nificence which surrounded him; the walls and floors of every room were curiously inlaid with gold and silver; there were pearls as large as walnuts, and diamonds the size of eggs, and red gold in bars, and such a profusion of wealth and of objects of inconceivable beauty as the peasant's son had never dreamt of, even when he lay on the banks of the lake, and gazed upwards on the deep blue heavens towards the dwellings of the angels. In the gardens which surrounded this enchanted palace grew fruits and flowers lovelier far than he had ever beheld; the apples were as large as a child's head, and the plums the size of ostrich eggs, and the cherries like billiard balls, and the flowers of marvellously varied forms and beauty; sweet birds filled the air with their merry warblings, the little streamlets seemed to murmur music as they meandered through the emerald meads, and the zephyrs which played amid his hyacinthine locks, were more odorous than those of Araby, or the Spicy islands of the East. . "The boy had often read of Paradise, and now he thought: This is surely Paradise; and I am happy here!' "Weeks and months passed thus away, and still the youthful stranger remained unconscious of their flight; for a perpetual succession of new objects occupied his attention; and while roaming beneath the orange-trees with their golden fruit, he never thought of the broad oak which stretched its sheltering arms above his father's hut. FIRST VOICE. The home of my childhood, how brightly it shines There the sunlight of memory never declines, Around thy father's cot? SECOND VOICE. Oh the home of my childhood was wild and rude Its rocks and dells and streamlets are, THIRD VOICE. Far, far away, in the twilight grey, To one sweet spot, oh ne'er forgot! FOURTH VOICE. The eagle lent me his wing of pride, To a vale my childhood knew. "When the fourth voice had died softly away in the distance, the boy-whose young heart now heaved till it was like to burst with wild and uncontrollable longings to return to his father's home-heard the rush of heavy wings passing near him, and looking up he beheld a beautiful snow.white eagle, with a golden crown upon its head, and a collar of rubies, alight near to him on the meadow. The noble bird looked with a friendly eye upon him, and he heard another voice singing faintly and far off, these words: The eagle is a bird of truth, And his wing is swift and strong. "But at last, when nearly a whole year was gone, the mortal inhabitant of this enchanted region was suddenly seized with an irrepressible longing to return to his native village. Nothing pleased him now,-nothing any longer gratified his boyish fancy,-the flowers had lost their beauty to his pensive eye, the melody of the streams, and the songs of the birds fell tuneless on his listless ear, the sky above him appeared far less beautiful than that on whose reflected hues he had so often gazed as he lay on the banks of the deep lake,-but when he thought of the words of the beautiful maidens, "The boy, moved by a strong and momentary imwho had assured him that return to the light of another pulse, sprung to his feet and ran towards the noble bird, world was impossible after the third day's sojourning in which bent its crowned head and stretched out its long this enchanted region, he hid his secret sorrow in his in- wings as if to salute him on his approach; but he now most soul, and only gave vent to his grief when he discovered that the eagle's strong talons were fixed in a thought the thick shades of the garden concealed him swan, which lay beneath him, and which he knew to be from observation. Much he strove, when the three kind one of those which he had seen swimming on the lake sisters approached him, to appear happy and cheerful as near Wimpfen. Then the manly boy seized a branch of formerly, but he could not conceal the grief which was a tree, and with it drove away the cruel eagle from the preying within; and when they kindly inquired what swan. No sooner had he performed this grateful acailed him, he tried to account for his altered appearance tion, than he suddenly beheld the three lovely sisters and demeanour by various excuses and pretences of bad from whom he had just been longing to make his escape, health. standing before him, and smiling so sweetly and mildly upon him, that he felt ashamed of his wish to leave them secretly, and hung down his head blushing deeply. "Then one of them spoke: We know thy thoughts, dear youth, and what it is that moves thee so deeply. And though we are sorry to part with thee, yet as thou hast proved thyself so faithful towards us, thy secret desire shall be granted, and to-morrow thou shalt behold thy father, and mother, and brethren, and sisters.' "One day as he lay in the light of the setting sun, upon the green banks of a limpid stream, though all nature around him appeared charming, rich, and luxurious, and the air was filled with fragrance, and the birds sang their evening-song, and on the meadow before him were some cheerful labourers, singing cheerfully while at work, he felt