I was about to make further inquiries, when the eldest of the dress-makers said, "Lend me your scissors, Justine." On hearing this name I thought of Walter's Justine. I looked at my wife, and she looked at me significantly. We understood each other immediately, and observed the young person more closely. Then we left the room, and when we had reached ours, my wife said, "Is this Miss Justine Talk, or Fridolin's Justine Thaly?" This question was to be decided in some way or other. We determined to find out, with all necessary precaution, whether she was indeed Dr. Walter's former betrothed, and, in that case, to persuade her to come with us, to accept the situation of companion to my wife and daughter, but without betraying to her our acquaintance with Walter. I went immediately to the old laundress, with whom Justine lived, and learnt with certainty that the fair dress-maker was indeed Justine Thaly. I hastened back to the inn, full of joy, to surprise my wife with the important news; but I was surprised to find her in company with the young lady in our room. "Miss Thaly is willing to follow us," said my wife, as I entered the room, "but we must remain one day more in the town, that she may settle her little affairs." I expressed to Justine my pleasure at her determination. She stood before me whilst I spoke, with eyelids modestly cast down, then opening her clear blue eyes, looked at me, and said, while a grateful but sorrowful smile played round her lips, "Do not expect too much from me. I do not know how I have deserved your favour, but I will spare no pains to render myself worthy of it. I am already too much obliged to you for taking me away from this town, which has become insupportable to me." We remained another day in the little town, and the following day Justine sat beside us in our carriage, and we were on our way towards the mountains of Switzerland. The Dreadful Fate. TRAVELLING companions become more familiar with one another in three days than they would, under other circumstances, in three weeks. This was the case with us. Justine had won our hearts, and on her part, seemed affectionate towards us. It is true she did not lose her silent melancholy, but she became more familiar: sometimes she showed even a degree of cheerfulness. When we had entered our native country, and the Rhine was behind us, she wept silently; I do not know whether from joy or from newly-awakened grief. In the space of a few days Justine became quite at home in our house. She was the intimate friend of my daughter, who loved her with all her heart, and we treated her like our own child. By constant kindness we succeeded in breaking her silence concerning the secret grief which devoured her. "Yes, I feel it," said she, one day, when we found her bathed in tears; "I should be ungrateful if I were not quite open towards you. I will relate to you the story of my misfortunes, that you may not suspect me of being tormented with a bad conscience. I am a poor orphan; I hope you will not reject me when I have entrusted you with my Secret." Justine spoke thus, and, after a pause, related to us what follows: "My good mother died early; she is now happy. Oh, were I happy like her! But no; God's will is wiser and better than mine! A worthy lady, whom my father had engaged for my education, and for the management of our domestic affairs, took the place of my mother. I was scarcely fifteen years old when my governess was dismissed, and the management of the house given to me. My father often spoke to me, even in those early days, of bad times, and of the necessity of limiting our expenses. Yet our house-keeping expenses were not large, though I observed no limitation in his own. But, if I wished to avoid any outlay which appeared to me superfluous, my father would say, You must not begin to spare in the wrong place. We have always lived respectably; it must still be so; otherwise it would injure my credit.' "My father was a corn and wine merchant. He possessed a beautiful and extensive landed property, not far from our village. But he sold by degrees all his meadows and fields, in order to employ his whole fortune in his business. He was a good-hearted man, and a merry companion. Everybody liked him, except one of our neighbours, a certain Walter, who also dealt in corn and wine, but was of a quarrelsome, jealous disposition, and caused a great deal of trouble to my father, who took it very much to heart. I, too, suffered severely by it, especially as the health of my father was tottering. Alas! in those days I did not know the cause, for at that time he lived moderately. Oh! had I, unfortunate girl, been able to foresee the end of his disease, which began in those very days, or, had I followed the advice of a certain young physician, I should perhaps have saved my father! But I, ignorant thing, did not believe the evil so dangerous as it proved to be; and as to the youth just returned from a German university, I laughed at his advice!" Here my wife interrupted Justine's narrative, and, full of compassion, asked her, "Why do you grieve, dear child? You