EXTRAORDINARY GERMAN IM

POSTOR.

"And oft the mighty necromancer boasts, With these to call from tombs the stalking ghosts."-Dryd,

A MAN named Schropfer was for a long time waiter in a coffee house at Leipzig, and nobody observed any thing extraordinary in him. He disappeared of a sudden, and it was not till several years after that he again made his appearance at Leipzig, in the character of the Baron Schropfer. He took a large house, hired a great number of servants, and puffed himself off as a sage, to whom all nature, and even the world of spirits, were subject.

By pompous promises of splendid discoveries, he allured a multitude of credulous people, and pupils thronged to him from all quarters. Some actually expected to learn things of him that cannot be acquired at any university; others were delighted with the excellent table he kept. He frequently received by post large parcels, addressed to Baron Schropfer. Several bankers received orders to pay him large sums. He spoke of his secrets, which he pretended to have learned in Italy, with a seductive eloquence; and he showed people the spirits and shadows of their deceased acquaintance. When he had heated the imagination of his hearers, "Come and see," he cried to all who were inclined to doubt; they came and actually saw shadows, and various terrible sights, which made the hair of timorous persons stand on end. It must be observed, that his warmest adherents were not men of learning, or such as were accustomed to logical deductions for people who placed more reliance on their understanding thau on their senses, would not at all suit Schropfer's purpose. Thus his pupils consisted entirely of noblemen and merchants, who were totally ignorant of the sciences. He exhibited the wonders of his art to others, but he taught them to none; and at last he only performed his miracles at home, in private apartments prepared for the purpose. Amongst others, Mr. M. came in company with his friends to Schropfer, to see his apparition. He found a great number of guests there before him, who were incessantly plied with punch. M. refused to drink any thing, but Schropfer pressed him very much to drink at least a glass, which M, as firmly refused. At length they were all conducted into a large hall, hung with black cloth, the window-shutters of which were closed. Schropfer placed the spectators together, and drew a circle around them, beyond which he strictly enjoined them not to stir. At the distance of a few paces a small altar was erected, on which burned spirits; this cast the only light that illumined the room. Schropfer, uncovering his breast, threw himself on his knees before the altar. He held in his hand a large glistening sword, and prayed with a loud voice,

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and with such earnestness and warmth, that M., who had come with the intention of unmasking the impostor and the imposture, felt in his heart a pious awe, and sentiments of devotion. Fire flashed from the eyes of the supplicant, and his breast was powerfully agitated. He was to call the shadow of a well-known character lately deceased. After having finished the prayer, he called the ghost with the following words; "Oh! thou departed spirit, who livest in an immaterial world, and invisible to the eyes of mortals, hear the voice of the friends thou hast left behind, and who desire to see thee; leave, for a short time, thy new abode, and present thyself to their eyes!" Hereupon the spectators felt in every nerve a sensation similar to an electric shock-heard a noise like a rolling of thunder, and saw above the altar a light vapour, which grew thicker by degrees, till it assumed the figure of a man. However, M. observed that it was not a striking likeness of the deceased. The figure hovered over the altar, and Schropfer, pale as death, flourished the sword above his head. M. resolved to step out of the circle and to go to Schropfer; but the latter, perceiving his intention, rushed towards him, holding the sword to his breast, and crying with a terrible voice, "You are a dead man, if you stir another step!" M. was so terrified at the dreadful tone in which Schropfer uttered these words, and at the glistening sword, that his knees shook under him. The shadow at length disappeared, and Schropfer was so fatigued, that he lay extended on the floor. The spectators were conducted into another room, where they were served with fruits. Many of the more sensible people went to Schropfer's house as to a theatre; they knew that his boasted art was nothing but imposture, yet they were delighted with the serious comedy which he performed.

This continued for some time; but Schropfer all at once got into debt with several tradespeople of Leipzig, and unfortunately of that class who did not wish to see his ghosts. The bankers would not advance him a penuy; and the miserable magician, worked up to the highest degree of despair, shot himself through the head in the Rosenthal.* Nobody knows, to this day, how he got his money, and for what purpose he played off his phantasmagoria.

