and establish it. There are articles on which the present Tariff imposes very duties glass and glass-ware, screws, wire, pins, buttons, &c., &c.-which are as cheap to-day as, if not cheaper than, they were in 1841-2, when our duties were at the lowest. There are other articles charged no higher than these, which are selling at enhanced prices. The price in each instance of an article mainly produced among us, is governed by the relation of supply to demand, and by the cost of production, regardless of the amount of the duty.

This truth established, the Secretary's business is done. His Report is left baseless as the unsubstantial fabric of a vision. His assertions that two dollars are paid by our consumers to the protected interests for every one brought into the Treas

ury by the Tariff--that the rich are favored by it at the expense of the poorthat wages have not been improved by it, while the prices of fabrics have advanced

his attacks on the minimum principle, and all his Jacobinic attempts to excite discord and jealousy between employer and workman, manufacturer and farmer, may all be passed by with the silent scorn they merit. Very mournful is the comparison of this Report with the corresponding (but not kindred) expositions of HAMILTON, A. J. DALLAS, RUSH, WALTER FORWARD, and other eminent men who have preceded Mr. Walker in the position he now occupies, but let that also pass. It is by contrast only that a nation discovers its eminent benefactors, and learns to appreciate their services and reverence their memories.

Metastasio.

NOTHING marks the peculiar character of a people more distinctively than their legends and superstitions. These are the first lispings of the infancy of a nation, expressing its impulses and tendencies, even before thought is matured; they grow with its advancement, embody its spirit, and give a coloring to its whole literature. How perfectly is the literature of the East imbued with the dreamy, voluptuous and gorgeous character of its early poetic creations! Thus with the wild, stern, vigorous genius of the North. And if we wander among the olden, shadowy Teutonic traditions, are we not sure to find the germ of that subtil philosophy which distinguishes the metaphysical nations of Germany?

It is not, therefore, an unprofitable task to pore among these treasures of the past. Though half-forgotten now, their influence still exists, and they are

Prometheus Unbound.

reproduced in various forms. We have examples of this every day. One of the most beautiful fictions ever written by an American author-" Rip Van Winkle"-owes its existence to the old legend of the Kyffhauser Mountain.

No work has yet been published, that I know of, containing anything like a fair collection of European traditions. La Motte Fouqué, Musæus, Grimm and Hoffmann have done something towards it-Lyser, perhaps, more; at least his work, being the latest, has the additional advantage of selections from his predecessors. He has already published twenty-six small volumes on the subject, and the field is yet unexhausted.

Perhaps it may be a desirable study for some of the readers of this Review to notice the peculiar genius of different European nations, as shown in those infant utterances of the spirit of poetry.

A glance at a few of the more characteristic superstitions, is the utmost, of course, we can propose; but it may suggest more extensive investigations to others. It will be pleasing, at all events, to wander, unfettered by any proprieties of arrangement or progress over those dim regions of romance, plucking a flower here and there too happy if we can point out the way to more patient and enterprising, though not more interested, travelers.

The superstition of "the Nissen" is very old, and of northern origin. In Germany this fantastic race used to be spoken of under the name of "Heimchen." There is a beautiful little ballad of Friedrich Kind, in which a goblin of this species figures as the hero. He plagues the owner of a house haunted by him so unceasingly, that to get rid of him, the man sets fire to the house and runs away. The goblin, however, is seen seated on the top of the wagon containing the moveables, and calls out most provokingly to the owner, "We are off in good time, friend; the house would be burned over our heads." Grimm includes this in his German popular legends. In the Hartswald, the Nissen are known by the name of Wichtelmännchen. Heine makes his pretty Bergmann's daughter tell of them:

"The little Wichtel-men so fleet,They steal away our bread and meat; Though locked up safely every night, 'Tis vanished ere the morning light. "The little folks, with dainty lip, The rich and yellow cream they sip; Uncovered then the dish they leave, And give the cat a chance to thieve." A. T. Beer, in his novel" Die Brüder," gives a little story that, besides illustrating the superstition, has a deeper meaning. In a peasant's cottage in Sweden sat little Axela, leaning her head upon her mother's lap. The dame sat listening beside the large chimney that warmed the low-roofed chamber. She had been spinning, but had ceased from her labor, and let her hands fall in her lap; for there was a singing and chirping throughout the apartment, as if hundreds of Heimchen (crickets) were mingling their soft and shrill chorus; and a continual tripping to and fro of light, dainty footsteps, as of an invisible host.

"Mother!" cried Axela suddenly, "what is that we hear, but cannot see?" The mother pressed her child closely to her, and whispered-so as not to disturb the invisible folk-" They are the Nis

sen, my Axela." The little maiden looked up inquiringly.