could not save your father: his hour was destined by God." Justine, with a heavy sigh, exclaimed, "All things are destined by God, but my poor father's end was not a peaceful one." She continued: "In the beginning his ailments appeared insignificant; my father complained only that his stomach was not in order; he ate little; he could not bear every kind of food. In order to excite his appetite, he used to take a glass of wormwood liqueur, or of other spirits, before dinner: he did the same in the morning when he rose. Then he was often tormented by a violent cough, and a kind of choking which caused me great fear. The young physician wished me to withhold the stomachic cordials from my father; but as I saw that they alleviated his suffering, I laughed at his green wisdom, as I called it. Some years afterwards, I thought quite differently about the matter; but it was too late. My father, too, hated the doctors, especially that youth of whom I have spoken, and who was the son- -of our neighbour Walter." Justine spoke these last words with a low, tremulous voice, turning her face away from us towards the window. But I remarked that even her fair neck was suffused with a crimson blush. After a pause, she continued, "My father likewise took wine between his meals, as many persons are accustomed to do; he was driven to it, because he had many cares, and he wished to be enlivened, though I never knew him really intoxicated. In such moments he merely regained his old good humour and cheerfulness: but I remarked that he became somewhat forgetful, he lost the clear understanding of his business, and often stood before me with a staring, vacant look. His weakness caused me a thousand anxieties. He seemed to suffer in his nerves; his hands trembled; and he complained of sleepless nights, or dreadful dreams, which he vainly sought to drive away by opium. Often too he spoke strange things, even in the day time, more especially towards evening. He sometimes believed that he saw persons in his room, whom nobody else could see; or animals creeping around him, or the gliosts of the dead. His conscience was troubled; he saw the day of judgment in his sleep. I feared for his reason, but I could not induce him to take the advice of a physician. At length I consulted the best doctor in the village; he told me that the health of my father was ruined by the use of strong liquors. He was suffering under delirium tremens! "But the measure of our misery was not yet full. I had still more dreadful things to see and to experience. My poor father had, through his manner of life become careless in the management of his business, forgetful in his payments, had borrowed money, incautiously, to pay other creditors. Enough-a horrible moment came, when ruin overwhelmed us at once. I scarcely dare to relate it. in "One day when I was expecting my father to return from a long journey, the cook entered my room like a person despair. I had thought her looking ill for some time past, and I had often found her weeping. She told me that she was obliged to leave the house; she begged me to have compassion upon her, and confessed that the moment approached when she should become a mother: she said it was my father who was the cause of her misery and shame. I was enraged, I did not believe her; I called her a wicked, malicious, calumniating creature, and reproached her bitterly. She was silent, wept, and left the house. He "Towards evening my father came home from his journey. I had intended to relate to him what had happened; but he looked stern and angry, ordered me to be silent, and went with a confused countenance into his room. did not take any supper, and locked himself up in his room, as soon as I had lighted the candles. I expected the worst. After some hours I heard him calling for the cook; I hastened up stairs to tell him that she had left her place. I told him all. He stared at me vacantly, answered nothing, stood up, walked about the room, lighted three or four other candles, and gave me two rolls of money, saying, "Take it, Justine, it is the last! It does not belong to me; it is money intrusted to me yesterday: nothing henceforth is ours. I must declare myself bankrupt. My debts are twice the amount of my property. Look in the ledger. Take the money, Justine, and seek to establish yourself in a respectable house. You have learned something, and can support yourself.' These words chilled my blood. I thought my father spoke in a state of delirium. I cast a look in the ledger, which lay open on the table; I read a debtor and creditor account, which he had made out, and stood there deeply afflicted. At last I gave him back the rolls of money, and said 'We will rather be honest, dear father, than make use of what belongs to another person.' 