* It is a place in Leipzig.

BEAT TURNIPS.

A country lad sitting beside a pretty young lady, his father whispered to him to say something to his fair neighbour. What will I say to her,' said the lad. 'Say soft things,' answered his father. Johnny Raw, gazing in her face, said, with the greatest simplicity in the world, beat turnips.'

THREE rogues, in the vicinity of Lan, uniting the ingenuity of their talents, had for a considerable time put both monks and laymen under contribution. Two of them were brothers; their names Hamet and Berard. Their father, who had followed the same profession, had just finished his career at the gallows. The name of the third was Travers. They never robbed or murdered; but only pursued the business of pilfering and kidnapping, in which they had arrived at an astonishing degree of ingenuity.

t.

As they were walking together one day in the wood of Lan, and talking of their several feats of dexterity, Hainet, the eldest of the two brothers, espied at the top of a lofty oak a magpie's nest, and saw the mother fly into "Brother," said he to Berard, "what should you say to a person that should propose to go and take the eggs from under that bird without alarming-it ?" "I should tell him," answered the younger brother, "that he was a fool, and proposed a thing impossible to be done." Well, learn my friend that he who cannot accomplish so practicable a theft, is but a booby in his profession — Observe me.” This said, he immediately climbs the tree. Having reached the nest, he makes a hole in it underneath, receives softly into his hands the eggs, as they slipped through the opening, and brings them down, desiring his com panions to observe that not a single egg was broken. "By St. Dennis," cried Berard, "I must allow you to be an incomparable thief; but if you could go and replace the eggs under the mother, as quietly as you have taken them from her, we should acknowledge you our master."

Hamet accepts the challenge, and again mounts the tree; but his brother designed a trick upon him. The latter, as soon as he sees the other at a certain height, says to Travers, "You have just been a witness to Hamet's dexterity; you shall now see what I can do in the same way." He instantly climbs the tree, and follows his elder brother from branch to branch; and whilst the latter has his eyes fixed upon the nest, entirely taken up with his design, and watching every motion of the bird, the slippery rogue loosens his trowsers, and brings them down as a signal of triumph. Hamet, in the mean time, contrives to replace all the eggs, and coming down looks for the praise due to so clever an exploit. "Oh, you only want to deceive us," said Berard, bantering him, "I'll wager you have concealed the eggs in

your trowsers. The other looks, sees that his trowsers are gone, and soon finds out the trick of his brother. "Excellent rogue," cried he, "to outwit another!"

As for Travers, he was lost in equal admiration of these two heroes, and could not determine which had the advantage. But he felt himself humbled at their superiority; and piqued at not being able to contend with them, cried," Friends, you are too knowing for me. You would escape twenty times when I should be the sacrifice. I perceive that I am too awkward to thrive in this business; so I shall go and resume my own trade; I renounce thieving for ever. I have good strong arms, and will return home and live with my wife; with the help of God I shall be able to procure a subsistence." He fulfilled his declaration, and returned to his village. His wife loved him; he became an honest man, and set himself to work with so much industry, that at the close of a few months, he had earned wherewithal to buy a hóg. The animal was fattened at home. At Christmas he killed it, and having hung it in the usual way, against the wall, he went into the fields. But it had been much better to have sold it. He would then have saved himself a vast deal of uneasiness.

The two brothers, who had not seen him since their separation, came at this very time to pay him a visit. The wife was alone spinning. She told them that her husband was just gone out, and that he would not return till next night. With eyes accustomed to examine every thing, you might have sworn the hog could not escape their notice. "Oh, oh," said they, on going out," this fellow is about to regale, and did not think us worth inviting! Well, we must carry off his pork, and eat it without him." The rogues then laid their plot, and till night should enable them to act, they went and concealed themselves behind a neighbouring hedge. At night, when Travers returned, his wife told him of the visit she had received. "I was much alarmed," said she, "at being alone with them; they had so suspicious an appearance, that I did not venture to ask either their names or their bu siness, but they searched every corner with their eyes; don't think a single peg escaped their notice." "Ah! it must have been my two queer companions," cried Travers in great trouble," or my hog is lost; and I now heartily wish that I had sold it." "We have still a resource," said the wife; "let us take down the pork, and hide it for the night. To-morrow morning you may consider what is to be done."