that all this beauty and melody wanted something without which they could minister no happiness to his longing soul. His father's hut suddenly rose in lively colours before his fancy; he saw his beloved mother weeping bitterly at the door, and he knew that it was for him she wept; and he beheld all his longforgotten companions with their familiar faces standing around his mother, and heard them calling his name aloud as if in sorrow and then the poor boy sobbed aloud and wept bitterly with his face hid in the tall grass. As he lay in this posture he heard a clear voice singing in the distance, and as he listened the sounds waxed more audible, and seemed to float nearer him through the still air. Again they died away in the distance, and again they approached towards him, until he distinctly heard the following words sung apparently by different and separated voices:— "The poor boy stood mute before his kind benefactresses; he wept because he was about to part with them, and he also wept when he thought how long he had tarried away from his home; all night he tossed about on a restless couch, unable to resolve on departing, and equally unable to reject the offer which had been made to him by his kind and lovely friends. At last sleep sank down on his weary eyelids, and when he awoke the following morning, he found himself lying on the shore of the well-known lake. He looked upon the waters and beheld the three swans sailing at a little distance from him; but when he stretched his hands towards them, as if to say that he wished again to join them, they beckoned in a friendly manner to him, and then diving beneath the surface, re-appeared not again. covery occasions, when Augustin, a hermit, comes to inform the unfortunate father and mother that their son, Fritz, who had gone upon a visit to his grandfather, had fallen down one of the clefts of the rocks, and had been killed. It is to Werner that Augustin first communicates these tidings; and, as the scene in which he does so appears to us the best written in the poem, we shall extract the greater part of it, as the fairest specimen we can select: "All was pleasure and astonishment when the long-friends are in the midst of the happiness which the dislost boy again presented himself in his native village. His friends and companions assembled around him and heard his wonderful story; but none believed it. "But after the first greetings were over, and his first transports of joy on finding himself again restored to his parents and youthful companions had subsided, the boy was seized with a secret longing to return to the unknown land; and this desire grew more vehement every day. He would now wander about the shores of the lake from sunrise till the stars appeared in the nightly heavens; but the three swans never returned, and the poor boy wept and sighed in vain for those Elysian fields in which it had once been permitted him to wander. His cheeks now grew pale as the withered rose, his eye became dim and languid, his bounding limbs grew more feeble every day, and all joy left his bosom. One evening he had dragged himself with much difficulty to the shore of the lake,-the evening sun threw its last ra diance on the waters, and he heard a sweet silver-like voice, which seemed to rise from the blue depth beneath him, singing these verses: Thou who hast roam'd through On earth ever know? Dost thou dread the blue wave? One plunge in its bosom Thy sorrows are o'er! "The voice had died away in the distance, but the boy now stood close on the margin of the lake, gazing intently upon it, as if his eye sought to measure its profound depth. He turned round and cast one look upon his father's cot, and he thought that he heard his mother's voice calling him through the still evening; but again the soft silver-like voice rose up from the bosom of the placid waters, and he knew it to be the voice of one of the three fairy sisters: Adieu, adieu, dear mo ther!' he cried, and, with a shout of mingled joy and fear, flung himself headlong into the fathomless waters, which closed around him for ever." This work is printed in a small but very distinct type, and, altogether, forms two very handsome volumes, containing matter sufficient for twice the bulk, according to the ordinary style of getting up. We have been enabled to peruse it previous to its publication, which will take place in a few days, and which will afford, unless we are mistaken, a very acceptable New-year's treat to those who are fond of the choice little nick-nacks and confections of fugitive literature. The Shepherd Boy, a Dramatic Idyl. Translated from the German of Adam Oehlenschlaeger. Edinburgh. William Blackwood. 