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him, though he still held out his hand, pass quickly by, without stopping, even for a moment, to say, “How d'ye do ?” But this seeming want of politeness arose from no fault of our hero. His own astonishment was a thousand times greater, when he found that he had no power whatever to determine either when, where, or how his leg was to move. So long as his own wishes happened to coincide with the manner in which the machinery seemed destined to operate, all had gone on smoothly; and he had mistaken his own tacit compliance with its independent and self-acting powers, for a command over it, which he now found he did not possess. It had been his most anxious desire to stop to speak with Mynheer Vanoutern ; but his leg moved on, and he found himself under the necessity of following it. Many an attempt did he make to slacken his pace, but every attempt was vain. He caught hold of the rails, walls, and houses, but his leg tugged so violently, that he was afraid of dislocating his arms, and was obliged to go on. He began to get seriously uneasy as to the consequences of this most unexpected turn which matters had taken; and his only hope was, that the amazing and unknown powers which the complicated construction of his leg seemed to possess, would speedily exhaust themselves. Of this, however, he could as yet discover no symptoms.

He happened to be going in the direction of the Leyden Canal; and when he arrived in sight of Mynheer Turningvort's house, he called loudly upon the artificer to come to his assistance. The artificer looked out from his window with a face of wonder. 66 Villain !” cried Wodenblock, “ come out to me this instant! You have made me a leg with a vengeance ! It wont stand still for a moment! I have been walking straight forward ever since I left my own house, and, unless you stop me yourself, Heaven only knows how much farther I may walk. Don't stand gaping there, but come out and relieve me, or I shall be out of sight, and you will not be able to overtake me.” The mechanician grew very pale-he was evidently not prepared for this new difficulty. He lost not a moment, however, in following the merchant, to do what he could towards extricating him from so awkward a predicament. The merchant, or rather the merchant's leg, was walking very quick, and Turningvort, being an elderly man, found it no easy matter to make up to him. He did so at last, nevertheless, and, catching him in his arms, lifted him entirely from the ground. But the stratagem (if so it may be called), did not succeed, for the innate propelling motion of the leg hurried him on along with his burthen at the same rate as before. He set him therefore down again, and stooping, pressed violently on one of the springs that protruded a little behind. In an instant the unhappy Mynheer Von Wodenblock was off like an arrow, calling out in the most piteous accents, “I am lost ! I am lost! I am possessed by a devil in the shape of a cork leg! Stop me! for Heaven's sake, stop me! I am breathless,--I am fainting! Will nobody shatter my leg to pieces? Turningvort! Turningvort ! you have murdered me!" The artist, perplexed and confounded, was hardly in a situation more to be envied. Scarcely knowing what he did, he fell upon his knees, clasped his hands, and with strained and staring eyeballs, looked after the richest merchant in Rotterdam, running with the speed of an enraged buffalo, away along the canal towards Leyden, and bellowing for help as loudly as his exhaustion would permit.

Leyden is more than twenty miles from Rotterdam, but the sun had not yet set, when the Misses Backsneider who were sitting at their parlour window, immediately opposite the “Golden Lion,” drinking tea, and nodding to their friends as they passed, saw some one coming at a furious speed along the street. His face was pale as ashes, and he gasped fearfully for breath; but, without turning either to the right or the left, he hurried by at the same rapid rate, and was out of sight almost before they had time to exclaim, " Good gracious ! was

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 blanched skulls

Smile grim, and proud their air, As in their iron hands,

Their long sharp swords they bcar. 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

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