It is possible that Goldsmith may have been indebted to a paper in the British Magazine; but a reference to the date of Zschokke's birth will show, that the English author could not have borrowed from the German.

"Der Todte Gast," (The Dead Guest,) has been pronounced by British critics the best of Zschokke's tales. It illustrates the folly of superstition. In the little town of Herbesheim existed a tradition, that once in a hundred years, on the first Sunday in Advent, appeared a mysterious ghost, who succeeded in winning the affections of three betrothed maidens, and always ended by twisting their necks. Herr Bantes, a wealthy citizen, with an only daughter, whom he had betrothed in childhood to the son of his friend, the banker Von Halen, ridicules the superstition. But, in spite of himself, he partakes of the general uneasiness, when the first Sunday in Advent, the day of the centennial return of the dead guest, amidst a violent storm of rain and sleet as usual, brings a stranger to town, whose appearance so exactly answers to that of the hero of the tradition, as to stagger even the most incredulous. He is of uncommon height, thin, and pale as a ghost; and wears a suit of black, with abundance of jewelry, precisely as the spectre has been described. He lodges at the "Black Cross," and pays his first visit to the house of Herr Bantes, announcing himself as the son of the banker Von Halen. Bantes imagines he sees something weird in the letter of introduction, and in the whole appearance of his visitor; and knowing his daughter to be attached to his ward, Captain Waldrick, excuses himself for breaking his pledge to the banker, by informing him of Frederika's engagement with the captain. The gleam of joy in the eyes of the mysterious guest at this news, and his entreaty for a private interview with the young lady, complete the consternation of the father; and when, on returning from business the next morning, he sees the visitor of the preceding night sitting alone with his daughter, and kissing her hand, his terror knows no bounds. He yields his consent to her union with Waldrick, provided she will procure the immediate departure of the terrible guest. This with joy she engages to do. The whole town, meanwhile, is thrown into confusion, and a variety of comical adventures befal the stranger, who finds himself, he knows not why, the object of universal dread. At last he is summoned before the burgomaster, and questioned; in his turn, he learns the tradition,

and the next morning has disappeared with all his luggage, in a mysterious manner, without leaving a trace behind. This confirms the suspicions of the worthy towns-people; Herr Bantes goes, in horrible apprehension, to his daughter's chamber, expecting to find her neck twisted; but to his delight, she is alive and well. The same evening Waldrick arrives, and the mystery is explained. The dead guest was the banker's son, who had been prevented by illness from paying his respects before to his affianced bride. He was secretly enamoured of a professor's daughter in his native town, but obeyed his father's commands in suing for the hand of Miss Bantes, well pleased, however, to find himself rejected. This had been explained between him and Frederika at his interview with her. His unconscious resemblance to the spectre of the legend, was the fault of the captain, who had been struck some years before by his singular appearance, and, in relating the tradition of the dead guest to a select party, at the house of Herr Bantes, had, without design, drawn his picture after the young banker, whom he knew not then to be his rival.

Some of the stories of Zschokke are rendered tedious by lengthened disquisitions introduced into the dialogue; and often the author's sentimental philosophizing of the personages, interfered with the interest of the narrative. Some are marred by exaggeration and improbabilities; and in some, his satire stretches into caricature, and exhibits a contempt for the follies of society, opposed to the earnestness of spirit and the philanthropy that usually appear in his writings. His longest novels are not the best; among them all, besides those already mentioned, we give the preference to "Alamontade," "Floretto," "The Adventure of a New Year's Night," "The Broken Pitcher," "Who Governs?" and "Die Verklärungen," (The Clairvoyante.) The last is a story of animal magnetism. "Who Governs ?" perhaps better illustrates the delicate and pleasant satire of Zschokke than any other. Of the same sort is the entertaining double tale of "Kleine Ursachen," (Small Causes.) It relates the different fortunes of Roderic, who rose from the condition of a baker's boy to be prime minister and a count,—and of Baron Henwen, who sank to the extremity of poverty, from a similar series of "small causes." The following extract, from the close of the first part, may give an idea of the story:

"The morning after the wedding of Roderic and the Countess Wilhelmina, a stranger was announced, who demanded to see the

prime minister. The Count, having no inclination to receive such early visitors, sent word he could not be seen. The servant returned with a card, on which was written, in a well known hand, 'Henwen.'

'Henwen repeated Roderic, 'my friend-my companion at the university! Show him in immediately! And then he told his lovely wife what claims his fellow-student had on his remembrance and affection.

Baron Henwen entered. How sad a change! Roderic hardly recognized him. His face was pale; his figure emaciated; his dress bespoke the extreme of squalid poverty.

'How comes this?' cried the Count, after having welcomed his friend.

'Your excellency,' said the Baron, with a bow, 'will pardon my importunity in urging to see you. I am a fugitive. I ask for protection. You may be called upon to give me up to my pursuers.'

'For heaven's sake, what have you done?"

'Mistaken, in my capacity of cook, two ounces of snuff for coffee.' 'You, Henwen! How came you to be a cook?'

'Because I was so unfortunate as to tread upon an old lady's train.' 'A lady's train?'

'Yes-I was reduced to seek for a clerkship.'

'You a clerk?'

'Yes-for I had laid aside my nobility.'

'How was that?'

'On account of a canary bird of my aunt's.' 'Impossible!'

