blerie_, almost incredible in
number and singular in detail--and romance, in his gloomy mood, seems
here to have reared his strong hold.

At a time when a taste for the beauties of German literature is becoming
general throughout this country, we conceive that a few specimens of her
traditions may not be unacceptable to the reader. Few subjects are more
interesting than the popular legends of a country, which are the source
from whence many of our later novelists draw several of their writings:
they offer a field for reflection to the contemplative observer of man;
and those of Germany, although some are disfigured with a little too
much absurdity in their details, are confessedly a mine of wealth to the
lover of research in such matters. Here Schiller first drew the sources
of his inspiration; here Goethe first electrified mankind with his
writings--works which will render both immortal; it is, indeed, a mine
which has been and will bear much working.

We have chosen the following tradition, both on account of the merit it
possesses, and its being the unquestionable origin of Washington
Irving's inimitable _Rip Von Winkle_. Indeed, the similarity of the
story is strikingly obvious. We believe there are several legends on
this subject, which, with the present, probably all refer to the Emperor
Frederic Barbarossa, whose adventures form the source of many a story
among the Germans. The original tale is nearly as follows:--It seems the
emperor was once compelled to conceal himself, with a party of his
followers, amongst the Kyffhauesen mountains; there he still lives, but
is under the influence of magic. He sits with his adherents on a seat
before a stone table, leaning his head upon his hands, seeming to
slumber; but apparently his sleep is very restless, and his head nods,
and seems as if he were going to awake, and his red beard has grown
through the table down to his feet. He takes pretty long naps, not more
than a hundred years in length at a stretch: when his slumber is
interrupted, he is fabled to be very fond of music; and it is said that
there was a party of musicians, who once gave him a regular serenade in
his subterranean retreat, doubtless expecting some wonderful token of
his generosity in return; but they received nothing for their pains but
a number of green boughs, which so disgusted them, that they all threw
them away on their return to earth, save one, who, however, had no
suspicion of its worth, for o