"You, Miss," continued the knight, "what sort of conduct is this, I ask?"

"Go-go-go away," said Charles at length, in a suffocating voice. Speak not to this dear girl. She is mine by heaven and earth!" "Yours, sirrah? Dare you say that to my face?"

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Go-go away, Sir Richard Shield: I beseech, I implore you, go! Tempt me no further. A desperate madness is in my brain. Yet I would not, for worlds, lay hands on you; for-were there nothing else you are the brother of my sainted mother." Sir Richard's muscles relaxed. He appeared not to have been prepared for this. He hesitated for a moment-then, flinging his staff from him, held out his hand; but, in his turn, it was some time before he could speak.

"And so and so, Charles-and so I am!" he cried. 66 Elizabeth Shield was your mother! That is the truth. I can no longer oppose you --nor even attempt to oppose you. Pardon me, it was with good intention I did so."

Charles looked doubtfully at his uncle; but saw that he was considerably affected.

"Here, Margaret, my love," continued the good knight, "give him your hand. Take it, Charles she refuses not. Bless you both!"

"Thanks, dearest Margaret!" said Charles, seizing her hand, and putting it to his lips with fervour. "Ten thousand thanks!-And you, Sir Richard, are still my old uncle?"

"Still, dear Charles, still-while Margaret Pennycroft is your wife," said Sir Richard. "And Widow Waters mine," whispered the provost.

ALEXANDER WHITELAW.

SONNET.

Where lies the land to which yon ship must go?
Festively she puts forth in trim array;
And vigorous as a lark at break of day:
Is she for tropic suns, or polar snow?

What boots the inquiry?-Neither friend nor foe
She cares for; let her travel where she may,
She finds familiar names, a beaten way
Ever before her, and a wind to blow.
Yet still I ask, what haven is her mark?
And almost as it was when ships were rare,
(From time to time, like pilgrims, here and there
Crossing the waters) doubt, and something dark,
Of the old sea some reverential fear,
Is with me at thy farewell, joyous bark!

WORDSWORTH.

AN APOLOGUE.

"Twas eight o'clock, and near the fire My ruddy little boy was seated, And with the titles of a sire

My ears expected to be greeted. But vain the thought! by sleep oppressed, No father there the child descried; His head reclined upon his breast, Or nodding rolled from side to side.

"Let this young rogue be sent to bed," More I had scarce had time to say, When the poor urchin raised his head, To beg that he might longer stay. Refused; away his steps he bent

With tearful eye and aching heart, But claimed his playthings ere he went, And took up stairs his horse and cart.

Still for delay, though oft denied,

He pleaded,-wildly craved the boon;Though past his usual hour, he cried At being sent to bed so soon! If stern to him, his grief I shared, (Unmoved who sees his offspring weep?) Of soothing him I half despaired; When all his cares were lost in sleep.

"Alas, poor infant!" I exclaimed,

Thy father blushes now to scan, In all that he so lately blamed,

The follies and the fears of man. The vain regret the anguish brief, Which thou hast known, sent up to bed, Portrayed of man the idle grief,

When doom'd to slumber with the dead.

And more I thought, when up the stairs
With longing, lingering looks he crept,
To mark of man the childish cares,
His playthings carefully he kept.
Thus mortals on life's later stage,
When nature claims their perfect breath,
Still grasp at wealth, in pain and age,
And cling to golden toys in death.

"Tis morn, and see my smiling boy
Awakes to hail returning light;
To fearless laughter, boundless joy;
Forgot the tears of yesternight!
Thus shall not man forget his woe;
Survive of age and death the gloom;
Smile at the cares he knew below,
And, renovated, burst the tomb?

T. GASPET.

THE MYSTERIOUS WEDDING;1

A DANISH STORY.

On the north-west of the Isle of Zealand stretches a small peninsular district, fertile and studded with hamlets, and connected with the mainland by a narrow strip of sandy waste. Beyond the only town which this little peninsula possesses the land runs into the restless waves of the Cattegat, and presents an awfully wild and sterile appearance. The living sands have here obliterated every trace of vegetation; and the storms which blow from all points of the wild ocean are constantly operating a change on the fluctuating surface of the desert, whose hills of sand rise and disappear with constant alternation, restless as the waves which roar around them. In travelling through this country I spent upwards of an hour in this district, and never shall I forget the impression which the scene made upon my mind.

While riding alone through the desolate region, a thunder-storm rose over the ocean towards the north,-the waves roared, the clouds were driven along before the wind, the sky grew every instant more gloomy, "menacing earth and sea," the sand began to move in increasing masses under my horse's feet, a whirlwind arose and filled the atmosphere with dust, the traces of the path became invisible,—my horse floundered deeper and deeper in the sand,-while sky, earth, and ocean seemed mingled and blended together, every object being involved in a cloud of dust and vapour. I could not discern the slightest trace of life or vegetation,—the storm howled above me, the waves of the sea lashed mournfully against the shore, the thunder rolled in the distance, and scarcely could the lurid lightning-flash pierce the heavy cloud of sand which whirled around me; my danger was evident and extreme, when a sudden shower of rain laid the sand, and enabled me to push my way to the little town. The storm I had just encountered was a horrid mingling of all elements. An earthquake has been described as the sigh which troubled Nature heaves from the depth of her bosom: perhaps not more fancifully this chaotic tempest might have typified the confusion of a wildly distracted mind, to which pleasure and even hope itself

1 From Foreign Tales and Traditions, by George Godfrey Cunningham. This story forms the subject of two German novels and a Danish poem.

have been long strangers,-the cheerless desert of the past revealing only remorse and grief, -the voice of conscience threatening like the thunder, while awful anticipations shed their lurid light over the dark spirit,-till at last the long dried-up sources of tears open a way to their powerful floods, and bury the anguish of the distracted soul beneath their waves.

