and at intervals of convenient distance to all concerned.






I HAD often beheld the highest hill in Denmark, but had not hitherto ascended it. Frequently as I had been in its neighbourhood, the objects of my journeys had always required me to turn off in another direction, and I was thus obliged to content myself with seeing at some distance the Danish Schwarzwald; and as I passed on, to cast a hurried glance down the valleys to the charming lake, dotted with green leafy islets, and which winds, as it were, round jagged tongues of land. At length I overcame all obstacles, and resolved to devote two days to a pleasure-trip amidst this much-admired scenery. My cousin Ludvig, who had just arrived from the capital, agreed to accompany me.

The morning was clear and warm, and gave the promise of a fine evening, but shortly after mid-day there gradually arose in the south-west a range of whitish clouds tinged at the sides with flame-colour. My cousin did not notice them; but I, who am experienced in the signs of the weather, recognised these indications of thunder, and announced to him "that the evening would not be as fine as the morning." We were riding exactly in such a direction that we had these clouds opposite to us, and could, therefore, perceive how they kept rising higher and higher, how they became darker at the base, and how they towered like mountains of snow over the summit of the hill. Imagination pictured them to us like the Alps of Switzerland, and we tried to fancy ourselves in that mountainous country: we saw Schreckhorn, Wetterhorn, and the Jungfrau; in the valleys between the clouds we pictured to ourselves the glaciers; and when a solitary mass of cloud, breaking suddenly, sank down, and seemed to mingle with the mountain chain, we called it an avalanche which would overwhelm villages and scattered chalêts with everlasting snow. We continued, absolutely with childish pleasure, to figure to ourselves in the skies the majestic scenery of the Alps, and were quite wrapt up in our voluntary self-deception, when the sudden roar of thunder awoke us from our fantastic dreams. Already there stretched scarcely the thinnest line of light in the heavens above us, and the wood which lay before us seemed as if in a moment enveloped in a thick mist by the fast-falling rain. We had been too long dilatory, and now we rode as hard as possible to reach the nearest village; and we were soaked to the skin before we got to Alling, where we sought shelter under an open gateway.

The owner of the place, an elderly farmer, who seemed a sort of halfsavage foreigner to us, received us with old Danish hospitality: he had our horses taken to his stable, and invited ourselves into his warm parlour. As soon as he observed our drenched condition, he offered us garments belonging to his two sons to wear while our own wet ones were dried by the blazing hearth. Joyfully did we avail ourselves of his kind proposal; and in a room up-stairs, called the best apartment, we soon made the comfortable change of apparel, while laughing and joking at our un

expected travestie. Equipped as peasant lads in their Sunday's clothes, we shortly after rejoined the family. Our host was much amused at the change in our outward men, and warmly extolled our homely appearance, while his two daughters smiled, and stole sly glances at us-

Blushed the Valkyries, whilst they turned and laughed.

The coffee-urn stood ready on the table, surrounded by china cups; the refreshing beverage, amply provided with brown sugar, and rich unadulterated cream, poured out and handed by one of the pretty daughters, speedily restored genial heat to our chilled blood; and then the father of the family thought it time to inquire the names, occupations, and places of abode, of his unexpected guests.

Meanwhile the thunderstorm had passed away; the sun smiled again in the cloudless west: far away to the east, indeed, could still be heard the distant whistling and rattling of the winds, but where we were all was mild and tranquil. The spirits of the storm had folded their dripping wings, and the rain-drops sparkled like diamonds upon every leaf and flower. The evening promised once more to resemble the morning in beauty.

"And now for the ascent of the mountain!" we exclaimed to each other.

"But your clothes?" interrupted the farmer. We hastened into an outer room, where the other fair daughter was busy drying them; but, alas! they were still quite damp, and she said she feared she could not promise that they would be in a fit state to be put on for at least an hour; and then it would probably be too late to enjoy the view from the top of the hill, as the ascent, proceeding from where we were at that moment, would take, perhaps, another hour. What was to be done? The goodnatured countryman helped us out of our dilemma.