"Thou knowest not yet, my daughter, that every house has its haunting spirits. They blow out the light when one goes into the store-room; quench the last coal in the oven, when one tries to kindle a flame; steal the bacon from the chimney; eat the cheese, curdle the milk, and do everything else to torment the housewife, and give her much to do. They sing and tramp about so to-night, because thy father, for whose presence they have more respect, is gone forth to conduct the strangers over the snow-fields. Besides, they must have a present from time to time. They are dunning me so mercilessly, I must not delay it longer."

Therewith the dame went to the closed cupboard, took out two sweet cakes, and laid them on a little table in a corner of the room. She put, also, in a little dish, some fruits, preserved in sugar. A pudding, and a piece of cheese, and fresh butter, all prepared by the excellent housewife's own hands, completed the meal. She placed a light, also, on the table; for, said she, "they will then let my candles alone."

The mother and daughter then hid themselves in the wide feather bed, drew the covering over their heads, and breathed not a whisper to disturb the feast of the Nissen. In the morning the good things had disappeared. The dame was delighted that the little house-goblins had not rejected her propitiatory offering.

Arela was a charming daughter of the north. She was loved by Eric, a young fisherman. Her prudent father would rather have wedded her to a thriving farmer, than a youth whose nets were his sole possession. But he saw that the young people truly loved each other, and the dame besought him not to cross her only child; so that he consented to the marriage, and made the young pair a nuptial present of a cottage completely furnished, with a small garden attached. Axela was the happiest little wife in the world.

One evening she said to her mother, "There are no Nissen in our house. I never hear the singing that used to trouble me, or see any of the mischievous tricks that tormented you so often."

"Heaven grant, the race come not near thee!" answered the mother.

Axela became a mother; and Eric, by

the death of a rich, childless uncle, who had been engaged in smuggling, inherited a fortune. The small house was greatly enlarged; the rocky spot of ground that had sufficed for a garden, was made twice as spacious; the storerooms were filled; a maid came to help the young wife in her household duties

and- -the Nissen came also.

Formerly, when Axela set away anything, she was sure to find it again; now it was quite otherwise. If she sat down to mend a garment for one of her children, the other would cry in the chamber; she would spring up to take him, and on her return find the Nissen had stolen away her thimble, or tangled her thread, or done her some other mischief. Or if she set away her jars of sweetmeats, carefully tied up with bladder, she would soon discover that the Nissen had opened a passage into them. Or if she left a new piece of linen in her chamber, when called away on some household duty, she would find it on her return, cut into small pieces, and no one in the room but little Erie, looking up at her with his innocent eyes. Who could have done this but the Nissen? Or if she ran to bring home little Eric, who had strayed too near the water, on going back she would find all the chickens in the garden, scraping and pecking over the beds; while of a certainty she had left the gate closed. Who could have opened it but the Nissen?

Thus it went on day after day. Axela grew quite melancholy. "What shall we do," said she to her husband, "for these tormenting sprites? They plague my very life out.""

"We had best," said Eric, "consult my godfather, the wise Ulpf." And throwing on their cloaks, the two went forth, leaving the children with the maid, to the dwelling of Ulpf. The wise man shook his head, and answered, When the Nissen once have possession of a house, they can never be driven away. But you can travel about, dear children, and thus escape them."

Axela and Eric sighed deeply, for they loved their home. The shrubs and flowers they had planted were grown so beautifully-the new poultry-yard was so convenient-the rooms had such an air of comfort-and the children were so happy, looking out of the window on the sea, where the ships were sailing below them! But the house must be given up-though all wept to leave it.

Who could endure to live with the Nissen?

The large wagon was packed with the best of the household furniture, Eric and Axela going along with it. The children were put with the maid into a small carriage behind. They had gone but a short distance ou their melancholy way, when they noticed a light swarm of something upon the tall covered carriage. The drapery was shaken, and little figures, undistinguishable from the distance, glided about, humming like a swarm of bees. Axela was frightened; but Eric went boldly up to the wagon, and cried, "What are you doing, little devils, up there?"

"We are the Nissen!" they murmured, in reply.

"But what do you there?" Eric asked. A light murmur answered, "Wi flotta," (We are traveling.)

Axela and Eric looked on each other in dismay, and at length burst out a-laughing.

"Let us stay, then, in our Own house!" cried she. "" The Nissen will not be separated from us; and I can bear their mischief better in my old home than anywhere else."

The horses' heads were turned, and father, mother, children, maid and Nissen returned with great joy.