'You are right,' cried he, and, closing his eyes, fell back in his arm-chair. After a while, he said, 'God punishes me. Heavy sins weigh upon my heart. Although I shut my eyes, nevertheless devils stand before me. Do you not see them? There they are! they gape after my soul! Oh, I suffer the anguish of death, the horrors of hell. Go, Justine, go: you do not know how many families I have made poor! You will know it one day! They will accuse me--and the cook, too, will not be silent!' a bereaved orphan; but to be the surviving daughter of a man who has committed suicide-oh, there is no name for this misfortune! "The happiness and hope of my life were and are blighted for ever. I had once a friend, a play-fellow in my childhood, the son of our neighbour: he was lost to me for ever. I wrote him a farewell with a broken heart. I now stood alone in the world, and did not know whither to turn myself. The coach had borne me into Germany. I engaged myself as a waiteress in an inn; but was obliged to quit it after six months, because they treated me badly. Through the recommendation of a good-hearted fellow-servant, I obtained the protection of the poor laundress in the small town where you found me. "Now you know the story of my misfortunes. I have told you all openly. If you were to despise and dismiss me, I would not cease to love you. Oh, my poor unfortunate father! He never thought that his inclination for drinking would occasion such a dreadful end to his life, and make me so wretched. I know well I am born for misfortune; but I am innocent of my hard lot. God gave it me in order that I should bear it: He will not abandon me, a poor orphan, even if all the world should do so." Here a stream of tears closed her melancholy tale. LEARNED EYES AND UNDERSTANDINGS. "Thus he spoke for a long time. I begged him to go to bed; but suddenly he became furious, pushed me out of the room, and locked the door after me. When I came NOTHING is more remarkable in the practical pursuit of any down, weeping, the footman was waiting for me. He was science than this kind of difference in vision. I have as pale as death, and told me, with a trembling voice, that known very observant and quick-sighted men fail to perour cook had drowned herself in the river. Fright, conceive a double star in the heavens; while to others more fusion, the dishonour to our house, and repentance for my practised, though using the very same telescope, both objects. harshness to the poor girl, made me speechless for a while. were distinctly defined. The secret often lies in knowing Then I ran about the room, wringing my hands; I besought the footman to go and assist the persons who exactly what to look for, and thence knowing how to adjust were searching for her body. I fell on my knees, the focus of the judgment, so as to be able to pitch the not merely the focus of the eye, but what may be termed wished to pray, but could not. I threw myself on a sofa; understanding into such a key that the information may all my limbs were as if broken. Towards midnight the be understood when it comes. I remember once being footman came back, and told me that the darkness made present at the Geological Society, when a bottle was proany further search for the body useless. All our servants duced which was said to contain certain zoophytes. It was were gathered round me. The good people, themselves without advice and consolation, compassionately requested the foremost benches, who commented freely with one handed round, in the first instance, among the initiated on me to go to bed. They promised me that they would sit up the whole night. So, at last, I went into my bed-room, it came to our hands, we could discover nothing in the another on the forms of the animals in the fluid; but when not in order to seek slumber, but for the sake of solitude! bottle but the most limpid fluid, without any trace, so far "No! I cannot describe to you my state during that horrible night! I prayed; I shed tears of the most poignant whole appearing absolutely transparent. The surprise of the as our optics could make out, of animals dead or alive, the grief. Above my bed-room was my father's room. times I thought I heard his footsteps. At every noise I was ignorant at seeing nothing, was only equal to that of the learned who saw much to admire. Nor was it till we were frightened trembling and breathless. How could I survive specifically instructed what it was we were to look for, and that dreadful night! It appears to me inconceivable even the shape, size, and general aspect of the zoophytes pointed "Already the twilight began to break through my win-out, that our understandings began to co-operate with our dow, when I heard a heavy fall in my father's room above eyesight in peopling the fluid which up to that moment had me. I started up with a loud cry from the chair; but the seemed perfectly uninhabited. The wonder then was, how new terror had overpowered me: I sunk back again. The we could possibly have omitted seeing objects now most dreadful ideas passed through my brain. The servants palpable.