overcome by his sentiments, discovers the iniquitous scheme that has been put in practice to betray her. His ingenuousness is rewarded by the offer of her hand in marriage.

The Pigeon is of a more pastoral character, and the construction of it is, upon the whole, pleasingly simple, though the simplicity sometimes borders on a silliness peculiar to the German waters.

The Enthusiast approaches nearer to living manners, and the moral is not without its use. A young married woman, who had borrowed her notions of the world principally from novels, interprets the calin, kind, confident affection of her husband into apathy or dislike-he has none of the raptures of romance, and therefore cannot love her. She plunges into fashionable dissipation, and her husband, feeling the inutility of reproaches, lays no restraint upon her conduct. Experience proves the absurdity of her notions, and the folly of her conduct. She repents; and, happily, before it is too late. The following incident is in Kotzebue's best stile, and we shall therefore give it at length.

"Ah (sighed Louisa) how wretched am I! And why? What can I do to relieve myself? Oh! how I now repent of having read so many novels, which deluded me with fictions! Filled as my head was with romantic notions, I found my husband cold and insensible; but, alas! he is more amiable than any I have hitherto seen. He loves me but little-yet he does love me. He is no enthusiast, but he is always kind and obliging. Tranquillity, not violent passions, can produce happiness. Have I lost every claim to this happiness? Do I yet retain any part of the friendship, confidence, and regard of my husband? Perhaps I may-I have not been governed by vicious inclinations. I have been led astray by too violent feelings, and an erroneous judgment. But, will he hear, will be believe me?

"Fly to him, Louisa-Why dost thou delay? What holds thee back? The dread of humiliation. He continued good and gene. rous during all thy follies---will be forsake thee when thou returnest full of repentance? Thou canst not fail, by this step, of regaining what thou hast lost, and reconciling thyself again to him. We can never say all is lost, if we retain our own regard."

Thus had a few sparks of virtue dispersed the mist which had clouded her reason. She resolved to throw herself at the feet of her husband. With a palpitating heart she reached his apartment-her hand was already on the lock of the door, when false shame held her back. She heard a noise, and flew again to her chamber. She made two more efforts to go, and twice more returned. Perhaps he was not alone: her heart again sunk; she heard the baron's

door shut; she listened anxiously;-he went through his apartment; and, as he passed, he asked, "How is my wife?"

"She is well," answered the servant.

Louisa was grieved that he should think so. She now heard his foot upon the stairs, and hastened to the window to look after him. The travelling carriage stood before the door; the baron entered it, and drove off.

"My God, the travelling carriage!" exclaimed Louisa, ringing the bell. The servant entered.

"Is my lord gone into the country?"

"He is gone to spend a few days in the country."

"Ah! (sighed Louisa,) why am I not with him!"

She shut herself up in her chamber, and was at home to no one. She wrote at least ten letters to the baron, and destroyed every one of them. A restless tenderness carried her to the chamber of her husband. She wished to pass her hours in solitude where he had passed his She would sit upon his chair, and play with his dog. As she entered, the first thing which struck her eyes was her own picture, in her straw hat and white dress! [The dress in which she first attracted the baron's notice.] She stood some time before it, considering it with anguish He had not banished her image. A ray of comfort now entered her soul, with the thought that he would not perhaps banish her from his society.

The countenance of the picture smiled cheerfully-that of the original swam in tears. "Thou oughtest not to laugh," said Louisa, and immediately a singular resolution took possession of her mind.

She rang for Paul, an old and faithful servant of the baron's, and ordered him to take the picture down, and carry it to her chamber.

"Dear lady, (said Paul,) this painting is my master's only comfort-how many hours have I seen him stand before it! And why should I conceal it-how many times have I surprized him weeping: -rob him not of this last joy!"

The baroness sobbed aloud. "Do as I bid you, (said she) I will restore the picture to its place before your master comes home." Paul obeyed, sighing. The baroness sent for a painter, who was desired to alter it according to her directions. In two days the picture was again in its place, and on the third the baron returned.

When he entered his apartment, he sought, as usual, the image of his wife; he started with surprize as he approached, and could scarcely believe his eyes! The straw hat was goue; the brown hair hung in disorder; instead of smiles stood a tear on the pale cheek. "Is it can it be possible! Yes, I understand thee, dear Louisa, —thou art again mine-thou hast seen thy errors, and repentest→ thou art again mine!"

With these words he flew to the apartment of the baroness-she sat anxiously waiting for him. What the pencil of the painter had imitated, he here saw in reality-the disordered hair-the pale cheek-the tearful eye. When she heard the steps of the baron, she arose to meet him, and would have fallen on the ground, had not his arms received her.

"Louisa, have I understood thee?" She sobbed on his bosom, and attempted to speak, but he sealed her lips with kisses.

Happy moment! The commencement of many happy years! In a few days they left the city, and passed their lives in peace, love, and tranquillity, in the country:"

The Little Lie is written to exemplify the fatal consequences to which the concealment of the truth, though without base motives, may probably lead. There is considerable ingenuity in this tale, but the conclusion of it is unnecessarily tragic. The moral did not require so melancholy a catastrophe.