1828. WE are not sure that the intrinsic excellence of" The Shepherd Boy" is such as to entitle it to the honour now conferred upon it, by introducing it to the British public in an English dress, and as a separate work. It is a pastoral poem containing some very pretty thoughts, expressed in natural and simple language; but there is little that is very original or striking, either in the story as a whole, or in the individual passages. The plot is extremely inartificial, except in one incident. Reinald, a traveller, arrives in a Swiss valley, where he meets, and is captivated with Babli, a young shepherdess and an orphan. She introduces him to Werner, a farmer, and Charlotte, his wife, with whom she lives, and who have an only child, a boy, called Fritz, some eight or ten years old. In Charlotte, the farmer's wife, Reinald discovers a sister whom he had long lost; and he and his new AUGUSTIN (walks in with deep seriousness, dignity, (Gives him his hand.) For I am near the grave. But 'tis not fear.- Roots strike below, and weeds are on the surface: WERNER.-I am not godless. Thou'rt good, but yet I fear too worldly, Werner, A Christian, were I not to thank him for it? By slow degrees, to prudence and to patience. WERNER (takes his hand with frankness)— Did all thy happiness rest on thy God, WERNER. The end of nature. AUGUSTIN. Yes, to fulfil And is not the heart, WERNER.-Yes, this is striking and poetical! AUGUSTIN (with increasing expression.) Its spotless kernel, where no worm shall gnaw WERNER (in sudden anxiety). God! what dost thou mean By these similitudes? Thou frighten'st me. AUGUSTIN.-Much to be pitied father! Who can comfort Thee, who, of earthly happiness secure, dreamst not Of care: It comes a sudden thunderbolt. How shall I comfort thee? Thou lovest only This earthly life, without desire of Heaven!' WERNER (rushes forward, opens the basket, and exclaims in wild sorrow), Oh God! my Fritz! Dead!-Pale-and bruised-and -cold. AUGUSTIN (with deep commiseration). Madden, poor heart-ay, quit thee of thy wound; Beat thick, and, Nature, hold thy own. Moan forth Wild lamentations from his lips. Give air To his pent breast, that so despair may not Strangle him dumbly. Flow, ye bitter tears, Flow and dry up your salt and burning springs. Weep, father, weep, because thy child is dead! But, Grief! when thou hast done thy uttermost, Despair! when thou hast raged out thy worstOh! come then, Comfort from the grace of God, Appearing like the moon in mourning clouds; Oh! dissipate the darkness with thy silver, And let the father see his Fritz again, Alive and bless'd among the choir of angels. P. 50-7. The mother, the new-found uncle Reinald, and the foster-sister Babl, all come in soon afterwards, and join in the father's grief. After all this, the reader is not a little surprised to discover that Fritz is not dead! The dead child turns out to have been a brother of Fritz's grandfather, who had fallen into the cleft when a boy, many years before; and the body having been saturated with mountain salt, had thus been preserved from all appearance of decay! The dead child had, moreover, so strong a family likeness, that, when the body was found, it deceived not only Augustin the hermit, but even the father and mother, who believed it to be their own son! This is, surely, a strange outrage on probability; and the reader feels as if he had been entrapped into grief, ingeniously perhaps, but scarcely fairly. As to the manner in which the translation is executed by Mr Cowan, we consider it highly respectable; exhi biting at once good English composition, and a successful transfusion of the spirit of the original. Here and there, indeed, the language is prodigiously prosaic ; but this is more the fault of Oehlenschlaeger than his translaThe unpoetical familiarity of the following lines, for example, is positively ludicrous :Our little son tor. 66 Hath climb'd the Alps, to pay to grandpapa But our longer quotation must be considered as a juster specimen of the pervading tone of this poem, which is, in many instances, pleasing; and, in some, even vigorous. General Synopsis of the Decisions of the Court of Session. By M. P. Brown, Esq. Advocate. Edinburgh. William Tait. WE are just in time to give Mr Brown one friendly impulse ere he reaches the goal; for eleven of his numbers are already out, and the twelfth and last is expected in January. For the punctuality and rapidity with which the work has been brought forward, the legal public will not fail to assign Mr Brown due credit, having before their eyes a recent example, where a work was published in two parts,-and the whole price taken at delivery of the first number, on an engagement that the second should speedily follow it; but that second number was kept back for several years afterwards. This was very bad; and had we been in the place of our manifold friend the public, we should have raised five hundred actions of repetition and damages. Mr Brown, however, has felt the propriety of duly calculating, before he pledged himself to the public, and of honourably redeeming his pledge. Without such punctuality, the very advantageous mode of publishing large works in numbers becomes positively pernicious. With regard to the utility of the work, there is and can be but one opinion. Our Scottish collections of Decisions have been assuming a very respectable aspect. Mr Brown himself, by publishing ancient Decisions from manuscripts of Lords