-HALL'S Patchwork. had heard the fall and my cry; they came to me, being afraid that an accident had happened to me. We were for a while undetermined whether we should go upstairs to my father. At last we decided to do so. But the door of his room was locked: he did not answer to our calling and knocking. At my desire the servant forced open the door with an axe. We entered: I flew, full of anxiety, to his bed: he was not in it. Suddenly I heard a piercing cry from one of the servants-I turned round, and-oh! frightful spectacle! there hung a man, with a black, distorted face at his feet was a table overthrown-it was my unfortunate father! now. Some "I ran away full of horror, hastened down stairs with a broken heart; I did not know in the confusion of my mind what I was doing. In perfect distraction I made a bundle of some of my clothes, and ran away like a mad person. Away from my home, over the fields, I ran, as if in a dream, without knowing whither, without resolution, without design. I recollect only that I spoke with a coachman on the high road, who took me in his coach. My senses left me-perhaps I lay in a fainting fit. I awoke late in the day out of a heavy sleep when the old coachman roused me to dine at some village. "For all the world I would not have returned to my home. What could I do there? to bear the shame of my family, to be an object of insult, of contempt, or of compassion; to be at least to every body an object of disgust, on account of the fate of the cook, and the dreadful end of my father. Oh, it is a sad thing to stand alone in the world as A WARNING WELL TAKEN. SO WHEN I began business I was a great politician. My master's shop had been a chosen place for political discussion; and there, I suppose, I acquired my fondness for such debates. For the first year, I had too much to do and to think about to indulge my propensity for politics; but, after getting a little a-head in the world, I began to dip into these matters again. Very soon I entered as deeply into newspaper argument as if my livelihood depended on it; my shop was often filled with loungers, who came to canvass public measures: and now and then I went into my neighbours' houses on a similar errand. This encroached on my time, and I found it necessary sometimes to work till midnight, to make up for the hours I lost. One night, after my shutters were closed, and I was busily employed, some little urchin, who was passing the street, put his mouth to the key-hole of the door, and, with a shrill pipe, called out, "Shoemaker, shoemaker, work by night and run about by day!" "And did you," inquired the friend, pursue the boy with your strap, to chastise him for his insolence?" "No, no," replied Mr. Drew; "had a pistol been fired off at my ear, I could not have been more dismayed or confounded. I dropped my work, saying to myself, True, true, but you shall never have that to say of me again!' I have never forgotten it; and while I recollect anything, I never shall."-Autobiography of Samuel Drew. NOCHE SERENA:-THE STARLIGHT NIGHT. [From the Spanish of FRA LUIS DE LEON.] WHEN I behold yon sky, With all the unnumbered lights that gem its steep, Earth that in silence deep Lies buried in forgetfulness and sleep Within my breast arise The mingled cares that love and sorrow wake, A sad o'erflowing make, And thus the silence of the night I break : O mansion blest and bright! Was born, what fate of woe w; Holds prisoned in this dungeon dark and low? What deadly error so our minds can wrest, That of thy good divine Forgetful, still unblest, We chase a faithless shade that ne'er can be possest? Nor of his fate the dread importance feels, Turns on the eternal wheels, And all the hours of life unnoticed steals. Oh! wake, ye mortals wake! Ere by your fatal negligence betrayed; Ah! can they live on glitter and on shade? To yon eternal, yon celestial spheres, And soon will you despise The vanity and tears Of life, with all its hopes and all its fears. What is it but a point, a point how mean Where brighter may be seen All that will be, and is, and e'er hath been! Of yon celestial splendour who can see, As far above they shine With motion just, though free, How still they vary, and yet still agree! How rolls o'er azure plains The moon her silver wheel, and with her move And, others all above, The brightest star of heaven, the star of love Serenes the heaven with his placid ray! How on the summit high Wheels Saturn, father of the age of gold; Their track whole myriads hold, To these, and still the sordid earth hold dear? And not with ardour sigh To break what holds us here, Soul prisoned, banished from that happy sphere? There reigns ambrosial peace-eternal crowned, There sacred love is found, With glory and delight encircled round : There boundless beauty shows Her perfect pride;-there shines unspotted Light That still unwearied glows, That never sinks to night; There spring eternal ever meets the sight. Oh! meads more blest than earth! Pastures of true refreshment, ne'er to cease! Oh! mines of richest worth! Oh! fields of sweet increase! ON MOSAIC WORK. In almost all specimens of mosaic, the picture or other device is represented by pieces of the substance employed, formed into cubes, parallelopipeds, or other polygonal figures, and retained by one end in a strong cement, to preserve the union of the whole. The ancient mosaics consisted chiefly of marble and coloured glass or pastes, while those of later