THE SWISS PATOIS. A Sketch. YUHEH!-I am the goat-boy, I am not tired of my horn or my whip. -I have bread and cheese in my pocket; my hair is curled; my cheeks are red; and my heart is full of gaiety and mirth. I drive goats to the mountains, both young and old, milky and dry, great and small, pretty and ugly. I climb the rocks and the cliffs for wild slips of grass, that grow where no cows can follow. I am sure there is many a bold man who would not venture where I do. No! he would stay hanging below.-Round with you, red one; this way, little one; a little higher up, sturdy one; there where the chamois is leaping. There is many a poor man who cannot afford to keep a cow; well— then he keeps a goat: and though I do not possess a cow, and am but a goat-boy, I will nevertheless give vent to my joy.-Don't you go past there, little one; that is the road to BAENISSEGG. Yuheh! Now I am at the top. The Avalanches roll so, they are terrible to hear. Hark! how the Glaciers crack. Well, let them crack and thunder as they will. I am safe here, and can laugh at them all.-Yuheh! Ugly one, don't go so low. Come up this way, and stay beside me. Well; and suppose I have not got a kreutzer, and can hardly afford to keep me a goat: that is no reason why I should be sorrowful. Those people, who have got not only cows, but money and land, are continually complaining of all things. Nothing contents them! Even the richest farmers in the village never, never, never, are satisfied.-Come near, you black-eyed, pretty-faced, little one, you are mine. Come and be milked for my immes.* If I had a few thousand crowns I would not throw them into the Glacier. No! I would run to Eisi. 66 See, little Eisi, what I have got." But I am poor, ah! even as poor as my goat. Well:- -Yuheh! I shall shout as much as I please; although I have not a kreutz in my pocket. STANZAS FOR MUSIC. THERE is a thought of deeper chill Than that which wraps the silent dead; That creeps upon us cold and still, When friends-too dearly loved-are fied: When hearts with whom we hoped to share Then, like the canker on the leaf, It steals to make the heart its own, To add new bitterness to grief, And whisper we are quite alone! CHEVIOT TICHEBURN. *Afternoon's repast. THE DEAD ALIVE. TRADITION relates the following singular incident, which occurred to John Junker, an eminent physician and professor of anatomy at the University of Halle, during his practice, and has been corroborated by the testimony of several credible witnesses, who heard him frequently. relate it. The Doctor had, on a particular occasion, procured two bodies of criminals who had just been executed, for the purposes of dissection. The key to the dissecting room not being at hand when they were brought to his house, he ordered them to be carried into a closet adjoining his study. About midnight, when profound silence reigned throughout the house, as he was sitting at his writing-desk, he heard, suddenly, a violent noise in the closet. Apprehending that some cats might have been shut in with the cadavers, he took up a candle and went to the closet, to discover the real cause of the disturbance. He started back with surprize, when he saw the cloth, with which the cadavers were covered, torn asunder; but his astonishment rose to a still higher pitch when he found that one of the bodies was missing. eyes The windows were shut, and the doors locked; it was therefore impossible that the cadaver could have been stolen. Junker cast his around the closet, and was seized with the utmost horror on perceiving one of them sitting upright in a corner. He approached, and, as he had apprehended at first sight, found that the criminal had come to life again. The unfortunate man threw himself at Junker's feet, and trembling, conjured him not to betray him, but to assist him in saving his life. Junker hesitated not a moment to comply with his request; and inquiring who he was, learned that he was a foreigner, and had been kidnapped into the military service. He added, that he had made an attempt to recover his liberty by desertion; but having been apprehended in the act of making his escape, had been condemned to the gallows. Junker gave him some of his own clothes, and after having wrapped him in a cloak, and provided him with a small sum of money, conducted him to the town-gate. Pretending that he had been suddenly sent for by a patient in the suburbs, he was suffered to proceed with his protegé, who passed for his servant. When they had reached the outskirts of the town, the soldier threw himself on his knees to thank his preserver for his humane assistance; but the professor urged him to lose no time in once more attempting his escape, and in this the poor fellow succeeded, without