Hailes, Fountainhall, &c. &c., and from other sources, has contributed seven comely quartos to the general stock; and we believe it is no exaggeration to say, that Scotland can now boast of half a cubic yard, or about fifteen cubic feet, of reported cases. This was, and is, a very gratifying consideration for the country at large; but quite otherwise for the lawyers. Fifteen cubic feet of reading-light and pleasant as it was-palled upon the appetite. Not only was the systematic study of Decisions become a matter of appalling difficulty, but the very searching for precedents in any actual case was a great, and often a very unsatisIt was seeking a needle in a hay-stack. factory labour. Partial indices there were, no doubt; but they were partial, and consequently numerous, and thus produced the very difficulty they were intended to avoid. They were constructed, too, on such difficult principles, that an acquaintance with one gave no key to the arrangement of the other. Such was the mass to which Mr Brown applied himself, with the view of educing order and harmony from discord and confusion; of marshalling into proper troops the scattered bands of Decisions; of making a clew to the labyrinth, where many a young counsel had lost his Among the number of valuable Tables, we notice four patience and his fees. Great expectations were excited in extensive Zoological Synopses, drawn up expressly for the profession, to which Mr Brown's assiduity was known, the present work, by Desmoulins; also two Tables from his collections of Decisions, and from the skill and from the celebrated work of the Wenzels, showing the learning displayed in his Treatise on Sale; and although absolute and relative size and weight of the human brain time alone can settle the public opinion on a work of at different periods of life, and the progress of the cere this description, yet, so far as can yet be seen, the ex-bral developement in different animals. We perceive pectations of the profession will not be disappointed. also that Dr Milligan has presented us with a new view The arrangement is lucid and accessible, and the ab- of the relation of the external to the internal table of the stracts of the Decisions are at once logical, perspicuous, skull; and as the subject appears to us important, we and concise. We have heard professional men speak shall probably take an early opportunity of laying it bewith thankfulness of the labour and anxiety which this fore our readers in a popular shape. In the meantime, Synopsis has already saved them-as the desired cases we may conclude the present brief notice by observing, are classified in such a scientific manner as to be found al- that this translation of Majendie's deservedly popular most at a glance, and as Mr Brown's abstract, in general, work should be in the hands of every person, who takes answers every requisite purpose; and if farther informa- any delight in the interesting science of Physiology. tion be desired, the page and volume of the original report are indicated, so as to ensure immediate reference. In conclusion, we beg to suggest to Mr Brown the propriety of subjoining an Index of the titles under which he has arranged the cases, which should also include some of the titles used in other indices, and point out where the subject is to be found in his own arrange ment. An Elementary Compendium of Physiology. By F. THE name of Majendie ranks so high in the history of Physiological Science, and his investigations and experiments have been so ably and successfully conducted, that any production from his pen will always come before the public, with a strong claim to attention. His detached essays, giving an account of his researches, are exceedingly numerous; but they are scattered through various French periodicals, and frequently inaccessible to the English student. Accordingly, his "Compendium of Physiology," which concentrates, in a single volume, the most important of these researches, must prove a very useful and valuable work. We know it has long been pronounced one of the best elementary books on this subject that has yet appeared in any country; and not only as a text-book to the student, but as a work of general reference, it will always maintain a high character in the literature of medicine. Dr Milligan, the author of a valuable edition of Celsus, has, we therefore think, conferred a very great benefit on the British student, by presenting him with the present translation; the value of which is materially enhanced, by the number of notes and tables which the translator has himself added, including the opinions of other eminent physiologists, and an account of the most recent discoveries in physiology. The business of a translator is generally of a dull, plodding, and mechanical character. He endeavours laboriously to follow closely the footsteps of the original author, and does not himself aspire to throw a single additional ray of light on the subject by which he may be surrounded. Dr Milligan, however, has assumed a higher ground; since, in addition to discharging his duties as a