be expected. The answer of the government to any proposition on this subject, would be substantially, if not literally, the same that was made by General Tacon, to suggestions of a similar kind, which were made to him in person while Governor of the Island. "I am here, not to promote the interest of the people of Cuba, but to serve my master the King."

In the meantime, other agents of the anti-slavery societies are understood to have been actively engaged in disseminating the idea of emancipation among the slaves; and, if any confidence can be placed in the denunciations of the conspirators, were active in fomenting the late insurrection. The most conspicuous and important of these agents appears to have been Mr. David Turnbull,-lately British Consul at the Havana, who is represented, in the denunciations just alluded to, as having been the virtual head of the conspiracy, and, as having been looked to, as the provisional ruler of the island in the event of its success. The employment of this person as Consul at the Havana by the British government, seems to implicate the ministry in a rather unpleasant way in the intrigues of the abolitionists. But it would be hardly just or safe to attach too much importance to these confessions of the detected conspirators, some of which, are known to have been prompted by sinister motives, and directed against persons entirely innocent of any concern in the plot. Unfortunately, the undisguised opinions and previous conduct of Mr. Turnbull, give to the de nunciation, so far as he is involved, a high degree of probability. That his government is implicated with him, in any other way than by expressing, as it has frequently done, a general approbation of the character and proceedings of the anti-slavery societies, we should be unwilling to believe, and, in fact, consider as hardly probable.

The conspiracy itself is a separate topic of high interest and importance, as illustrating the state of the island, and its future prospects; but we have no room to enter upon it at the conclusion of this long article. The subject of Cuba, under all its aspects, will be brought, we fear, by the irresist ible power of circumstances, but too frequently to the notice of the people of the United States; and we shall, probably, have occasion hereafter to make it, more than once, the theme of our pages.

ART. VI.-WORKS OF WILHELM HAUFF.-" Lichenstein" and other works of Wilhelm Hauff.

AN acquaintance with the literature of Germany is becoming quite fashionable in our day; and in addition to the high intellectual gratification which it ministers, it is nearly indispensable to the reputation of those who move in our literary circles. Its poets, historians, moralists, and authors in every department of elegant letters and of philosophy, if they do not surpass those of other nations, have yet attained nearly to the culminating point of modern civilization, and are exerting, at the present moment, a controlling and ennobling influence upon the whole empire of mind, throughout both Europe and America. The Germans are proverbially a plodding, but are, at the same time, a progressive race. They display, in an eminent degree, the virtue of perseverance,—a perseverance which conquers all things, and which has been crowned with remarkable success. They may be called a nation of thinkers, and they not only think profoundly but feel deeply. Their philosophy is of an eminently spiritual order, and there is a world of sensibility in their writings. These traits fit them to excel in fictitious literature, and it is in this department, accordingly, they have acquired various and imperishable laurels. The dramatic works of Schiller, exhibiting so faithfully the struggle of human virtue and human will with adverse fate; the lively narrative and rich imaginative prose of Goëthe; the romantic poetry of Herder, whose mind seemed to draw inspiration from every land and every period; the patriot songs of the young and chivalrous Körner; the glowing hymns of the pious Novalis, and the modest yet delicious lyrics of the unassuming Upland, find a responsive chord in every breast where truth and feeling have a dwelling-place.

Among the novelists of Germany, Wilhelm Hauff, whose works are the subject of the present article, has attained to considerable and deserved celebrity. Though inferior to several of the above-mentioned writers in the poetic faculty, and richness of fancy, yet in simplicity of style, liveliness of dialogue, and graphic, distinct, yet picturesque descriptions of times and manners, he has attained great excellence. The private and literary history of this author, presents some coincidences with the early history of Sir Walter Scott, that

prince of fiction, which cannot fail to strike the reader of his memoirs as rather remarkable. Left an orphan at the early age of five, by the death of his father, who held a valuable station under government, Wilhelm Hauff became the especial charge of a good mother, who, although unconscious of his natural bias, was ever willing to lend an ear to the numerous childish fancies and vagaries which already found birth in his tender mind, for, like Scott, he was early distinguished for his achievements as a tale-teller. Along with an elder brother, he was sent to the public school of Tübingen, but frequent attacks of sickness, a naturally feeble constitution, and a distaste for the study of the classics, made him appear to little advantage in his class; and it was not until he was allowed to roam at large in the green valley of Blaubeuren, which lies along the picturesque stream of Blaufüsschen, (the blue foot,) that he fully enjoyed his existence. In those beautiful and solitary environs, his imagination drunk deep from that most healthful of all sources, evervarying Nature, and in the romantic stillness of its poplar groves, and breathing of the blue air, which God had made for all, that wand of fancy was first wielded, which not until death was thrown aside; and while his elder brother distinguished himself in Latin verse, the happy Wilhelm made free use of his full, rich, though homely mother-tongue, and poured out sheet on sheet of ephemeral stanzas.

