as Ahasuerus, the Wandering Jew, "'t is only Peter Schlemihl, poor fellow. If he only had a shadow, he would look very much like his ancestor, Peter the Less, who, I remember

Here a little man at the next table looked over his spectacles and exclaimed, “Remember! pray, how could you remember him? Why, let me see, he died in the year of our Lord"The devil!" groaned Ahasuerus, leaping through the window.

"Twelve hundred and ten," finished the little man, resuming his pipe gravely without noticing the interruption.

"The man whose delicacy does not hinder him from wantonly injuring the sensibilities of others, deserves to have his own in turn disregarded," said Dr. Johnson, whom I had not before noticed, at the same time casting a sneering and severe glance at a mulberry coat which adorned the person of Goldsmith, who sat next him. Charles Dickens, who had somehow mixed up his personal identity with that of Boswell, carefully entered the remark in his notebook.

I now for the first time observed a small man seated at a piano in one corner, and moving his fingers over the keys with the wildest enthusiasm. His whole soul seemed to leap down upon the instrument like a tiger on its prey. Such melodies I never heard. Now a huge column of music would slowly raise itself like a great waterspout from the foaming sea beneath, and then burst in a cataract of sparkling notes. Sometimes I thought I saw a single golden bird soaring and singing through the blue air, and then suddenly all would be dark, and I could hear the trampling of an innumerable host, with shouts and torches flaring in the melancholy night-wind. Then a beam of sunshine like a silver spear would pierce through the solid gloom, and I saw mossy dells and streams all green with overhanging leaves where the first violets were glassing themselves.

I saw the meadows where I played in boyhood, I saw flowers such as I seem never to have seen since those blue, sunny days, and I held in my hand again one of the rude little May-day nosegays which I was wont to tie

together with a long grassblade and surprise my mother with. Ah, what a smell of childhood and spring and freshness there was in everything! Sometimes the notes seemed to linger as if they enjoyed their own sweetness, and then suddenly they would leap away like a chirping flight of grasshoppers.

I always have loved the organ, because it seemed to have more depth and majestic vastness than other instruments; and often, when I am listening to the silvery notes of the orchestra at a concert, I have wished that the great organ behind would burst forth, without the touch of any hand, and drown all other sounds in its heaving sea of harmony. But when I hear the organ, I long for the ocean as yet more vast and majestic. But in the great soul and spirit of this music, even in its gentlest tones, I felt that ocean was mean and small. As I listened, I cannot tell what I saw and heard. It was

Beethoven.

Milton, who stood near him, with a serene and kingly countenance, turned his face toward him and said,

"Would I could give thee back thine ears as thou hast given me mine eyes!"

Nay," answered Beethoven, "my deafness indeed shuts out from me the noises of this world, but only that I may forehear the harmonies of the next."

"Do you call that music?" said Russell, 'the vocalist'; "why, I heard nothing, the piano has no strings."

"That part of music which we cannot hear, is the true music; even as that part of Nature which we cannot see, is the true Nature, and that part of poetry which the poet could not write, the true poetry," a voice said.

"Fiddlestick!" muttered Pope and growled Johnson in a breath.

"I am always noble when I hear such music," said one.

"He who does not inwardly create such music by a true, harmonious life, cannot be noble," replied the voice. It was a woman's,-I knew not whose.

At this moment a knight in complete armour entered, and, introducing himself as the Baron

Huldbrand, invited me to his castle on the Danube.

spend a few days at The hope of seeing

Undine was enough, and in five minutes I was on the back of a snow-white Arabian, with a motion like a wave, and a tail like a silver waterfall. I had just a consciousness of sweeping by the Black Huntsman on the Hartz mountains, though he spurred hotly to keep pace with us,— when the Baron blew his horn, the drawbridge was lowered, and our horses' hoofs clattered on the stone pavement of the court-yard.

The porter was no less a personage than Caleb Balderstone, and strikingly resembled Sir Walter Scott. Indeed, I might have mistaken him for that great man had I not read his death in the papers the day before. In another moment Undine was in her husband's arms. Her connection with the Water-Spirits was evident in the tones of her voice, which sounded like a brook gurgling over mossy stones under a murmurous pine-tree. It threw me into a delicious reverie, and in fancy I was at home in my NewEngland woods again, when I was summoned to dinner. I was carving a slice from a large