ut every province of the kingdom.
And here we must retract an assertion we made some pages back, as to the
possibility of our supposing this book to proceed from any other than a
German pen. No one but a German would have thought it necessary or
judicious to intrude his own insipid sentimentalities into a narrative
of this description, and which was meant to be printed. But there is
probably no conceivable subject on which a German could be set to write,
in discussing which he would not manage to drag in, by neck and heels, a
certain amount of sentiment or metaphysics, perhaps of both. Mr Boas, we
are sorry to say, is guilty of this sin against good taste. The steamer
comes to an anchor about ten o'clock, and he goes ashore with Baron
K----, a friend he has picked up on board, to take a stroll in the
Prophet's garden at Mem. There they encounter Mesdemoiselles Ebba and
Ylfwa, lovely and romantic maidens, who sit in a bower of roses under
the shadow of an umbrageous maple-tree, their arms intertwined, their
eyes fixed upon a moonbeam, piping out Swedish melodies, which, to our
two swains, prove seductive as the songs of a Siren. The moonbeam
aforesaid is kind enough to convert into silver all the trees, bushes,
leaves and twigs in the vicinity of the young ladies with the
Thor-and-Odin names; whilst to complete this German vision, a white bird
with a yellow tuft upon its head stands sentry upon a branch beside
them, the said bird being, we presume, a filthy squealing cockatoo,
although Mr Boas, gay deceiver that he is, evidently wishes us to infer
that it was an indigenous volatile of the phoenix tribe. Sentinel
Cockatoo, however, was caught napping, and the garrison of the bower had
to run for it. And now commences a series of hopes and fears, and doubts
and anxieties, and sighings and perplexities, which keep the tender
heart of Boas in a state of agreeable palpitation, through four or five
chapters; at the end of which he steps on board the steam-boat
Christiana, blows in imagination a farewell kiss to Miss Ebba, of whom,
by the bye, he has never obtained more than half a glimpse, and awaking,
as he tells us, from his love-dream, which we should call his nightmare,
sets sail for Copenhagen.

Of the various places visited by Mr Boas during his ramble, few seem to
have pleased him better than Copenhagen, and he becomes quite
enthusiastic when speaking of that city, and of what he saw there. The
pleasure he had in meetin