experiencing any interruption. Twelve years had elapsed since this incident had happened, when Junker was obliged to make a journey to Amsterdam, where he had some family affairs to settle. Chancing one day to visit the Exchange, he met in the crowd a well-dressed man of middle age, who, as he soon after learned, was one of the most substantial and respectable merchants of Amsterdam. This person inquired with great civility, whether he was not Mr. Junker of Halle? and when the professor replied in the affirmative, requested he would do him the favour to partake of a family dinner at his house. Junker accepted the invitation, and was introduced to an elegant house, where he was very cordially received by the merchant's wife, a young and charming woman, with two blooming boys. The professor felt himself extremely happy in the domestic circle of his new acquaintances, but could scarcely account for the uncommon kindness and attention with which he was treated by people to whom he considered himself an utter stranger. After dinner his host took him to his counting-house, and having locked the door, asked him whether he recollected his features? Junker answered that he did not. "I do not wonder at it," replied the merchant, "though I recollect your person perfectly well; nor shall I ever forget the generous preserver of my life. Consider my house, and every thing I am worth, as entirely devoted to your service; for I am the person who returned to life in your closet, and was restored to liberty by your humane assistance." Junker was seized with astonishment; the alteration in the merchant's situation appearing to him almost miraculous. He now learned that his host, after having recovered his liberty, had taken the road to Holland. Being a skilful penman and accountant, and of an interesting address, he had the good fortune to attract the notice of a wealthy merchant, and to be employed in his counting-house. His exemplary conduct, and the zeal which he displayed in his master's service, endeared him, in a short time, to the whole family, and gained him the love of his patron's only daughter, who at length became his wife, and made him the happy father of a lovely family. The reader may easily understand how pleased Junker was in thus witnessing a scene of domestic happiness of which he had himself laid the foundation. The grateful Dutchman did every thing in his power to render his benefactor's stay at Amsterdam as agreeable as possible, and did not suffer him to depart until he had consented to accept of several presents of great value. Go! fame,-duty's call obeying, And if thou breath'st a mournful measure, But if thy lyre be strung to pleasure, THE most prominent, if not the most delightful, feature in the literary history of the present period, is doubtless, the number and excellence of its female authors. The old heresies concerning their limited capabilities have been amply refuted by themselves and their own productions. It is a triumph for the whole sex, that the respect now paid to female intellect, is not the concession of modern gallantry,-not the revival of woman-worshipping chivalry-but a simple tribute, won by merit on the one side, and awarded by justice on the other. And why should it not be so? Why should not the gifted of either sex mutually render "honour to whom honour is due ;" and rising superior to petty jealousies and invidious triumphs, unite their efforts associate their interests and regard themselves as one family, devoted to one object that of rendering the literature of the present age worthy the possession of the next? It has been objected, that modern authors are too complimentary to each other, that criticism too often degenerates into mere commendation; but these "failings" (if failings they be,) certainly "lean to Virtue's side," and are far more agreeable than Pope's and Dennis's exhibitions of envy and rancour. So far as female authors are concerned, were there any disposition on the part of their compeers to cry them down, the effort would not be tolerated, though the femaleauthor-hating, female-author-hated Doctor Johnson, were to rise from the dead for that express purpose. The sarcasm would, with the public, scarcely weigh a feather against a single chapter of almost any of Mrs. Hannah More's works. No one would listen patiently to a philippic against Miss Edgeworth; and Mrs. West, Madam D'Arblay, and Miss Porter, though their fame has "somewhat passed its prime," will always deserve, and have admirers. The same may be said of Mrs. Barbauld. The memories of Mrs. Elizabeth Hamilton and Mrs. Brunton, have not yet cast their leaf:-the "mighty magician of the Mysteries of Udolpho," (surpassing in genius all that we have named,) has taken possession