A rich source of enjoyment, as with Scott, opened itself to him, at this period, in the crowded and diversified library of his grandfather, a learned jurist, where, among rows of costly folios, the two brothers discovered many a volume of history and romance, and the German classics of the last century, the translated works of Smollett, Fielding and Goldsmith, along with the never-tiring literature of Schiller and Goethe, were all greedily devoured before Wilhelm had reached his fourteenth year. Hauff's mind, like Scott's, must have possessed a healthy constitution to bear the wear-and-tear of such miscellaneous reading; and in that large gothic room, he delighted to search every nook for volumes of legends and antiquities, and actually revelled over their copper-plate engravings of the mailed knights of the feudal ages, surrounded by their numerous lance-bearers, pages and vassals, and armed for adventure against castle and field. Gotz, Egmont and Wallenstein were his familiar friends, and many a battle was fought by himself and brother, in that quiet library, with

the huge worm-eaten tomes as implements with which to build castle and bulwarks, while the harangues which Wilhelm addressed to his pasteboard heroes, as he arranged them in battle array, would probably, if preserved, have shown the strong bias of his mind. Blest with an uncommonly tenacious memory, the youth could repeat whole pages from the German poets, before he fully understood their meaning; and although we are not advisers of this desultory sort of education, yet certain it is, that the younger Hauff entered the University with a richly-stored mind in general literature, if not a better philologist, than any of his class. Feeble health still prevented him from taking a prominent part in the manly exercises of the University, but he was ever regarded with warm affection and respect by his classmates, who delighted in the sprightly mind, replete with gentle satire, which was ever oftener directed against his own weaknesses than those of others.

On leaving the University, in 1824, Hauff became tutor in the family of the secretary of war at Stuttgard, and amid that polished household two years passed rapidly by, during which his first publication, consisting of several volumes of tales, appeared. These, although not widely known, will afford the uncriticising reader full gratification, for no where among his later works do we find a freer play of fancy, or purer sentiment, than in the above-mentioned tales, (Mahrchen.) Next followed "Selections from the Memoirs of Satan," (published at Stuttgard, 1828,) a more fragmentary work than the tales, but yet replete with those charming vagaries and graphic descriptions, which constitute his chief talent, and for which the student life, from which he had just escaped, afforded him abundant matter. "The Man in the Moon," a romance written in imitation of the graceful frivolities of the sentimental Clauren, controversial essays on the same, and several other volumes of tales, preceded his longest work, "Lichenstein." Although often deficient in plot, and wearisome through its minute detail, yet this, his first attempt at an historical romance, presents lively picture of the state of south-western Germany, when the Duke of Wurtemburg, with his few valiant adherents, sought to hold ground against the encroachments of the Emperor Maximilian, who attempted to overturn the constitution of that kingdom, and to bring Wurtemburg under the yoke of Austria. The scene opens with a gay picture of the capital

of Ulm, as it appeared in March, 1519, when the leaders of the Suabian league marched in warlike array from Augsburg, where they had formed themselves into a body to assist the Emperor, and stopped to rest and to receive new followers, within the hospitable walls of that friendly free city.

We will not attempt a description of the crowded street, the throng of persons, both on foot and in vehicles, the firing of cannon, the ringing of the old Minster bells, and the processions of different trades, all which our author has sketched out in vivid lines, but will beg our readers to find a place with us at yonder window, fronting the principal street, in the house of Hans von Besserer, where he may form acquaintance with two pretty German maidens, the dark-eyed Marie von Lichenstein, and the blonde Bertha von Besserer, and will also obtain a passing glance at George von Sturmfeder, the hero of the tale.

"They are coming, Marie,-they are almost here!' exclaimed the light-haired maiden, as, throwing her arm around her cousin's waist, she drew her closer to the window, from which the show could be distinctly seen.

And now the noise of tymbals, cornets and braying trumpets pealed on the ear, and a splendid train of cavaliers appeared to the eyes that were weary with watching. First rode a tall and powerful knight, whose ruddy complexion contrasted strangely with his heavy brows and gray hair and beard. He wore a three-cornered hat, topped with a bunch of plumes; a rich breast-plate over his crimson vest; leathern hose slashed with silk, and heavy boots that reached his knees, completed his costume. His only weapon was an enormous sword, with a long hilt, without scabbard; and a golden chain, twisted several times round his neck, and bearing honorary medals, formed his sole ornament.

'Say, uncle, who is yonder portly man, who becomes his gray hairs so well?' asked the blue-eyed Bertha, as she slightly turned to a noble-looking man who stood behind her.

'That is George von Frondsberg, commander-in-chief of the confederates; a brave man, if he only served in a better cause ;' replied the Count von Lichenstein.

'No such insinuations, if you would not provoke my anger,' rejoined the laughing girl, as she shook her finger in playful threatening; 'remember that the daughters of Ulm are all good confederates.'

'Yonder one,' continued her uncle, 'on the fine grey is Walburg, field lieutenant, and behind him comes a long troop of the leaders of the league. By heaven! they all look like wolves seeking after prey.' 'Weather-beaten faces!' exclaimed Bertha; they were not worth the trouble of dressing for. Ah! but see, uncle! who is this dark knight on the sorrel, with pale face and fiery black eyes, and what a noble motto on his shield, I dare!