oes not say whether
the man-god took any notice of him.

It is not, however, with the Memoirs of Satan, or with any but one of
Hauff's works that we are now concerned. The 'Man in the Moon' was a
scathing satire upon a school of story-book makers, popular at the
time, and headed by one H. von Clauren, whose works we have not
perused. 'Lichtenstein,' which has been dramatised, is not inferior to
an inferior Waverley novel. These and many more are well known to
English readers, but the 'Phantasien im Bremer Rathskeller' has never
been translated, no doubt because of its dreadfully Rabelaisian
morality in the matter of strong drink. What can you think of a man
who dedicates his book to the 'lovers of wine,' and takes for his motto
the passage from Othello which appears at the head of the story? We do
not intend to defend him; we ourselves are by no means the pair of
ultra-Pickwickian topers, that a cursory perusal of the motto and
dedication would lead the reader to believe: and we are quite aware
that there _are_ to be no more cakes and ale in this world; we are a
little sorry for it, that is all. As for Hauff we will let him speak
for himself; we have no reason whatever to believe that he had more
than a poetical and literary affection for the juice of the grape.

Hauff had grown tired of being a private tutor in 1826, and spent the
profits of Lichtenstein in a journey to the North of Germany and to
Paris in the latter half of that year. It was upon that occasion that
he visited Bremen, although not upon the errand imagined in the text.
On his return to the South in 1827 he became Editor of the 'Morning
News for the Educated Classes,' to which his brother, who succeeded him
in the editorship, was already a contributor. This paper survived till
1865, when it expired a few months after the death of Hermann Hauff,
whom from all we know of him we imagine to have been a much more
business-like editor than Wilhelm. Contemporarily with this responsible
post Wilhelm took to himself a wife, one of his own cousins, who bore
him a daughter but a few days before his death. He died of fever on the
18th November, 1827. Prefixed to the edition of 1853 is a very pretty
little poem of L. Uhland's on the occasion, and also a funeral oration
by Mr. Court Chaplain Grueneisen, who was his cousin, both of which were
recited over his grave in true German fashion. If we could believe all
that this worthy priest said--and we have not a scrap of