translator, he has also added, in an appendix, a number of original miscellaneous articles, which are as worthy of our attention as is any part of the work of Majendie itself. Among the number of these, we notice discussions on the Tissues of Bichat, with tables; on Bichat's Doctrine of the Double Life; on the Theories of Vibration, Respiration, Absorption, &c.; also an account of the most recent discoveries in the Nervous System, including the labours of Flourens, Bell, Edwards, Dumas, and Prevost; Rolando, Desmoulins, Fodera, Mayo, and the most distinguished French and English physiologists. The Christian's Pattern; or Pious Reflections for every day in the Month. Collected chiefly from Thomas à Kempis; with Additions, by Edward Upham. London. Hurst, Chance, and Co. 1829. EVERY body, we suppose, has heard of Thomas à Kempis, yet we suspect a god number of people have a very vague notion who or what he was. He was a faall in all, in the year 1380, at Kempen, a small village mous theologian, born in those times when theology was near Cologne. He devoted his whole life to the study of divinity, and did not die till he had reached his ninetysecond year. Besides transcribing many books of devotion, which was then considered a work of great merit, he left behind him a vast number of original sermons and pious treatises, which were published at Cologne in the year 1660, in three volumes folio. One of his treatises, 66 De Imitatione Christi," has been so much admired by the devout, that it has been translated nocent life; and it has been well remarked of him, into almost all languages. He lived a solitary, but inthat "silence was his friend, labour his companion, and prayer his auxiliary." A saying of his has been recorded which strongly illustrates the character of the man. is this "I have sought for rest everywhere, but I have found it nowhere, except in a little corner with a little book." The epitaph on the stone which covers his remains, and which consists only of two lines, in the form of a question and answer, brings out the same idea:— "Oh! where is peace, for thou its paths hast trod? In poverty, retirement, and with God." It This is nearly all that is known of Thomas à Kempis. His works, though now-a-days no one ever thinks of looking into them, contain many excellent things, and Mr Upham, the judicious editor and translator of the small book now before us, not choosing that the Christian world should lose sight entirely of a divine who once ranked so high, has given us, in "The Christian's Pattern," a selection of some of his original's best pieces. And saying to himself, like the Frenchman,-“ A present, qui lise des tomes en folio ?" he has compressed his "Pious Reflections" into as neat and little a 24mo as one could wish to carry in his waistcoat pocket. The "Meditations," which are for every day in the month, will be read with profit-by all those who know the va lue of the Psalmist's advice to "Commune with your own heart in your chamber, and be still." Tales and Confessions. By Leitch Ritchie. London. HAD we been able to notice this book a week or two sooner, we should have spoken of it at greater length. We have read it through with considerable pleasure, and "You may save yourself the terror of such a conjunction," said she. "You shall never take me to your bosom. I hope in God we shall never again sleep under the same roof." the impression it leaves upon us is, that Mr Ritchie is a clever man, though not possessed of much original genius. There is a good deal of interest in most of the stories, with here and there passages of more than ordinary power. We wish well to all literary men; and we "Just as you please, madam. Make the most of think Mr Ritchie peculiarly entitled to encouragement, your pride and insolence that you can. In the meansince, in conjunction with his friends, Messrs Richard-time, you will please to remember that this is my house;" son and St John, he has given us one of the best week- and so saying, I strode majestically into my own room. ly periodicals of which the metropolis can boast" The The horrors of that night will remain engraven on my London Weekly Review." distracted memory for ever! I overheard her hushing our beloved baby to sleep, with many sobs and tears, and still I had not the power to return and fling myself at her feet. I found that in my heart she was forgiven already; but, wondering who could have poisoned her ear, I resolved to let her feel my resentment for such ungrounded suspicions for a little while. As I was hugging myself on the propriety of this demeanour, I heard a carriage stop at the street door; but, it being a place where carriages were constantly stopping, I paid no attention to it. Our door-bell was never rung; and though I heard some bustling on the stair, I regarded not that either. The carriage drove off, and all was quiet. At length, being unable to contain myself longer, I rung the bell, and asked the girl for Clara. "My lady is gone out, sir." MISCELLANEOUS LITERATURE, THE WANDERER'S TALE. I TOLD you that I had loved,—and heaven