(To be concluded in our next.)

LONDON:

A GENTLEMAN of Bavaria, of a noble family, was so afflicted at the death of bis wife, that, unable to bear the company of any other person, he gave himself entirely up to a solitary way of living. This was the more remarkable in him, as he had been a man of jovial habits, fond of his wine and visitors, and impatient of having his numerous indulgencies contradicted. But in the same temper perhaps might be found the cause of his sorrow; for though he would be impatient with his wife, as with others, yet he loved her, as one of the gentlest wills he had; and the sweet and unaffected face which she always turned round upon his anger, might have been a thing more easy for him to trespass upon, while living, than to forget, when VOL. III. July 24,

dead and gone. His very anger towards her, compared with that towards others, was a relief to him; and rather a wish to refresh himself in the balmy feeling of her patience, than to make her unhappy herself; or to punish her, as some would have done, for that virtuous contrast to his own vice.

But whether he bethought himself, after her death, that this was a very selfish mode of loving; or whether, as some thought, he had wearied out her life with habits so contrary to her own; or whether, as others reported, he had put it to a fatal risk by some lordly piece of selfwill, in consequence of which she had caught a fever on the cold river during a night of festivity; he surprised even those who thought that he loved her, by No. 75.-Price 2d.

the extreme bitterness of his grief. The very mention of festivity, though he was patient for the first day or two, afterwards threw him into a passion of rage; but by degrees even his rage followed his other old habits. He was gentle, but ever silent. He eat and drank but sufficient to keep him alive; and used to spend the greater part of the day in the spot where his wife was buried.

He was going there one evening, in a very melancholy manner, with his eyes turned towards the earth, and had just entered the rails of the burial ground, when he was accosted by the mild voice of somebody coming to meet hinı. "It is a blessed evening, sir," said the voice. The gentleman looked up. Nobody but himself was allowed to be in the place at that hour; and yet he saw, with astonishment, a young chorister approaching him. He was going to express some wonder, when, he said, the modest though assured look of the boy, and the extreme beauty of his countenance, which glowed in the setting sun before him, made an irresistible addition to the singular sweetness of his voice; and he asked him with an involuntary calmness, and a gesture of respect, not what he did there, but what he wished. "Only to wish you all good things," answered the stranger, who had now come up; "and to give you this letter." The gentleman took the letter, and saw upon it, with a beating yet scarcely bewildered heart, the hand-writing of his wife. He raised his eyes again to speak to the boy, but he was gone. He cast them far and near round the place, but there were no traces of a passenger. He then opened the letter, and, by the divine light of the setting sun, read these words:

"To my dear husband, who sorrows for his wife.

"Otto, my husband, the soul you regret so is returned. You will know the truth of this, and be prepared with calmness to see it, by the divineness of the messenger, who has passed you. You will find me sitting in the public walk, praying for you; praying that you may never more give way to those gusts of passion, and those curses against others, which divided us.

“This, with a warm hand, from the living Bertha."

Otto (for such, it seems, was the gentleman's name) went instantly, calmly, quickly, yet with a sort of benumbed being, to the public walk. He felt, but with only a half-consciousness, as if he glided without a body. But all his spirit was awake, eager, intensely con

scious. It seemed to him as if there had been but two things in the world,—Life and Death; and that Death was dead. All else appeared to have been a dream. He had awaked from a waking state, and found himself all eye, and spirit, and loco-motion. He said to himself once, as he went," This is not a dream. I will. ask my great ancestors to-morrow to my new bridal feast, for they are alive." Otto had been calm at first, but something of old and triumphant feelings seemed again to come over him. Was he again too proud and confident? Did his earthly humours prevail again, when he thought them least upon him? We shall see.

The Bavarian arrived at the public walk. It was full of people with their wives and children, enjoying the beauty of the evening. Something like common fear came over him, as he went in and out among them, looking at the benches on each side. It happened that there was only one person, a lady, sitting upon them. She had her veil down; and his being underwent a fierce but short convulsion as he went near hér. Something had a little baffled the calmer ins i ation of the angel that had accosted him; for fear prevailed at the instant, and Otto passed on.

