of the "Grandfather's Dance." This night they behaved much worse than before. For they stopped at the house wherein a betrothed damsel lived, and here they turned in a wild whirling dance round a shadow, which resembled perfectly the spinster, in whose honour they moved the nightly bridal-dance. Next day the whole town was filled with mourning; for all the damsels whose shadows were seen dancing with the spectres, had died suddenly. The same thing happened again the following night. The dancing skeletons turned before the houses, and wherever they had been, there was, next morning, a dead bride lying on the bier. The citizens were determined no longer to expose their daughters and mistresses to such an imminent danger. They threatened the mayor to carry Emma away by force and lead her to Wido, unless the mayor would permit their union to be celebrated before the beginning of the night. The choice was a difficult one, for the mayor disliked the one just as much as the other; but as he found himself in the uncommon situation, where a man may choose with perfect freedom, he, as a free being, declared freely his Emma to be Wido's bride. Long before the spectre-hour the guests sat at the wedding table. The first stroke of the bell sounded, and immediately the favourite tune of the well-known bridaldance was heard. The guests, frightened to death, and fearing the spell might still continue to work, hastened to the windows, and beheld the bag-piper, followed by a long row of figures in white shrouds, moving to the wedding-house. He remained at the door and played; but the procession went on slowly, and proceeded even to the festive hall. Here the strange pale guests rubbed their eyes, and looked about them full of astonishment, like sleep walkers just awakened. The wedding guests fled behind the chairs and tables; but soon the cheeks of the phantoms began to colour, their white lips became blooming like young rose-buds; they gazed at each other full of wonder and joy, and well-known voices called friendly names. They were soon known as revived corpses, now blooming in all the brightness of youth and health and who should they be but the brides, whose sudden death had filled the whole town with mourning, and who, now recovered from their enchanted slumber, had been led by Master Willibald with his magic pipe, out of their graves to the merry wedding-feast. The wonderful old man blew a last and cheerful farewell tune, and disappeared. He was never seen again. Wido was of opinion, the bag-piper was no other than the famous Spirit of the Silesian Mountains.* The young painter met him once when he travelled through the hills, and acquired (he never knew how) his favour. He promised the youth to assist him in his love-suit, and he kept his word, although after his own jesting fashion. Wido remained all his life-time a favourite with the Spirit of the Mountains. He grew rich, and became celebrated. His dear Emma brought him every year a handsome child, his pictures were sought after even in Italy and England; and the "Dance of the Dead," of which Basil, Antwerp, Dresden, Lubeck, and many other places boast, are only copies or imitations of Wido's original painting, which he had executed in memory of the real "Dance of The Spirit of the Silesian Mountains, plays a great part in the German Popular Tales. He always appears full of mirth and whims. The people know him best by his nickname Rubezahl, the turnip counter. The accident which gave rise to this nickname, has been related in a masterly manner in "Musaus' German Popular Tales.” the Dead at Neisse !" But, alas! this picture is lost, and no collector of paintings has yet been able to discover it, for the gratification of the cognoscenti, and the benefit of the history of the art. SPECIMEN OF CHINESE POETRY. From the Chinese of Lady Jin-she WHY do I weep? Awake my soothing lyre, O sing of love, and charm the list’ning ear My verse, inscribed on an autumnal leaf, May gentle zephyrs waft to that soft breast, Where love shall melt in pity for my grief, And in a mutual flame our hearts be blest. THE SNOW STORM. My old friend, the Squire of Gwern y Cynyddion, is one of the worthiest souls living; and after a life replete with incident and adventure, has at length found a haven for his old age, in as snug a corner as any mortal could wish for. There certainly never was a more hospitable, friendly, unaffected, benevolent being than old Morgan Hughes ; and although the storms and sunshines of three-score years and ten, have whitened his scanty locks, and furrowed his open brow, still is he as blithe and as merry,-aye, and more merry too, than many a more youthful contemporary. His life, I have already intimated, has been one of restless activity and vicissitude: but I should have said the earlier portion of it; for, thrown into the wide world without father, without mother, without even a single friend, and unnoticed even by his own kindred, it was not likely that his youth should glide away in listless indolence, or pleasurable recreation. It was, in fact, full of "adventure perilous," of "moving accidents by flood and field ;" and it was not till he had arrived far beyond the spring-tide of life, that he found himself the possessor of a comfortable home; the father of a fond and an affectionate family; and the envied inheritor of four hundred per annum. He had experienced enough of the toils and bitterness of existence to render him kind and benevolent to all such as needed succour and relief; and never is the unfortunate beggar known to quit the door of Gwern y Cynyddion unrelieved or unsatisfied. Thus the poor entreat the blessing of heartfelt gratitude upon his head, and the rich respect and esteem his various and unobtrusive virtues. Nothing delights an old man more than the narration of the feats of his youth; and nobody ever listens with im patience to the stories which Morgan Hughes delights to tell, and his friends are always glad to hear. There is one tale in particular, which has constantly and powerfully interested me, and which, in the hope that it may equally interest others, I will endeavour to relate, as nearly as possible, in the very words of my venerable friend : "When I was about five-and-twenty," says he, "I was acting as a sort of under-bailiff to Squire Jones of Tal y Gareg, near Welshpool; he was a quiet, indolent, easy man, and troubled himself very little about business, the management of which he left entirely to his steward, Mr. Pearson, under whose immediate care and direction I was placed. For some cause or other, and I never could find out what,-Mr. Pearson took a great dislike to me; and being a surly, morose man, I got nothing from him but abundance of hard work, and no small quantity of spite and ill-will. One winter this gentleman had taken it into his head to speculate a good deal in black cattle; these he fed in the Montgomeryshire pastures, and then sent on to Shrewsbury Fair, which is held on every second Monday in each month. It was part of my office to follow those cows and oxen, to sell them, and bring back the money to Mr. Pearson; and my custom was, to let the drovers set off first, which they did at a very early hour, and then follow at my leisure. "When I first went to Tal y Gareg, a neighbouring farmer, for whom I had done some trifling service, gave me a young mastiff dog, the descendant of a famous breed, which had been hitherto uncontaminated by any baser species. This dog I named Blâinor, and many a time when I had retired to my little bed-room in sorrow and despondency, would the fond and faithful affection of the poor dumb animal afford that consolation which was denied me by the reasonable beings of my own species. Blâinor was |