date have been composed of marble, glass, enamel, agate, cornelian, lapis lazuli, and even jewels. It has been observed by a writer on this subject,- Mosaic pictures seem to have taken their origin from pavements. The fine effect and use of pavements composed of pieces of marble of different colours, so well joined together as that, when dried, they might be polished, and the whole make a very beautiful and solid body, which, continually trodden upon, and washed with water, was not damaged,-gave a hint to the painter, who soon carried the art to a much greater perfection, so as to represent foliage, masques, and other grotesque pieces, of various colours, on a ground of black or white marble. In fine, observing the good effect which this kind of work had in pavements, and finding that it resisted water, they proceeded to line walls with it, and to take various figures by it, for ornamenting their temples and public buildings. But nature not producing variety of colours enough for them in marble, to paint all kinds of objects, they bethought of counterfeiting them with glass and metal colours, which succeeded so well, that having given all manner of tints to an infinite number of little pieces, the workmen arranged them with so much art that their mosaic seemed almost to vie with painting. The mode of procedure in the preparation of mosaic. pictures is as follows. The enamel employed is a kind of glass, coloured with metallic oxides, and is so fusible that rods of small size may be drawn out by the flame of a candle, without the use of the blow-pipe. Th pieces of enamel are brought to the form of small oblong sticks, something resembling the types put up by the compositor: they are all arranged in drawers, boxes, and cases, regularly labelled, from which they are withdrawn by the artist for his work, when wanted. In composing a large mosaic picture, the foundation or back is made of a stone called piperno: several oblong pieces, together equal to the whole surface, are taken, each several inches thick, whereby great strength and solidity are acquired; and these united pieces are hollowed to the depth of about three inches and a half, leaving a border all round, which will ultimately be on a level with the surface of the picture. The excavated surface is intersected by transverse grooves, about an inch and a half deep, and somewhat wider at the bottom than the top, in order to retain a quantity of cement or mastic which fills them, the line of the grooves joining in an inclined direction from each side, so as to form an angle in the middle. The separate pieces are then nicely adjusted together, by strong iron clamps behind. If the dimensions of the picture be not so large as to require a foundation built up in this way, a large marble slab is hollowed to the depth of three inches and a half, leaving a projecting border. The foundation being thus prepared, the excavated bed is gradually filled with a strong and durable kind of cement or mastic, made expressly for this purpose. As the frame is filled, the picture is delineated on the cement, in the same way as painting in fresco; and the fragments of enamel being selected for a small portion of it at a time, they are successively beaten into the cement with a small flat wooden mallet, until the tops of the whole are nearly on a level. When the artist observes that the fragments so arranged are not suitable to his taste and expectations, he removes them, and substitutes others, which is easily done before the cement hardens; but after the hardening, this becomes a more difficult operation. Proper cement remains in a state to receive frag Oh! dear retiring vales of pure celestial peace!-T. W. ments during fifteen or twenty days, by observing the necessary precautions. After the whole picture is composed, its surface is ground down to a perfect plane in a manner similar to that which is practised in grinding mirrors, and a polish is given to it with putty and oil. During the progress of these operations any crevices displayed at the joints are filled with pounded marble or enamel mixed with wax, which penetrates by passing a hot iron over it. Large compositions made in this way are, as was before observed, very tedious, requiring several years to execute, and the grinding and polishing of the surface of a picture are extremely laborious. There is a kind of mosaic in which metals are combined with glass in ornamental devices. The method is not so much practised now as formerly, but the mode of procedure is as follows. Crucibles full of melted glass are prepared in the usual manner, and metallic oxides are added to them, so as to produce in each crucible a glass of the requisite tint. When the oxides are thoroughly united with the glass, the melted mixture is ladled out hot, and poured on a smooth slab of marble, where it is flattened with another piece of marble, and cut into strips about an inch and a half in width. These strips are then, with an instrument which the Italians call bocca dicane, cut into smaller pieces, of different sizes and shapes, which are then deposited in separate