He returned before he had reached the end of the walk, and approached the lady again. She was still sitting in the same quiet posture, only he thought she looked at him. Again he passed her. On his second return, a grave and sweet courage came upon him, and in an under but firm tone of inquiry he said, "Bertha?" "I thought you had forgotten me," said that well-known and mellow voice, which he had seemed as far from ever hearing again, as earth is from heaven. He took her haud, which grasped his in turn, and they walked home in silence together, the arm, which was wound within his, giving

warmth for warmth.

re-appearance.

said

miraculous want of wonder at the lady's The neighbours seemed to have a about a mock funeral, and her having Something was withdrawn from his company for awhile; but visitors came as before, and his wife returned to her household affairs. It was only remarked that she always looked pale and pensive. But she was more kind to all, even than before; and her pensiveness seemed rather the result of some great internal thought, than of unhappiness.

For a year or two the Bavarian retain. ed the better temper which he acquired. His fortunes flourished beyond his earliest ambition: the most amiable as

well as noble persons of the district were frequent visitors; and people said that, to be at Otto's house, must be the next thing to being in heaven. But by degrees his self-will returned with his prosperity. He never vented impatience on his wife; but he again began to show that the disquietude it gave her to see it vented on others, was a secondary thing in his mind to the indulgence of it. Whether it was, that his grief for her loss had been rather remorse than affection, and so he held himself secure if he treated her well; or whether he was at all times rather proud of her, than fond; or whatever was the cause which again set his antipathies above his sympathies, certain it was, that his old habits returned upon him; not so often indeed, but with greater violence and pride, when they did. These were the only times at which his wife was observed to show any ordinary symptoms of uneasiness.

At length, one day, some strong rebuff which he had received from an alienated neighbour threw him into such a transport of rage, that he gave way to the most bitter imprecations, crying with a loud voice-" This treatment to me too? To me! To me, who, if the world knew all"- -At these words, his wife, who had in vain laid her hand upon his, and looked him with dreary earnestness in the face, suddenly glided from the room. He, and two or three who were present, were struck with a dumb horror. They said she did not walk out, nor vanish suddenly; but glided, as one who could dispense with the use of feet. After a moment's pause, the others proposed to him to follow her. He made a movement of despair; but they went. There was a short passage, which turned to the right into her favourite room. They knocked at the door twice or three times, and received no answer. At last, one of them gently opened it; and looking in, they saw her, as they thought, standing before a fire, which was the only light in the room. Yet she stood so far from it, as rather to be in the middle of the room; only the face was towards the fire, and she seemed looking upon it. They addressed her, but received no answer. They stepped gently towards her, and still received none. The figure stood dumb and unmoved. At last, one of them went round in front, and instantly fell on the floor. The figure was without body: a hollow hood was left instead of a face. The clothes were standing upright by themselves.

That room was blocked up for ever, for the clothes, if it might be so, to moulder away. It was called the Room

of the Lady's Figure. The house, after the gentleman's death, was long uninhabited, and at length burnt by the peasants in an insurrection. As for himself, he died about nine months after, a gentle and child-like penitent. He had never stirred from the house since; and nobody would venture to go near him, but a man who had the reputation of being a reprobate. It was from this man that the particulars of the story came first. He would distribute the gentleman's alms in great abundance to any strange poor who would accept them; for most of the neighbours held them in horror. He tried all he could to get the parents among them to let some of their little children, or a single one of them, go to see his employer. They said, he even asked it one day with tears in his eyes. But they shuddered to think of it; and the matter was not mended, when this profane person, in a fit of impatience, said one day, that he would have a child of his own on purpose. His employer, however, died in a day or two. They did not believe a word he told them of all the Bavarian's gentleness, looking upon the latter as a sort of ogre, and upon his agent as little better, though a goodnatured looking, earnest kind of persou. It was said many years after, that this man had been a friend of the Bavarian's when young, and had been deserted by him. And the young believed it," whatever the old might.