of immortality; and though we may deeply regret the manner in which they have employed their talents, neither Mrs. Shelley, nor Lady Morgan, is to be thrown aside with contempt. To come, however, to the female writers of the present day:-Who would venture upon the hazardous experiment of decrying Joanna Bailie-she who writes like a man, and feels like a woman; or Felicia Hemans, who possesses, in a degree that was never granted to any other woman,"the vision, and the faculty divine”? Who would deny L. E. L.'s startling splendour of poetic fancy— which Scatters from its pictured urn, Thoughts that breathe, and words that burn. These are but a few of the many females known to fame. She who drew the characters of Aunt Jackey, and Miss Pratt, will never lose London in the Olden Time; or, Tales intended to illustrate the Manners, Customs, and Superstitions of its Inhabitants, from the 12th to the 16th Century. Longman and Co. 1825. Post 8vo. pp. 324. her "Inheritance." Some of Miss Mitford's Sketches will live for many a long day; and the author of " London in the Olden Time," (a lady, too, we believe,) will take her place very far "above the salt." This little work is interesting, independently of its intrinsic merit. We have had very many female letter-writers,-female essayists, novelists, moralists and poets; not, as yet, a female antiquarian. This is rather surprizing. A passion for collecting rusty nails, broken swords, and battered helmets, may sayour rather too much of the tinker, to be feminine; but a taste for antiquity, modified as it will be by a poetic mind, throws open a wide field for fancy to disport in, and reveals vast stores of treasure for the purposes of romance and song. Of this truth, our prose Shakspeare has furnished immortal proof; and the present little volume is another delightful evidence. It consists of eight tales, designed, as the author informs us in the preface, to "exhibit a faithful picture of London, from the period when she first raised her head as a great mercantile city, and to delineate the superstitions, manners, and customs of her former inhabitants." Much patient industry must have been employed to acquire the mere matter-of-fact knowledge necessary for this purpose; and the mind that could work up the rude materials, with the skill and fancy, taste and feeling, evident in this production, is assuredly one of no common powers. The author of the Waverley Novels has rendered it a difficult matter for any one to blend, gracefully, historic truth with poetic fiction, to introduce in a modern garb, the heroes and high deeds of old; but "London in the Olden Time," contains passages which will bear reading even after the tournament in "Ivanhoe;" the "Princely Pleasures" dissected in "Kenilworth," or the meeting of Richard and Saladin beside the "Diamond of the Desert." It is not fair, either to a book or to the public, to give in a cursory notice like the present, patchwork and indiscriminate quotations. We prefer taking a single tale, say, " For the Red Rose," and by selecting its prominent passages, to give the reader a fair opportunity of judging of the author's general style, as well as of the merit of the particular tale. It is supposed to open in the year 1470, at the time when Margaret and Henry are driven from the throne, and their partisans scattered and in trouble. We are first introduced to a band of travellers, adherents of "The Red Rose," who are on their way to London. The description of their entrance into the city is given with much spirit. Conversing on various subjects, the travellers crossed the wide city ditch, and, passing under the strongly fortified and portcullised gate, above which, as one of the tutelar saints of London, St. Erkenwald, adorned with mitre and crosier, raised his hands as in the act of bestowing his blessing on the passenger, they entered Bishopsgatestreet. It was an interesting and picturesque scene that Bishopsgate-street exhibited at this period; the long lines of tall houses, their projecting stories supported by dolphins, or angels; their plaister fronts, adorned with quaint and fanciful devices; their low arched, but richly carved doorways; their wide diamond paned casements, and their high pointed gabels yet bright with the rose tints of evening; and far above, the airy and richly pinnacled spires of the city churches gleaming with reflected light against the deepening blue sky, like lances of fire, and, along the wide and neatly paved causeway, the fur-hooded citizen-the black monk of the holy Trinity-the "frater sancti Crucis," with his silver cross in his hand, and wearing the same sign in red cloth upon his mantle; the fair city dame, her gown closed in front with studs of silver, with |