would have no difficulty in reaching, than the reasons on which it was founded. Cromwell’s connection with the sectaries of the day might be supposed to have shed its obscuring influence on his style, and, partly, it might be thought matter of design to speak thus mystically for the better concealing his real views. This would account for occasional obscurity, but not for that which we discover in all that he wrote or spoke. But whatever solution may be adopted, the fact is indispensable, that he was voluble without clearness, wordy without being profound, and mysterious without having any thing to conceal. “In soul so like,” yet in all that concerned style, how different was Buonaparte! He is always clear, vigorous, rapid, and sententious. With something of bombast, his bulletins and addresses to his armies were admirable for their spirit and brevity; and in his conversations at St. Helena, who does not acknowledge the clearness, terseness, and depth of his remarks? His promptitude of style is equal to his promptitude in action; the one fully reflects the other; while the style of Cromwell stands in broad opposition to his character, except in one solitary particular—his devotional exercises.
We stop at present, to resume the subject at some future occasion.
THE TWELVE NIGHTS.
A Tale from the German of the Baron Carl Von Miltig.
“I can assure you, my dear master,” said John, as he went on with the story, “that infernal noise, which has been at rest now so long, has broke out again this year worse than ever—I myself last night—”
“Well, you saw something, I suppose,” said the chief master of the forests; “come, let’s hear all about it—what was it?”
“No, Sir, I did not see, to be sure, but then I heard it.”
“Oh! heard it—aye the old story—and when one asks what has been heard, it turns out to be some hollow knocking—or a rattling of chains, &c.—we know all about that already,—John, you ought to be ashamed of yourself.”
“But, my dear master, when I heard it with my own ears—”
“Never mind your ears—they have played you false—eyes, ears, nose, every thing deserts a man when he is once fairly terrified—he hears, sees, and smells, exactly as his fright makes him. And now let us have done with this nonsense; you know I am sick of it—I could lay my life the whole turns out to be the work of some wretched cat, or a few martins. I remember my father (rest his soul!) was once annoyed with some of these noises. He put a pair of good hounds into the ghost’s room, and next day we had a whole family of martins lying on the floor. Some time after, a blockhead of a servant took it into his head to hear more noises—my father ordered him to receive twenty strokes with the cat-o’-nine-tails. I remember the whole hunt turned out to witness the execution. After that we heard no more of ghosts.”
“I daresay,” said John, grinning, “nobody would care to see any, after such a reception.” He saw, however, it was needless to contest the matter at the time: “besides,” thought John, “though it roar and bellow, what then? The wing is uninhabited, we need not disturb ourselves about the matter.” With this reflection, which he kept to himself, the old man left the room. He found several peasants waiting in the ante-chamber, who had business with Schirmwald, the head forest-master’s Secretary, and returned to announce them to his master.
“Send the Secretary here,” said he. “He is not in the office,” said John; “I saw him stepping across the court, with his music-books, to Miss Eleonora’s room, more than an hour ago. I daresay they are singing or playing together, for he was there the whole of yesterday afternoon. Shall I call him?” The Baron muttered to himself.
“The devil has certainly sent that cursed smooth-faced versemaker into my house. To think that this pale, moonshine-looking countenance of a fellow, without religion, and without conscience, should make its way into a girl’s heart, and such a