cases. If it be desired to have gold, either in the ground of the painting, or in the ornaments or draperies, the artist takes some of the pieces of glass, formed and cut in the manner just mentioned, and after having moistened them on one side with gum-water, lays pieces of gold leaf on the moistened parts. These gilt pieces are then placed on a fire-shovel, covered with an inverted glass vessel, and placed within a furnace or oven, where they continue until they have acquired such a degree of softness that the gold becomes firmly bound to the glass. Supposing the glass pieces to be thus prepared, and that the mosaic picture is to be formed on a wall, the wall is covered with a plaster made of ground stone, mixed with brick-dust, gum tragacanth, and white of egg. On the surface of this plaster, while still soft, the artist sketches his design, and then proceeds to work in his mosaic. He takes up the little pieces of glass by means of pliers, and sticks them one by one in the plaster, arranging them according to the lights, shadows, and tints required for the picture, and pressing or flattening them down with a ruler, which serves both to imbed them in the plaster, and to bring them to a level surface. The subsequent polishing is effected in a similar manner to that of the pictures before alluded to. The tesselated pavements, of which so many specimens are seen, both ancient and modern, are made in different ways. In some cases, the pieces of marble, chosen of such colours as may be required, are cut by the saw into the forms necessary to complete the design, and these pieces are then joined edge to edge, and secured with some durable kind of cement. In other instances, the ground-work consists of one solid block of marble, either white or black. The design having been drawn on the surface of this block, the mason chisels out those parts which are to be of a different colour, making the cavities an inch or an inch and a half in depth, and as accurately formed as possible. Small pieces of marble are then contoured, or fashioned to the design, and their thickness having been reduced to the depth of the cavities, they are inserted in their proper places, and secured with a mastic of lime and marble-dust. In other instances, after the design has been drawn on a block of marble, and chiselled out to the proper depth, the cavities are filled with a peculiar cement, composed of Burgundy pitch and other ingredients, and poured in while hot. The overflowing edges are then ground down and polished, and the resulting effect is often very beautiful. A kind of mosaic of gypsum has been frequently produced, formed of a coarse talc, or shining transparent stone, found in the quarries of Montmartre, near A Paris, among the stones from whence plaster of Paris is made. Sometimes the ground of these mosaics is made of freestone, and sometimes of plaster of Paris: if the former the device is chiselled out, as before described, but if the latter the following plan is observed. wooden frame-work is formed, of the length and breadth of the intended mosaic, and about an inch and a half thick, and so contrived that, the tenons being only joined to the mortices by single pins, they may be taken asunder, and the frame be dismounted when the plaster is dry. The frame is covered on one side with a strong linen cloth, nailed round the edge, and being placed horizontally, with the linen at bottom, it is filled with wet plaster of Paris. When the plaster is half dry the frame is set up perpendicularly, and left in that position till quite dry, after which the frame is dismounted, and the plaster ground taken out. The ground being thus prepared, it is covered with a layer, five or six inches thick, of prepared gypsum. The stone before alluded to is calcined in a kiln, beaten in a mortar, and passed through a sieve into a copper, where it is dissolved and boiled in the best English glue. Some colouring substance is then added, to give the mixture whatever tint may be desired, and the whole is worked up into a mortar or plaster. When the thick layer of this plaster, which has been laid on the ground of plaster of Paris, is hardened, the design is drawn upon its surface, and cavities chiselled out as if it were stone, which it nearly equals in hardness. The cavities, thus made, are filled up with the same gypsum, boiled in glue, but differently coloured. The artist has a number of little cups or pots at hand, in which he mixes the gypsum with the respective colours which he may require. When the whole design has been filled up in this manner, and thoroughly hardened, it is slightly polished with brick-dust or soft stone, to show the effect more clearly. The artist then goes over the work in every part, cutting such places as are to be either weaker or more strongly shadowed, and filling them up with gypsum of the required tint. This retouching is repeated until the colours approach as near as practicable to those of the object imitated. The work being finished, it is scoured with soft stone, sand, and water, then with pumice-stone, and lastly, polished with a