'Strict truth; on that account I lost my property and came to want. It is so. I have been unfortunate, but always upright. Misfortune has followed me even to your excellency's door, whence your people would have driven me because of my mean clothes.'

'You astonish me, Henwen!'

'Very possibly; but, you know, fortune and misfortune hang on small things. Trifles are mightier than knowledge, virtue or talents.' Roderic thought at this moment of the bake trough, which had been the first means of his elevation; of the leg of mutton which had first introduced him to the acquaintance of his charming Countess; of the powder mantle, which had advanced his fortunes; of the drug, which had saved him from a forced marriage; of the net bag, which had raised him to be prime minister; and replied-True, my dear friend. Remain with me; I will undertake your cause, and see that you are vindicated.'"

In this and other tales there is a vein of deep satire; but a higher philosophy is expressed in the Baron's words at the close of his narration:

"Destiny rules the outer world, but cannot step beyond the circle of the earthly; man, as an immortal spirit, is lord of the spiritual kingdom. Fate may tear life from him, but never consciousness; it may rob him of wealth, but never of his heart-serenity, his inward happiness; it may spoil him of honor, and make him despised of his fellow-men, but, secure in the approval of God and his own soul, he

can smile and triumph still. He is not the sovereign, who wears the crown and bears the sceptre; but he of the free heart and the noble spirit, who spurns the fetters of appetite or passion! Roderic! I was not happier on the summit of prosperity than in the depths of poverty; not prouder amid the flatteries of a court, than when pursued as a fugitive."

Spindler has been called the Schiller of prose romance. This, from his countrymen, is indeed high praise; and he may be said to merit it, on account of the purity and beauty of some of his creations, particularly his youthful heroes and heroines. But he paints the evil with more nature than Schiller; and, withal, has not the lofty philosophy, the enthusiasm, or the sunny imagination of that great poet. His pictures of the feudal ages might serve as a contrast to those of the novelists of the school of Walter Scott. In place of fascinating delineations of romantic honor, bravery, and chivalrous devotion, he portrays scenes of gloom and terror and wild wickedness. He suffers not the pageants and the luxury he represents to dazzle our eyes, so as to blind them to the rapine, violence and misrule that prevail among princes and people. He paints an age, in which, though knightly honor, justice, heroism, and all other virtues, were perpetually in men's mouths, they were but seldom exhibited in conduct, save in sudden deeds, prompted by momentary impulse; an age in which principles and institutions were confounded and set at nought; an age in which moral depravity was so universal, as to entitle it eminently to the epithet dark; in which the perverted precepts of Christianity were deprived of their power to influence the hearts and actions of men. Mere physical force was then the patent by which the noble held his rights; and by which the obscure man elevated himself into rank and power. In such a state of things, both the fortunes of individuals, and the constitution of society, were unstable and insecure. Law had but feeble force to check or control the rapacity of the nobles, or the rude discord and insubordination of the people; and human life was valued but at a contemptible rate. Such is the aspect of the historical pictures Spindler presents to us. The flash of truth illuminates them; but they are often painful and revolting. Again, the darkness is relieved by exquisite touches of character; and now and then a ray, soft as starlight, and golden as sunset, floats athwart the storm. Through the dark web of ambition, selfishness and treachery, runs many "a bright thread of silver tissue."

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VOL. VI.-NO. 12.

Spindler has great fertility of invention, and paints character and manners with a power in which he has few rivals. His individuals, as well as his scenes, are strikingly represen ted. This is perhaps the greatest faculty of the novelist. In the minor points, such as the construction of a plot, and the conduct of the incidents, Spindler is less happy. His works are numerous, occupying twenty or more volumes. One of the earliest is "The Jew,"-and it gives a fair idea both of the author's excellencies and defects. An English translation of this historical novel has just been published; and it is therefore unnecessary for us to enter upon any analysis of it; an effort which we gladly spare ourselves, as it would cost no trifling degree of labor to follow the main stream of the story, amid such a mass of detail and such a labarynth of incident as the work presents. The interest is, in fact, so divided among a multitude of characters, that it is less a story than, as its title in the original purports, a historical picture of the times. Its object is to illustrate the situation of the German Jews, in the early part of the fif teenth century. At that time, though detested by the Christians, and reciprocating the feeling of hatred, they enjoyed at least a show of freedom under the government, in some parts of Germany, and were enabled to amass wealth, and, as a natural result, to rise into consequence. The author has also aimed to show the abuses of the feudal system; to portray the luxury and rapacity of the Christian priesthood, and the selfish ambition and violence of the nobles, as well as the disorders prevailing among the lower classes.

There are, in the five volumes of "The Jew," materials enough for as many common romances; and these are managed with no inconsiderable skill. Besides the prominent. Jews, who are drawn with great power, particularly Ben David, we have the elder and younger Frosch, both admirable in their way, the selfish prelate, the brilliant but evil-minded Wallrade,-the noble-hearted Margaret,-the gentle and devoted Esther, with captains of banditti, dukes, nobles, knights, and common men, too many to enumerate; all individualized and portrayed with the hand of a master. But we have cause to complain that too much of the gloomy and revolting is mingled with our interest. Wallrade is a strong conception, but her atrocity is too unmixed and unrelieved. Such characters may have existed in reality, but they are unfit for the purpose of the novelist. The jealousy