is my witness how dearly and how sincerely! Yes! I saw my Clara, I wooed and won her from a feared and hated rival, just when he thought he had nothing to do but to lead her to the altar. From that day he took every opportunity of picking a quarrel with me; but I bore all triumphantly, proud of the prize of which I had bereaved him. He was a Major-General at this time; and, not long after my marriage, my embarrassments induced me to accept an appointment in the army; and it so fell out, that in about three years afterwards, this same rival became my commanding officer. This was a humility not to be borne, and I had already taken measures to get rid of it, which, however, could not be brought to bear for some time; and, in the meanwhile, I fear my temper had grown surly and severe with my charming wife, for I had been chagrined by many losses and crosses of late. So one night when I came home to my lodging, after a week's absence on duty, I kissed my little boy, and, as usual, was going to kiss his mother; but behold! I was repulsed with indignation and scorn; and before I got time to articulate a word in my astonishment, I was addressed in the following unbrookable terms: "Go and bestow your kisses on those who have enjoyed them for these eight days past,-nay, for these eight months and more. I have suffered your irregulari ties and insults long; but I will suffer them no longer.' In utter consternation, I asked an eclaircissement, I believe good-naturedly, or nearly so, when the woman of my heart and soul, -the woman on whose face I had never seen a frown,-accused me broadly of infidelity to her, and of seducing the wife of another, a crime of which I had kept her in concealment for the best part of a year. And she added, "I knew of it long ago, and would fain have passed it over in silence; but now, it is become so public that decency is outraged, and I desire you to return to her, and leave me as I am, with my poor child here." Here I fell into the greatest error of my life. I got into an ungovernable rage, and there is no doubt that I used my beloved wife very badly. The crime of which I was accused was entirely without foundation. I had never so much as in thought been for a moment alienated from Clara, and the accusal put me actually beside myself; and perhaps my misfortunes had rendered my mind rather unstable by this time. "You are a poor, weak-minded miserable woman, to believe any such report of me," said I; and if you were a thousand times dearer than you are, I would tear you from my heart and affections; for how could I take a being to my bosom who entertains such a mean opinion of me?" "Out! Whither is she gone at this time of night ?" "She is gone out, sir. She went away in that carriage." And the child? What, then, has become of the child ?" "He is gone out too, sir. My lady has taken him along with her." "When is she to be in again ?" "I could not be saying, sir. But I suppose she is going to make some stay away; for when she went she kissed me, gave me a guinea, and, squeezing my hand, she said, 'Farewell, Nancy,' and I felt the tears dripping off at her chin,—' farewell, Nancy,' said she; God be with you!' and poor, dear lady, she was crying. What could ail her, your honour? I cannot comprehend it, for indeed she was crying." Every word that the girl spoke went like a dagger to my heart, and I felt that my fate was sealed, and that misery, desolation, and utter oblivion, only awaited me. I was mad already; for I seized my hat, ran down stairs, and, without ever asking which way the carriage went, pursued, running till at the farther end of the town, and then along another street, till quite exhausted. Twice was I taken up by the police ere morning, while running and calling her name, like a child that had lost its mother. Had I been capable of any proper exertion at all adequate to my love and regret, I might still have recovered my beloved Clara; but I was petrified, benumbed, overwhelmed with astonishment, and I knew of no place to which she could retreat whither to follow her; so I took to my bed, and abandoned myself to despair. 1 was called on to attend parade, and, being obliged to comply, I found the General more than usually insulting that day; but I bore all with unmoved apathy, caring neither for him nor aught in this world. As I refused going to mess, one of my companions, who sympathised with me, accompanied me home, and by the way said to me,-"I am truly sorry for you, Archibald ; but I fear you have been the author of this flagrant and disgraceful business yourself; and now it is irremediable." I asked him to what he alluded, every joint in my body in the meanwhile trembling like an aspen, when he told me shortly, as a fact known to the whole mess, that my wife was now living under the General's protection. This was a blow indeed! Could any man's reason have stood this shock? Could yours, sir? I deny it, if you had any spark of the feelings of a man. I instantly penned a challenge, a terrible one; but my companion refused to carry it to his commanding officer, |