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entered his house, and slept till the day appeared. And he said to his wife, “ Bring me some clothes," and she brought them. And he made the morning prayer, and when he had finished his prayer he sat down on his seat of judgment grieved at heart.

And his wife said to him, “ Why art thou sorrowful, oh my lord ?”

And he related unto her the story from the beginning to the end, and said to her, “If this robber had disputed with Malik, or Abu Hanyfeh, or Es-Shafai, or the Imam Ahmed bin Hambel, he would have overcome them, and taken away their clothes, with his arguments and traditions."

And while they were talking, behold a knock at the gate ; and he said, “Oh, wife! see who is there."

And she said to him, “ A man riding on a mule with some clothes.” And he said, “Shut the door, that the robber may not enter into us."

And he had not finished speaking when the robber entered, and sat down in the seat of honour without giving the salam.

And the cadi said, “ Why have you not given the salam ? Do you not know that the proof of a true believer is the salam?”

The robber answered, “ The salam presents one of two aspects, either fear or covetousness ; now I neither fear or covet.”

And the cadi said, “Why have you come to me, and what do you want with me?”

"I am come, oh worshipful cadi,” replied the thief, "on account of something which you have forgotten.”

“ What is that?" said the cadi.

And the robber answered, “When I parted from you and returned to my house I lit a lamp, and turned over some of my books, and I found, oh reverend sir, that a cadi is a slave.” (A Mamluk.)

And the cadi said, “ Refrain your tongue from these words, and tell me what you want of me, and what is your intention.”

And the robber answered, “ After I had left you last night I bought a house for fifty dinars, and your ring was only worth five dinars, so I am come to you that you may give me the remainder; and if you will give them to me I will write you a quittance with my own hand, that there shall be no lawsuit, and no demand between me and thee.”

And the cadi said, “ With all my heart.”

And he gave him the money, and the robber went out and left him and departed.

And the cadi's wife came to him and said, “Was it not sufficient what he did to you yesterday, but he must come again to-day ?”

And the cadi said, “ Be silent, lest he hear your words and return, and claim you as his wife, and prove it by demonstrations and arguments from the traditions and the Koran."

And this is what has reached us of the story of the cadi and the robber.

Praise be to Allah, the Lord of the universe !

KING WENZEL'S ESCAPE.

FROM THE GERMAN OF MORITZ HARTMANN.

BY JOHN OXENFORD. [According to history, Wenzel VI., King of Bohemia, better known as the Emperor Wenceslas, having been imprisoned for his misdeeds by the insurgent citizens of Prague, effected his escape through the assistance of a woman of low origin, named Susan, who took him into a fishing-boat while he was bathing, and rowed him across the Moldau. The version of the story given in the following poem differs from the common account, inasmuch as Wenzel is represented, not as a prisoner, but as in peril from a mob while he is taking a bath.]

EXTENDED in his bath King Wenzel lies;
About his limbs the tepid water plays,
As soothing as the sound of am'rous lays,
Or sleep that follows drunken revelries.
King Wenzel is so wrapp'd in tranquil joy,
That with the flood he sports like any boy;
The Avid o'er his back and neck he flings,
And yields himself to thoughts of pleasant things,
As softly sweet, as though all strife were past,
And endless peace had come to reign at last,
As though the holy Empire was no more
One spacious field of battle, stain'd with gore;
As though the citizen was free from dread,
And blood of Hebrews was no longer shed ;*
As though the trav'ler could receive no wrong,
From force unbridled, wielded by the strong;
As though the stream of life no more was flowing
From hearts of brave Bohemians, wildly glowing ;
As though wan, pale-faced hunger no more stood
In Prague's throng'd streets, and shriek'd aloud for food.
'Tis only such a King can have such dreams,
When rocking like a boat his kingdom seems;
A king, who often plung'd in inebriety,
Looks on a hangman as the best society it.
A king who to the dogs his queen can Aing. I
And then a dulcet strain of love can sing.
Yes, Wenzel's a musician, and he oft-
Luxurious wight-can tell a tale full soft,
Which falls persuasively upon the ear,
No holy bell's more soothing or more clear ;
While thus in pleasant slumber he reposes,
Perhaps a song he fashions as he dozes.
A noise arouses him-a distant cry
Now voices, wildly menacing, draw nigh;
Then comes a thump of clubs-a clash of swords,
A shout triumphant-angry mutter'd words,

* A massacre of Jews was one of the horrors of this horrible period of Bohemian history.-J. O.

