not that Mynheer Von Wodenblock, the rich merchant of Rotterdam ?"

Next day was Sunday. The inhabitants of Haarlem were all going to church, in their best attire, to say their prayers, and hear their great organ, when a being rushed across the market-place, like an animated corpse, white, blue, cold, and speechless, his eyes fixed, his lips livid, his teeth set, and his hands clenched. Every one cleared a way for it in silent horror; and there was not a person in Haarlem, who did not believe it a dead body endowed with the power of motion.

On it went through village and town, towards the great wilds and forests of Germany. Weeks, months, years, passed on, but at intervals the horrible shape was seen, and still continues to be seen, in various parts of the north of Europe. The clothes, however, which he who was once Mynheer Von Wodenblock used to wear, have all mouldered away; the flesh, too, has fallen from his bones, and he is now a skeleton-a skeleton in all but the cork leg, which still, in its original rotundity and size, continues attached to the spectral form, perpetuum mobile, dragging the wearied bones

for ever and ever over the earth!

May all good saints protect us from broken legs! and may there never again appear a mechanician like Turningvort, to supply us with cork substitutes of so awful and mysterious a power!

NAPOLEON'S MIDNIGHT REVIEW.

(From the French of Méry and Barthélemy.)

[This singularly wild poem first appeared in "Le Fils de l'Homme, ou Souvenirs de Vienne,"-Par MM. Méry et Barthélemy, Paris, 1829, as the production of M. Sedlitz, a young Hungarian poet, translated by the authors. The assumed translation has since been suspected, if not ascertained, to be a ruse of the authors, though versions of it continue to appear as by "The Baron Sedlitz." An indifferent one, adapted to music by the late Chevalier Neukohm, was for some time very popular.]

AT midnight, from his grave,
The drummer woke and rose,
And beating loud the drum,
Forth on his rounds he goes.

Stirred by his faithful arms,
The drumsticks patly fall,
He beats the loud retreat,
Réveille and roll-call.

So grandly rolls that drum,
So deep it echoes round!
Old soldiers in their graves,
Start to life at the sound.

Both they in farthest North,
Stiff in the ice that lay,
And who too warm repose,
Beneath Italian clay;

Below the mud of Nile,

And 'neath Arabian sand; Their burial place they quit,

And soon to arms they stand.

And at midnight, from his grave,
The trumpeter arose;

And, mounted on his horse,

A loud shrill blast he blows.

On aëry coursers then,

The cavalry are seen,

Old squadrons erst renowned,
Gory and gashed, I ween.

Beneath the casque their blanchèd skulls
Smile grim, and proud their air,
As in their iron hands,

Their long sharp swords they bear.

And at midnight from his tomb

The chief awoke, and rose;

And followed by his staff,
With slow steps on he goes.

A little hat he wears,

A coat quite plain has he,
A little sword for arms

At his left side hangs free.

O'er the vast plain, the moon
A solemn lustre threw;
The man with the little hat
The troops goes to review.

The ranks present their arms,
Deep roll the drums the while;
Recovering then-the troops
Before the chief defile.

Marshals and generals round
In circle formed appear:
The chief to the first a word
Then whispers in his ear.

The word goes down the ranks,
Resounds along the Seine;
That word they give, is France,
The answer-Saint Hélène :

"Tis there, at midnight hour,
The Grand Review, they say,

Is by dead Cæsar held,

In the Champs Elysées.

WINDOWS IN MEN'S BREASTS.

(From the Flemish.)

THE idea, though not new, of the effect of a little window in front of the human breast, was lately started in one of our public journals. The notion so pleased

me, that it was continually running in my mind; I thought of nothing but Richeraud and Hervey reading the heart of a living man. How happy should we have been, thought I, had nature, more skilful than our surgeons and anatomists, made such a window before every heart! Ridiculous idea! for if the heart could be seen like the face, it would soon become deceitful and hypocritical, and we should gain nothing after all. Be that as it may, I could think on nothing else, and the consequence was, that the other night I had a dream on the subject, which, with your permission, I will relate. I presume you have no objection, for many large volumes contain nothing else. My dream was as follows:

I thought I had become prime minister of a great and powerful kingdom. I gave a grand entertainment. The party was numerous, and every one present had, without knowing it, the little window above mentioned in front of his breast.

I first observed two learned men, who were, to all appearance, on very good terms with each other, for they were inseparable during the whole evening. One was on the eve of publishing a new work. I complimented him on his production, and promised to speak favourably of it to the king. At that moment I observed a gentle swelling of his heart. The thing was perfectly natural, and it was only what I expected; but I was not a little astonished to observe a kind of contracting motion in the heart of the other. His breathing was suspended, and I may almost say that he appeared to be stifled by the success of his friend.

Near me stood a man on whom I had conferred the greatest obligations, who hoped that I would render him still further acts of service, and who was continually talking to me of his gratitude. Now gratitude is the memory of the heart, and, like the mental memory, may be expected to leave some traces on the organ which it affects. So at least philosophers explain the matter. Though far from suspecting the sentiments of my friend, I was

pleased with this opportunity of ascertaining that my obligations had not been bestowed on one who was unworthy of them. I looked at his heart; but what was my astonishment to find it was as smooth as polished marble, my favours had made not the slightest impression on it.

A gentleman entered with his wife; their hearts were perfectly tranquil. A young officer appeared. The heart of one of the couple became agitated. It was not the husband's.

At this moment a foreign ambassador was announced. Excellent! thought I; I shall now have the key to all the cabinets in Europe. But how was I disappointed! It was the most impenetrable heart that can be imagined-an absolute labyrinth. I beheld nothing but folds above folds-a mass of intrigues and subterfuges. I turned, and perceived another heart, which I hoped I should be able to comprehend with less difficulty. It was light and slippery, and continually in motion. I was curious to know whether it had ever received a wound; it had received a thousandbut they were all so slight that scarcely a scar was visible. They appeared merely like the pricks of a pin. Several gay gentlemen, however, flattered themselves that they had riveted this heart, but they were deceived. Cupid was out of humour with it, and resolved to be revenged. One of his arrows yet remained untried. It was a golden one, and golden arrows seldom miss their aim. The heart of the fair lady was pierced through and through.

In one corner of the drawing-room sat a philosopher, who was far from being displeased at the notice he attracted. Philanthropy (formerly we should have called it humanity) was his whim. He thought of nothing but charitable institutions, and soup establishments for the poor. A good action in which he did not participate gave him pain. I looked through the little window: his heart was distended to the utmost, but, like a balloon, it was filled only with air.