a false impression:  before you do so, be pleased to step back to the poor gentleman’s cell, and ask him what he had for breakfast.”  Burke could not refuse compliance with a request so reasonable and easily performed.  “Pray, Sir,” says he to his Indian counsellor, “be so obliging as to tell me what you had for breakfast.”  The other, immediately putting on the wild stare of the maniac, cried out, “Hobnails, Sir!  It is shameful to think how they treat us!  They give us nothing but hobnails!” and went on with a “descant wild” on the horrors of the cookery of Bethlehem Hospital.  Burke staid no longer than that his departure might not seem abrupt; and, on the advantage of the first pause in the talk, was glad to make his escape.  I was present when Paley was much interested and amused by an account given by one of the company, of a widow lady, who was of entirely sound mind, except that she believed herself made of glass.  Given the vitrification, her conduct and discourse were consequent and rational, according to the particulars which Paley drew forth by numerous questions.  Canes and parasols were deposited at the door of her drawing-room as at the Louvre or Florentine Gallery, and for the same reason.  “You may be hurt by a blow,” said she, to one of flesh and blood; “but I should be broken to pieces:  and how could I be mended?”—­Best’s Mems.

* * * * *

SPIRIT OF THE PUBLIC JOURNALS

THE FOREIGN REVIEW, NO.  IX.

More than one acknowledgment is due from us to this excellent work, although the publishers may doubt our sincerity by our selecting the following interesting Ballad, from the German of Christian Count Stolberg; which, observes the reviewer, “is by some considered the poet’s best effort, and a translation is therefore here attempted:”—­

ELIZA VON MANSFIELD.

A BALLAD OF THE TENTH CENTURY.

  “Still night! how many long for thee! 
    Now while I wake to weep,
  O thou to them hast comfort brought,
    Repose and gentle sleep.

  Wished too, thou comest to me; now I
    Am lonely, and am free,
  And with my many sighs profound
    May ease my misery.

  Alas! what evil have I done
    They treat me so severely? 
  My father always called me his
    Good child whom he loved dearly.

  My dying mother on my head
    Poured her best blessings forth: 
  It may in heaven be fulfill’d,
    But surely not on earth!

  Change not this blessing to a curse
    For those who me offend. 
  O God! forgive them what they do,
    And cause them to amend.

  Ah, I with patience might bear all,
    If, Love, thou wouldst not be,
  Thou who consumest my troubled heart
    With hopeless agony!

  If now, while one sweet hope remains,
    I cannot this endure;
  Thou breakest then, poor heart.  So, ’till
   Thou breakest, hold it sure.”