+ This favourite executioner, whom Wenzel called his gossip, he afterwards beheaded with his own hand.-J. O.

* This is probably an exaggeration, though Wenzel's queen, Johanna, was attacked and killed by one of his dogs.-J. O.

Blended together in a tempest dread.
King Wenzel, much amaz'd, lifts up his head,
And from the bath thrusts forth his potent beard.
“Were those the Moldau's billows that I heard ?
The storm against the planks makes such a din,
It seems as if resolv'd to break them in."
The words grew plainer as the sound increas'd:
“ Long live John Huss, and down with ev'ry priest !"
“ Nay; is that all?-pray take the priests, " quoth he;
“ John Huss for ever!-there we both agree."
“Down with the king's advisers !” says a shout,
“ They starve our bodies till the soul flies out.”
“ With all my heart, if such is your fond pleasure,”
Says Wenzel, “ I detest them beyond measure.”
Forth now the storm with greater fury breaks,
The house beneath the people's anger shakes ;
One voice cries—“ Lazy Wenzel, give us bread!" ,
Another—“Men be free, and strike him dead !"
The pond'rous clubs against the portals knock,
And words of death the monarch's senses shock.
King Wenzel trembles- no escape he hath,
Here is the Moldau—there the people's wrath.
A strapping servant-girl darts in and brings
A cloth, which round the royal form she flings;
Then firmly seizes him then drags him out-
Then thrusts him in a boat (her arm is stout).
“Off and away,” the damsel cries, “ before,
To shed your blood, these wretches burst the door."
She takes the oar, which readily she plies,
Across the stormy waves the vessel flies;
Till the harsh voices of the rebel rout
Fade in the distance, and at last die out.
Their way lies up the stream, and as they go,
The billows rock the vessel to and fro,
As though it were a pleasure with them all
To play with royal life as 'twere a ball.
But stout Susanna, with her steady oar,
Batters the wat'ry traitors as they roar ;
Making a sound with her incessant splashing,
As when a sword with helm or shield is clashing.
Quick by the islands, edg'd with verdant grass,
And by the rocks of Wissebad they pass;
With band of pow'r the fragile bark she drives,
And in the open country soon arrives.
King Wenzel on his bench, with all his care,
Scarce keeps the water from his shoulders bare.
The waves press near, and as he wards them off,
Appear to stretch out human hands and scoff.
Yet, though the billows toss him to and fro,
But little can they of King Wenzel know,
Who think that mobs or floods his soul engage ;
He eyes the maid, who braves the water's rage,