wooden rubber and fine emery. A final lustre is given to it by smearing it over with oil, and rubbing it a long time with the palm of the hand, by which a gloss is produced in no way inferior to that of marble. NATIVES of New Guinea worthy of belief have assured me, that if a Papua of the coast is struck by a desire to obtain any articles brought by the foreign trader, for which he has no productions to give in exchange, he will not hesitate to barter one or two of his children for them; and if his own are not at hand, he will ask the loan of those of his neighbour, promising to give his own in exchange when they come to hand, this request being rarely refused. appeared to me to be almost incredible; but the most trustworthy natives bore unanimous evidence to its truth. I have known parents sell their children, when their maintenance became too heavy a burden for them to bear, without heeding whether they would ever see them again.— KOLFF's Voyage of the Dourga. This I AM not acquainted with any country in which there is so little true independence of mind, and so little freedom of discussion, as in America. The authority of a king is purely physical; it controls the action of the subject withinvested with a power which is physical and moral at the out subduing his private will; but a majority in America is same time; it acts upon the will, as well as upon the actions of men, and represses not only all contest, but all controversy.-DE TOCQUEVILLE. LONDON: JOHN WILLIAM PARKER, WEST STRAND. PUBLISHED IN WEEKLY NUMBERS, PRICE ONE PENNY, AND IN MONTHLY PARTS, PRICE SIXPENCE. Sold by all Booksellers and Newsvenders in the Kingdom. as the year 1140-42 by Adolphus II. of Holstein, and ceded by him to Henry the Lion, it passed through all THE city of Lübeck, when viewed with reference to those changes of fortune which make the early history historical events, may be considered as one of the most interesting in Germany, yet at the present time there is not much that is attractive in its appearance or prospects to recommend it to the notice of the traveller. The situation is flat, and opposed to pictorial effect, though, certainly, much has been done to make the environs of the city pleasing and delightful, and there is also the charm of cleanliness both in the streets and suburbs, to compensate for many other defects. The immediate neighbourhood of Lübeck consists of a rich and well cultivated country, through which the rivers Trave and Wakenitz take their course: it abounds in shady avenues, fine gardens, and luxuriant fields, with here and there a busy thriving village to diversify the scene. Where a general view of the city can be obtained, (which is best accomplished near the Holstein gate,) the spires and ancient buildings rising in the midst of such a well cultivated country have a very pleasing effect, but still, as we have said, there is too much uniformity of surface to constitute a picturesque effect. At a short distance from Lübeck is the little town of Travemunde, where there is an excellent establishment for sea-bathing, and where numerous patients annually resort for the recovery of their health. It is situated at the mouth of the Trave, (as its name imports,) and has a population of 1000. This is properly the harbour of Lübeck, provided with a lofty light-house, and everything necessary for the safety of vessels. The historical associations connected with the name of Lübeck are many and important. Founded as early VOL. XX. of towns so similar to each other, and (except to the historian and antiquarian,) so uninteresting. We shall not name the several powers that from time to time bore sway in Lübeck, but content ourselves with saying that the independence of the city was finally established by a victory over the Danes in 1227, from which time it continued to increase in power and importance, forming offensive and defensive alliances with Hamburgh and other cities, until at length in 1260 it became the head of the powerful Hanseatic league. It now convoked all the assemblies of that confederacy, which were held chiefly within its own walls; it preserved the archives and treasures of the league, and the Hanseatic fleets were always commanded by its burgomasters. At the time of its greatest prosperity, it is said to have had 50,000 citizens able to bear arms; it always came off victorious in foreign wars, and was for a long period free from internal discord. The first symptoms of domestic trouble became apparent in the year 1384, when a dangerous insurrection broke out within the walls of the city. Some discontented citizens conspired with Holstein nobles, and framed a plan for the murder of all the members of the senate, and the plunder of their dwellings, together with those of the richest and most distinguished citizens. This plot was frustrated, as many similar ones have been, by the pangs of conscience; that monitor which God has mercifully implanted in the human breast, as a check upon the evil propensities of our nature. One of the Holstein noblemen sorely repented having lent himself to the atrocious design, and 619 |