sensations return as the fiendish merriment resounded through the wilderness, again gazed stedfastly in his companion's face, but he read nothing there to justify his suspicions: the fiery eye lost its lustre; the lip its curl; and, gazing benignantly upon the forlorn wood-cutter, he continued his speech, saying, "Then prithee take the advice of one who knows these forests, and all that they contain. Here are materials in abundance for our garland; advance forward, and fear not the issue;"—and, gathering leaves from the boughs of trees of a species unknown to his new acquaintance, he twined them into a wreath, and placed the sylvan diadem on Carl's head. The instant that he felt the light pressure on his temples, all his fears vanished; and he followed his guide, conversing pleasantly through wide avenues and over broad glades of fresh turf, which seemed to be laid out like a royal chase, till they came to a wall of rock resembling the Hahnen Klippers, and entering through an arch, a grey moss-covered tower arose in the distance. The ponderous doors were wide open; and Carl advancing, found himself in a large hall well lighted, and showing abundance of treasure scattered abroad in all directions. He was conscious that he had lost his companion, but he seemed no longer to require his instruction; and casting down his own worthless burthen, he laded himself with the riches that courted his touch. The adventurer was soon supplied with a sufficient quantity of gold and jewels to satisfy his most unbounded wishes; and turning from the spot with a light heart, he sped merrily along. The country round about seemed strange to him; but on repassing the rocky ledge, a brisk wind suddenly springing up blew off his cap. The morning air was cold, and Carl, hastening to regain his head-gear, discovered that the wreath had disappeared; and, as if awakening from a dream, he found himself surrounded by familiar objects; he felt, however, the weight of the load upon his back, and though panting with the fatigue it occasioned, made the best of his way home. On approaching the hut, a low murmur struck on his ear. He paused; listened attentively; and distinguishing a female voice, he rushed forward, and in the next moment clasped Linda in his arms. She had fled from the persecutions of the bailiff to seek shelter in Carl's straw-roofed hut; and the now happy lovers, as they surveyed the treasures which had been snatched from the Nibelungen, agreed that they owed their good fortune to Riebezhahl the Wood King, who sometimes taking pity upon the frail and feeble denizens of earth, pointed out to their wondering eyes the inexhaustible riches of which he was the acknowledged guardian.

London Weekly Review.

SPIRIT OF THE PUBLIC JOURNALS.

DRAFTS ON LA FITTE.

COOKE.

Only upon one occasion did Cooke deviate from his resolution of not apologizing to a provincial assembly, and that was at Liverpool. A previous breach of decorum was visited one night by the fury of an offended audience; confusion was at its height; the people were the actors, and Cooke the audience: yet the sturdy tragedian remained callous to the bursts of indignation which were heard around him, until destruction became the order of the day; lamps lighted on the stage; benches betokened mobility; pedal applications were made forté to the piano; basely violated was the repository of the base viol; and the property of poor Knight the manager gave every sign of that being its last appearance. What popular rage had failed to produce, consideration for the fortunes of his friend effected. At his entreaties, the Caledonian was induced to advance to the front of the stage (never was there a more moving scene than that before it); silence was obtained, and he condescended to express his sorrow for the state in which some nights previously he had presented himself: adding, "that he never before felt so keenly the degradation of his situation." Equivocal as was the mode of extenuation, the audience allied to Mersey accorded the mercy it possessed, and was or appeared to be, satisfied; but not so the actor, and he as fully as instantly avenged what he deemed his misplaced submission. As he concluded his address, he turned to the gratified but yet trembling manager, and (in allusion to the large share in the slave-trade then imputed to Liverpool) with that peculiarity of undertone he possessed, which could be distinctly heard throughout the largest theatre although pronounced as a whisper, exclaimed, "There's not a stone in the walls of Liverpool which has not been cemented by the bluid of Africans." Then, casting one of his Shylock glances of hatred and contempt on the mute and astounded audience, majestically left the stage.

On the first night of his performance at the Boston theatre, Richard was the part he had adopted; and so strongly had he fortified himself for the kingly task, that he deemed himself the very monarch he was destined to enact. The theatre was crowded in every part: expectation was on tiptoe: anticipation as to his person, voice, and manner, was announced by the sibilating "I guess" heard around, and "pretty considerable" agitation prevailed. The orchestra had begun and ceased, unheeded or unheard; nor could one of Sir Thomas Lethbridge's best cut and dried have produced less effect amongst the "irreclaimables." The curtain rose, and amidst thundering plaudits the welcome stranger advanced, in angles, to the front of the stage, and, as Sir Pertinax has it, "booed and booed and booed;" but greeting could not endure for ever: well justified curiosity assumed its station, and at length silence, almost breathless silence, reigned around, such as attended Irving in his Zoar, or Canning when he lately produced his budget. The hospitable clamour was over; but instead of "Now is the winter of our discontent made glorious summer by this sun of York" being given, Cooke, in a respectful but decided tone, requested that "God save the King" might be played by the orchestra prior to the commencement of the play. The proposal at first but excited mockery and laughter, which, however, gave way to far different feelings, on Cooke firmly and composedly declaring, that, until his request was complied with, he was determined not to proceed; and, should it be absolutely refused, he was resolved to retire. The fury of the Bostonians was at its height: menace, accompanied by every vituperative epithet rage could suggest, was lavished on the actor; but he kept his station, calm and secure as his own native island set in the stormy seas, until anger gradually subsided through very weariness; and every effort having been ineffectually used to wean "the tyrant" from his purpose, the political antipathies of the audience began to yield to their theatrical taste; and, after much argument and delay, the unpalatable demand was reluctantly assented to. Cooke, however, whose nature it was, when opposed, only to become more exigent, was not himself appeased; for, as the notes "unpleasing to a Yankee ear" were sounded, with a majestic wave of his hand he silenced the unwilling music, and, "Standing, if you please," was as dictatorially as fearlessly pronounced, to the consternation of the audience. So much had, however, already been accorded, that it was not deemed matter of much moment to concede the rest: and however ungracefully the attitude of respect was assumed, the national hymn was performed amidst grimace and muttering; Cooke beating time with his foot,—nodding significantly and satisfactorily at "Confound their politics;" and occasionally taking a pinch of snuff, as, in his royal robes, he triumphantly contemplated the astonished and indignant audience. It ended:—"Richard was himself again," and "Now is the winter of our discontent made glorious summer" was given with equal