As the little ones grew up, the Nissen showed themselves less frequently; for the housewifely order and neatness rebuked their pranks. They only claimed, at last, so much freedom as has been yielded them from immemorial time in all the dwellings of Sweden.

The superstition of the Klabotermann, and that of the shore witch, are widely current on the northern coast. The Klabotermann is the drotl of the sailors, who will not tolerate any incredulity as to its existence. It is said that a crew once mutinied against their captain on this account, and threw him overboard. The Klabotermann is a kobold that haunts ships; he is on shipboard what the gnomes are to the mines, the goblins to the houses, or the trolds or dwarfs to the woods and mountains. When kept in good humor, he is a harmless sprite that works to keep good order in the ship, and never leaves it till it is about to sink. A ship haunted by him cannot be lost, unless he is provoked to forsake it by the misconduct of the crew or the captain. But like other goblins, he is capricious and easily moved to anger. He

The leader of the soldiers made a sign to his men, and emerging from the shelter of the rock, they stood before the maiden. Lureley started not, but sat still, and looking with her clear childlike smile upon the intruders, asked what they would have.

"We come to take thee, living or dead," returned the leader; "for thou, evil witch, hast murdered the son of our noble Count." Then Lureley laughed a musical laugh, and springing up quickly, stood on the utmost verge of the rock, clapped her small white hands, and sang, looking downwards towards the Rhine: "Oh, father! send up thy swiftest steed— Send-and bear away thy child with speed:

Lureley! Lureley !

There was a hoarse murmuring of the waters far below, and two mighty waves, crested with foam, reared their heads. The Undine floated away on their backs, and smiled archly, as she disappeared in the Rhine.

Then knew the soldiers that Lureley was no witch or enchantress, but an Undine. As they returned to their lord with the tidings, they found, to their great joy and amazement, the young Count restored to his father. He had suffered no injury, but had been kept three days at the bottom of the Rhine by the mischievous water-fairies, in order to cool his mad passion a little.

Not all, however, fared so well as the young Count of the Rhine; and even to this day is heard the dangerous melody. Heine sings:

"The sailor there, in his gliding bark, Is borne, alas! to his doom along : He cannot see the ridge of rock,

He hears but the water-fairy's song.

"Ah! soon, ingulphed in the greedy wave
The sailor-boy and his bark are gone;
And Lureley smiles above his grave,
On the mischief her song has done."

THE ALPS AND THE RHINE; a Series of Sketches by J. T. HEADLEY. New York: WILEY & PUTNAM, 161 BROADWAY. 1845.

MR. HEADLEY belongs to that class of authors, who so infuse their own individuality into their works, as to make it difficult for us to separate the man from his writings. In speaking of a book of his, we always call it Headley's, from an unconscious recognition of his entire personifiIcation therein. We feel as if we knew him in the flesh-a friend and intimatehis lineaments, voice, the whole manner of the man clearly defined to our consciousness. Without having seen him, we know what sort of a face he has, how he looks, talks, and all about him. This power of transfusing heart and soul into style, is a rare and happy gift, constituting the resource and secret of successful authorship. Indeed, the writer possessing it, cannot fail of popularity. His book is a fireside visitor-human and genial, which warms the heart as well as fills the mind-has blood in it, and thews and sinews-the charm, glow and action of diverse and real life. We know it-not as an abstraction an ideal, perfect, but chiseled from cold marble-it is the lovable and social friend -a man of like passions with ourselves, imparting and receiving pleasure.

It is

thus that Mr. Headley has introduced himself to the hearts of thousands in our land, as a brilliant, earnest man, of clear, frank vision, and chivalric taste and temper. We warrant everybody knows him to have the face and bearing of a knight! Who that has read his papers on Napoleon's Marshals, could fail at once to recognize in them the "born soldier," with his heroic impulses, his quick mathematical appreciation of vast combinations with their results-his fine and accurate eye for effect, which can, in one gleam of a "white plume," reveal to us through the blind tumult of a battle the heady current, with its foam-crested wave, which drives all before it to the triumph! Who, too, has failed to recognize the same spirit in the stout and loyal Americanism, displayed in his scathing review of Alison, in one of our earlier numbers. We acknowledge, as well, cognate traits in the volume before us. Here, the same taste for the daring, the yearning for the physical sublime, which constituted him an appreciative critic of the tactics, even of Napoleon, made him also one of the most graphic limners of the bare, rude terrors-the salient magnificence of Alpine scenery, we remember. We do not know Mr. Headley's birth-place; but we judge his infancy must have been passed in some wild, peaked chaos of our northern mountain scenery. The moun