With love-sick glance, and thinks her passing fair,
While she stands proudly with her flowing hair,
Which in rude sport the breezes wildly Aing-
The sight, in short, has quite bewitch'd the king.
The royal face grows brighter with a smile
As still she rows, and moves her limbs the while ;
Wave-like herself; and as the crimson plays
Over her cheeks, at last the monarchı says:
“Maiden, who art so lovely, brave, and stout,
Within whose veins flows Wlasta's* blood, no doubt,
I thank thee, and I will in velvet dress
And ermine robe that form of loveliness;
Henceforward at my court thou shalt be seen,
The glory of thy sex-nay, more-the queen.
With gold, and pearls, and diamonds, I'll deck,
As fitting ornaments that charming neck.
Among my raptur'd songsters thou shalt shine,
And live immortalis'd by verse divine."
Susanna's face with wrath is redden'd o'er,
And with a shock she brings the boat ashore;
Then leaning on her oar, with flashing eyes,
Thus to the monarch's offer she replies :
“'The people's child I am, and will remain,
What by thy gems and ermines should I gain?
To thee I leave thy curse-encumber'd court,
Thy subjects' cries of misery for sport ;
I could not live upon thy people's blood,
And sweat, and marrow, as a dainty food,
Seated at one of thy right-royal feasts
Among thy songsters and thy lordly guests.
Hearest thou not thy nation's miseries,
How for a scanty crust it groans and cries-
Nay, for the crumbs thon scatterist from thy table ?
Thinkst thou to join such feasts I should be able ?
I curse thee-ay, as deeply as the rest,
And something like repentance fills my breast,
That I so weak, so womanish could feel,
As from their hands their lawful spoil to steal.
Now quickly fly, or I perchance may rue,
That to my brethren I have prov'd untrue ;
And once more wielding this, my trusty oar,
Across the billows, which now wildly roar,
That I have let the people rage in vain,
May bear thee to their vengeance back again."
Into the open country flies the king,
The scanty cloth his limbs scarce covering;
While floating down the river, like a queen,

To join the rebel band, is Susan seen. * Wlasta is an important personage in the old mythic history of Bohemia. A GERMAN'S IMPRESSIONS OF ENGLAND.* It is a melancholy though true fact, that our Teutonic brethren, whom we might call our cousins-German, did we not disdain making so execrable a pun, ever take a peculiar delight in picking out English foibles, and resolutely close their eyes against any merits inherent in John Bull's character. The “ Fliegende Blätter” take the lead in holding him up to ridicule, and try to smash him with the ponderous hammer of their wit. Whenever “ Fra’ Diavolo” is performed, Lord Allcash is made the cynosure of admiring eyes. Be the singing ever so bad, the acting ever so miserable, all this is redeemed if his lordship is held up to laughter. En règle he must be dressed in a long great coat, an extraordinary hat, something like the one placarded “ the stunner" in the vicinity of Leicester-square, wear green spectacles, and have round his neck a nondescript sort of cushion, formerly employed in leaning against the corner of a creaking diligence, but long since forgotten. This is the more absurd, as the Germans are now-a-days well acquainted with the “English as they are," and ought to entertain better feelings with regard to them, were it only through gratitude for the impulse given to their industry by the countless swarms who flock to their country.

We do not, however, find this feeling so commonly displayed against the French, who, by position and character, are their national enemies. This may be accounted for on two grounds. In the first place, the pseudo-republicanism of France possesses an irresistible charm in the eyes of the liberty-desiring Germans; and, secondly, they are apt to decline a contest in which they are sure to get the worst. A wordy battle between French and German is remarkably like the struggle between a bull and a matador. While the first is lowering his head to rip up his opponent, the latter, with a few graceful entrechats, runs him through with his small sword.

Such being the case, we are delighted to find a German literat doing the amende honorable, in a handbook for travellers to England. Dr. Gambihler is apparently a man of education and sense, and a residence in England has enabled him to appreciate the many sterling qualities of our national character. He has broken through the crust of reserve that usually covers John Bull as with a mantle when he has to do with foreigners, and has found beneath it the true-hearted, generous Briton. He has for the nonce assumed English spectacles to view us through, and does not appear to have been injured by the exchange. While finding much to approve, he is sufficiently open-hearted “ not to damn with faint praise" when occasion required censure, and we have to thank him sincerely for the fair and honest way he has faced his subject.

Our paper must, necessarily, be a series of extracts, as we desire to give the cream of this straightforward German's remarks, and recommend him to our readers as one who has deserved well at our hands, and, not like other writers, stung the boson that nursed him. With these preli

* Dr. Gambihler, Gemälde von London. München, 1850. Zweite verbesserte Ausgabe.

Sept.-VOL. XCIX. NO. CCCXCIII.

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