The Schad is stated to be a true story. The object of it is to ridicule the superstitious mummeries of the Jesuits: and in this exposure some indecencies occur which disgrace the writer, and are not to be read without indignation and disgust. Insolent Arrogance is rather an anecdote than a novel. The author would fain infer that the French revolution was as much owing to the arrogance of the French noblesse as to any other cause. Unhappy Husband's Complaint is another anecdote somewhat more whimsical. The article on the Maid of Orleans goes to establish, on the authority of an old manuscript, that Joan of Arc was not burnt by the English, but that she escaped, and was married, and bore children.

The

The Mysterious Cavern is one of the best pieces in the collection; but the spirit of Hedwig neither interests nor terrifies, and is introduced only at the conclusion of the story to destroy the effect of all the preceding cir

cumstances.

The Vicar and his Daughter is the most important story of the whole. It is a tale of seduction, and terminates very affectingly, though there is nothing new or forcible in the incidents. The vanity of a husband in introducing his wife into company that she may be the object of public admiration is represented as the primary source of the misfortune; but as no man could guard against the villainies which are practised to injure Fernau's honour, and no innocence escape the artifices that are employed to ensnare the virtue of his wife, little benefit can be derived from the author's lesson.

In the course of the volumes there are some flings at nobility and religion in the usual stile of our author, who is of Rousseau's school; and is alternately pathetic and familiar, trifling and animated, moral and immoral, refined and gross, devout and impious.

The Stranger in England; or, Travels in Great Britain. Containing Remarks on the Politics, Laws, Manners, Customs, and distinguished Characters of that Country: and chiefly its Metropolis: with Criticisms on the Stage. The whole interspersed with a Vuriety of Characteristic Anecdotes. From the German of C. A. G. Goede. In Three Volumes, 12mo.; 15s. Mathews and Leigh, London: 1807.

The statements and opinions of Englishmen, with respect to other countries, have always been perused here with great avidity; but as we can neither confirm nor refute the accounts they are pleased to deliver to us, the authors, no doubt, frequently give a loose to imagi nation; and, when they are at a loss for facts, substitute whatever comes uppermost, without regard either to truth or probability. Their maxim is to elevate and surprize, and, setting detection at defiance, they boldly follow the career of Baron Munchausen, resolved to be equally marvellous, if they cannot rival him in entertainment. The Stranger in England, on the contrary, is more likely to deceive himself than us: if he says his mind freely, his remarks will merit our attention; he will exhibit to us, in their true colours, many manners and customs to which our national prejudice has given a hue that does not properly belong to them; and even his own prejudices (for what country is without them?) will afford matter for reflection and enquiry that may prove both interesting and useful.

M. Goede seems to be an ingenuous and intelligent writer; and, as far as we are enabled to judge, has taken a close and pretty accurate survey of our country. He arrived in England in 1802, just before the peace of Amiens, and remained here nearly two years. On his return to Germany he communicated his observations to his countrymen in five volumes, from which the most interesting parts are extracted in this translation.

The author commences with a liberal, and we feel happy in adding, a just compliment to our nation, "where (he says,) the genius of commerce has erected his standard, and the goddess of liberty has fixed her abode."

"The generality of travellers found their expectation respecting the national wealth of this country, upon the airy visions of their own heated brains. They figure to themselves magnificent castles for the nobles, streets composed of splendid palaces for the rich, and every exterior of pomp and luxury: while the people form a back ground to their picture, grouped in miserable classes of poverty and wretchedness. But what do they find the reality? Here Princes, Lords, and Commons, inhabit one description of houses; and many a wealthy Englishman devotes his life to the simplicity and domestic comforts of retirement.-No powerful baron presumes to aim at unbecoming pre-eminence; misery retires to the asylum which humanity provides for its relief; and an enviable equality is every where visible. The people appear to govern, while they obey; and never, on important questions, are they to be awed into a passive and abject submission."

As M. Goede has travelled into different parts of the world, he makes several comparisons between London and the principal cities of other countries, particularly Paris; and his observations seem to be guided by candour and veracity. These comparisons, and the reflections which the author indulges on our manners and amusements, are in fact the most valuable part of his performance, for we cannot feel much interested by descriptions of buildings and streets which we daily see, or of occupations in which we are constantly employed; though even here there may be sufficient novelty to many Englishmen, who, feeling no curiosity, have made no enquiries, and who, having once visited the Tower, Westminster Abbey, St. Paul's, and the Monument, are satisfied that they have seen every thing in the metropolis that is worthy of attention.

We thank M. Goede for the following opinion of our domestic character:

"I do not know a more interesting sight thaman English fire side: and though the English are described to be a people unsusceptible of the finer feelings of the soul, and insensible to the charms of filial or parental affection, all who have had opportunities of domesticating in English families, must smile at the invidious falsehood.

This remark I understand to have originated in a Frenchman; and I cannot forbear laughing at the impudence of the charge, when I reflect, that, in France, no ties, not even that of marriage, are more lightly considered, than those of consanguinity.

In England, a magic circle round the fire-side, encompasses every blessing; they love, but they seem to do so in their own way. An Englishman detests the very semblance of any thing senti