"If you are not ashamed of wearing the boys' clothes," said he, "why should you not keep them on?"

"That is a capital idea," we both replied, and thanking him for the offer, as we shook hands with him cordially, we asked him where we could find a guide.

"I will myself be your guide," he said, as he took from a corner a juniper-stick for each of us. We then lost no time in commencing our journey, and still more gaily than before, for we were much amused at our masquerade, especially my cousin, who seemed to feel no small admiration for himself in the rustic blue frock-coat, ornamented with silver-buttons-the jack-boots-and the head surmounted by a highcrowned hat.

"I sincerely wish," said he, "that we could fall in with some other travellers up yonder; that would be great fun."

Our guide laughed, and hinted that he would not be able to talk like the peasantry.

"Yes, I can though," said my cousin, who immediately began to speak in the Jutland dialect, to the infinite diversion of the worthy Peder Andersen, who, however, found still another stumbling-block to the perfections of the pretended peasant-namely, that his nice white hands would betray him.

"I can put them in my pocket"-("A ka put em i e Lomm")-cried

my gay cousin, who was determined to admit of no drawback to his assumed character.

Presently we reached the river Gudenaae, which is here tolerably wide, and has rather a swift current. We crossed in a boat something like a canoe, and then entered on quite another kind of a country; for here commenced the moorlands, covered with heather, whose dark tints formed a strong contrast to the bright green on the east of the river. We had yet a good way to walk, and as the heather, which almost reached up to our knees, was still wet with rain, we had good reason to be grateful to our long boots. We approached the wood-a wood of magnificent beechtrees-which appeared to me here doubly beautiful, standing out, as it did, against so dark a background. Amidst sloping dales the path wound always upwards; but the thickness of the foliage for a time deprived us of any view. At last we emerged from the wood, and found ourselves upon open summit of the mountain.



When I hear delightful music, or witness an interesting theatrical representation, I always wish to enjoy it for a time in silence. Nothing acts more unpleasantly, jars more on my feelings, than when any one attempts to call my attention to either. The moment the remark is made to me, "How beautiful that is !" it becomes less beautiful to me. audible outbursts of admiration are to me like cold shower-baths-they quite chill me. After a time, when I have been left undisturbed, and by degrees have cooled in my excitement, I am willing to exchange thoughts and mingle feelings with those of a friend, or of many friends; indeed, I find a desire growing within me to unburden, if I may so express it, my overladen mind. It is thus that a poet utters his inspirations: at the sweet moment when he conceives his ideas, they glow within him, but he is silent; afterwards he feels constrained to give them utterance; the voice or the pen must afford the full heart relief. Our guide's anxiety to please was a dreadful drawback to my comfort, for, with the usual loquacity of a cicerone, he began to point out and describe all the churches that could be descried from the place where we were standing, invariably commencing with "Yonder you see." I left my cousin to his elucidation of the country round, and, wandering to some little distance, I sat down where I could see, without being compelled to hear.

When Stolberg had finished translating Homer into German, he threw down his pen, and exclaimed, despondingly, "Reader! learn Greek, and burn my translation!" What is a description of scenery but a translation? Yet the most successful one must be as much inferior to the original as the highest hill in Jutland is lower than the highest mountain in Thibet. Therefore, kind reader, pardon my not describing to you all I saw. What I saw I might, perhaps, be able to relate to you, but scarcely how I saw it. My pen is no artist's pencil. Go yourself and take a view of it! But you, who perhaps have stood on the summit of the Brocken, or of St. Bernard, smile not that I think so much of our little mountain! It is the loftiest that I, or perhaps many of my readers, have beheld; therefore, what is diminutive to you is grand to us.

I was startled in my meditations by a thump on my shoulder-it was from my cousin, who was standing behind me. He informed me that our guide had gone home at least half an hour, and that I had been sitting for a long time perfectly motionless, without giving the slightest sign of

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