kind out of the materials he has loosely and hastily crammed into a third of the space. There is a certain Count Philippus, or Philipps, of whom much was to be made, but he is neglected, and roughly sketched. He comes to Cologne to raise troops for the emperor, and is very successful in his recruiting, having mustered a strong body of idle artisans, debauched students, and desperadoes of all kinds. In the joy of his heart he drinks himself ill; Hildebrand attends him, and wins his heart by tolerating the flagon, when the soldier had expected to be put on a diet of drugs and spring water. The Count’s levies are drawn up, and about to march away, when the police make their appearance at Dr Da Silva’s door, to arrest him and his assistant on a charge of witchcraft. Warned in time, Hildebrand conceals himself amongst the men at arms, and follows Philipps to the field as body-surgeon. It is the period of the thirty years’ war, and the ambitious mediciner, interrupted in his pursuit of the grand secret of gold-making, conceives the more feasible project of rising to eminence and wealth by deeds of arms. He is confirmed in his new aspirations by the gift of a sword, manufactured by the headsman, and supposed to confer invincibility on him who wields it. There is a remarkable chapter, from which we gather the details of this superstition. Hannadam, the executioner, has his fortified dwelling in the suburbs of Cologne, and one evening a Lutheran officer rides up from the adjacent Swedish camp, and endeavours to induce him, by the bribe of a well-filled purse, to make him a charmed sword. From the battlements of his little fortress, Hannadam holds converse with the Swede, who complains that he has had his foot in the stirrup for twenty years, and is still a cornet, whilst his comrades of equal standing have risen to high rank. He holds it high time to look after his promotion. “‘Undoubtedly it is,’ said the headsman jeeringly. ‘A forty-year-old cornet cuts a poor figure. I will promote you to a majority.’ “‘So you shall,’ replied the horseman, ‘and I will tell you how. But first answer a question,—you are a popish idolator?’ “‘Infernal heretic!’ shouted the executioner. ‘Would you have me set my dogs at you?’ “The Swede was astounded by this burst of anger. He had intended no harm, but in the simplicity of his heart had designated the Roman Catholics by the epithet that from childhood upwards he had heard and used. “‘If you are no idolator,’ he replied very quietly, ‘give me back my purse.’ “The headsman laughed. “‘I am papist enough,’ he said, ‘to take example by my priests, and restore no offering.’ “‘Indeed,’ said the cornet. ‘But I begin to see what offended you. Never fear, you shall not hear the word again.’ “‘You will do wisely not to repeat it. And now say what you would for your money.’ “‘Did I not tell you I cannot get promotion?’ “‘Well—’