In this desolate country lay, in former times, a village called Roerwig, about a mile distant from the shore. The moving sands have buried the village, and the inhabitants-mostly shepherds and fishermen-have removed their cottages close to the shore. A single solitary building, the village church, which is situated upon a hill, yet rears its head above the cheerless shifting desert. This church was the scene of the following mysterious transaction.

In an early part of the last century the venerable curé of Roerwig was one night seated in his study, absorbed in pious meditations. It was near midnight. The house lay at the extremity of the village, and the simple manners of the inhabitants were so little tinged with distrust that bolts and locks were unknown amongst them, and every door remained open and unguarded.

The night-lamp burned gloomily,—the sullen silence of that dark hour was only interrupted by the rushing noise of the sea, on whose waves the pale moon was reflected, when the cure heard the door below open, and, presently after, the sound of men's steps upon the stair. He was just anticipating a call to administer the last holy offices of religion to some one of his parishioners on the point of death, when two foreigners, wrapped up in white cloaks, stepped hastily into the room. One of them approached him with politeness: "Sir," said he, "you will have the goodness to follow us instantly. You must perform a marriage ceremony; the bride and bridegroom are already waiting your arrival at the church. This sum," continued the stranger-exhibiting to the old man a purse full of gold—“will sufficiently recompense you for the trouble and alarm our sudden demand has given you."

The curé stared in mute terror upon the strangers, who seemed to have something fearful-almost ghastly in their looks; the demand was repeated in an earnest and authoritative tone. When the old man had recovered from his first surprise, he began mildly to represent that his duty did not allow him to perform so solemn an action without some knowledge of the parties, and the intervention of those formalities required by law. The other stranger

voice, which rung throughout the whole church, while deep sighs from the whole spectators accompanied the awful "yes;" and a silent quivering, like the reflection of a flash of distant lightning, threw a transitory motion over the death-pale features of the bride. The priest turned to her, speaking louder to raise her from her trance: "Feodora, wilt thou have this man for thy wedded husband?" The lifeless form before him at this question seemed to awake-a deep convulsive throb of terror trembled on her cheeks-her pale lips quivered a passing gleam of fire shone in her eyes her breast heaved-a violent gush of tears flooded the brilliance of her eyes, and the "yes" was heard pronounced like the scream of anguish uttered by a dying person, and seemed to find a deep echo in the sounds of grief which burst from the surrounding multitude. The bride sank into the arms of the horrid old hag; some minutes passed in awful silence; the pale corpse-like female then kneeled again, as if in a deep trance, and the ceremony was finished. The bridegroom now rose and led the trembling bride to her former place, followed by the tall man and the old woman; the two strangers then appeared again, and having bound the priest's eyes, drew him with violence through the crowd, and pushed him out at the door, which they then bolted within.

For some minutes he stood endeavouring to recollect himself, and uncertain whether the horrid scene, with all its ghastly attendant circumstances, might not have been a dream; but when he had torn the bandage from his eyes, and saw the illuminated church before him, and heard the murmuring of the crowd, he was forced to believe its reality. To learn the issue, he hid himself in a corner of the building, and while listening here he heard the murmuring within grow louder and louder --then it seemed as if a fierce altercation arose, in which he thought he could recognize the rough voice of the bridegroom commanding silence-a long pause followed-a shot fell the shriek of a female voice was heard, which was succeeded by another pause-then followed a sound of labour, which lasted about a quarter of an hour-the candles were extinguished— the murmuring arose again-the door was flung open, and a multitude of persons rushed, out of the church, and ran towards the sea.

The old priest now arose from his hidingplace, and hastened back to the village, where he awoke his neighbours and friends, and related to them his incredible and marvellous adventure; but everything which had hitherto

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fallen out amongst these simple people had been so calm and tranquil—so much measured by the laws of daily routine, that they were seized with a very different terror, they believed that some unfortunate accident had deranged the intellects of their beloved pastor, and it was not without difficulty that he prevailed on some of them to follow him to the church, provided with picks and spades.

Meanwhile the morning had dawned, the sun arose, and when the priest and his companions ascended the hill towards the church, they saw a man-of-war standing off from the shore under full sail towards the north. So surprising a sight in this remote district made his companions already hesitate to reject his story as improbable, and still more were they inclined to listen to him when they saw that the side-door of the church had been violently burst open. They entered full of expectation, and the priest showed them the grave which he had seen opened in the night-time; it was easily perceived that the stone had been lifted up and replaced again; they put their implements in motion, and soon came to a new richly adorned coffin; the old man descended with almost youthful impatience into the grave, and others followed him, the cover was taken off, and the priest found all his awful forebodings confirmed. In the coffin lay the murdered bride a bullet had pierced her breast right to the heart-the magnificent diadem she had worn had disappeared; but the distracted expression of deep grief had vanished from her countenance, and a heavenly calm seemed spread over her features as she lay there like an angel. The old man threw himself down on his knees near the coffin, and wept and prayed aloud for the soul of the murdered, while mute astonishment and horror seized his companions.

The clergyman found himself obliged to make this event instantly known, with all its circumstances, to his superior, the Bishop of Zealand; meanwhile, until he got further instructions from Copenhagen, he bound all his friends to secrecy by an oath. Shortly afterwards a person of high rank suddenly arrived from the capital; he inquired into all the circumstances, visited the grave, commended the silence which had been hitherto observed, and stated that the whole event must remain for ever a secret, threatening at the same time with a severe punishment any person who should dare to speak of it.

After the death of the priest a writing was found in the parochial register narrating this