The bridegroom listened to this tale with profound attention. He kept his eyes steadily fixed on the baron, and, as the story drew to a close, began gradually to rise from his seat, growing taller and taller, until, in the baron's entranced eye, he seemed almost to tower into a giant. The moment the tale was finished, he heaved a deep sigh, and took a solemn farewell of the company. They were all amazement. The baron was perfectly thunderstruck.

"What! going to leave the castle at midnight? why, everything was prepared for his reception: a chamber was ready for him if he wished to retire."

The stranger shook his head mournfully and mysteriously; "I must lay my head in a different chamber to-night?"

There was something in this reply, and the tone in which it was uttered, that made the baron's heart misgive him; but he rallied his forces and repeated his hospitable entreaties. The stranger shook his head silently, but positively, at every offer; and, waving his farewell to the company, stalked slowly out of the hall. The maiden aunts were absolutely petrified the bride hung her head, and a tear stole to her eye.

The baron followed the stranger to the great court of the castle, where the black charger stood pawing the earth, and snorting with impatience. When they had reached the portal, whose deep archway was dimly lighted by a cresset, the stranger paused and addressed the baron in a hollow tone of voice, which the vaulted roof rendered still more sepulchral. "Now that we are alone," said he, "I will impart to you the reason of my going. I have a solemn, an indispensable engagement—" "Why," said the baron, "cannot you send some one in your place?"

"It admits of no substitute-I must attend it in person-I must away to Wurtzburg Cathedral-"

"Ay," said the baron, plucking up spirit, "but not until to-morrow-to-morrow you shall take your bride there."

He sprang on his black charger, dashed over the draw-bridge, and the clattering of his horse's hoofs were lost in the whistling of the night blast.

The baron returned to the hall in the utmost consternation, and related what had passed. Two ladies fainted outright, others sickened at the idea of having banqueted with a spectre. It was the opinion of some that this might be the wild huntsman famous in German legend. Some talked of mountain sprites, of wood-demons, and of other supernatural beings, with which the good people of Germany have been so grievously harassed since time immemorial. One of the poor relations ventured to suggest that it might be some sportive evasion of the young cavalier, and that the very gloominess of the caprice seemed to accord with so melancholy a personage. This, however, drew on him the indignation of the whole company, and especially of the baron, who looked upon him as little better than an infidel; so that he was fain to abjure his heresy as speedily as possible, and come into the faith of the true believers.

But, whatever may have been the doubts entertained, they were completely put to an end by the arrival, next day, of regular missives, confirming the intelligence of the young count's murder, and his interment in Wurtzburg Cathedral.

The dismay at the castle may well be imagined. The baron shut himself up in his chamber. The guests, who had come to rejoice with him, could not think of abandoning him in his distress. They wandered about the courts, or collected in groups in the hall, shaking their heads and shrugging their shoulders at the troubles of so good a man; and sat longer than ever at table, and ate and drank more stoutly than ever, by way of keeping up their spirits. But the situation of the widowed bride was the most pitiable. To have lost a husband before she had even embraced him-and such a husband! If the very spectre could be so gracious and noble, what must have been the living man! She filled the house with lamentations.

On the night of the second day of her widowhood she had retired to her chamber, accompanied by one of her aunts, who insisted on

sleeping with her. The aunt, who was one of the best tellers of ghost stories in all Germany, had just been recounting one of her longest, and had fallen asleep in the very midst of it. The chamber was remote, and overlooked a small garden. The niece lay pensively gazing at the beams of the rising moon, as they trembled on the leaves of an aspen-tree before the lattice. The castle clock had just tolled midnight, when a soft strain of music stole up from the garden. She rose hastily from her bed, and stepped lightly to the window. A tall figure stood among the shadows of the trees. As it raised its head, a beam of moonlight fell upon the countenance. Heaven and earth! she beheld the spectre bridegroom! A loud shriek at that moment burst upon her ear, and her aunt, who had been awakened by the music, and had followed her silently to the window, fell into her arms. When she looked again, the spectre had disappeared.

Of the two females, the aunt now required the most soothing, for she was perfectly beside herself with terror. As to the young lady, there was something, even in the spectre of her lover, that seemed endearing. There was still the semblance of manly beauty; and though the shadow of a man is but little calculated to satisfy the affections of a love-sick girl, yet, where the substance is not to be had, even that is consoling. The aunt declared she would never sleep in that chamber again; the niece, for once, was refractory, and declared as strongly that she would sleep in no other in the castle: the consequence was, that she had to sleep in it alone; but she drew a promise from her aunt not to relate the story of the spectre, lest she should be denied the only melancholy pleasure left her on earth-that of inhabiting the chamber over which the guardian shade of her lover kept its nightly vigils.

How long the good old lady would have observed this promise is uncertain, for she dearly loved to talk of the marvellous, and there is a triumph in being the first to tell a frightful story; it is, however, still quoted in the neighbourhood, as a memorable instance of female secrecy, that she kept it to herself for a whole week; when she was suddenly absolved from all further restraint by intelligence brought to the breakfast table one morning, that the young lady was not to be found. Her room was empty-the bed had not been slept in the window was open, and the bird had flown.

The astonishment and concern with which the intelligence was received, can only be imagined by those who have witnessed the

agitation which the mishaps of a great man cause among his friends. Even the poor relations paused for a moment from the indefatigable labours of the trencher; when the aunt, who had at first been struck speechless, wrung her hands, and shrieked out, "The goblin! the goblin! she's carried away by the goblin!"

In a few words she related the fearful scene of the garden, and concluded that the spectre must have carried off his bride. Two of the domestics corroborated the opinion, for they had heard the clattering of a horse's hoofs down the mountain about midnight, and had no doubt that it was the spectre on his black charger, bearing her away to the tomb. All present were struck with the direful probability; for events of the kind are extremely common in Germany, as many well-authenticated histories bear witness.

What a lamentable situation was that of the poor baron! What a heart-rending dilemma for a fond father, and a member of the great family of Katzenellenbogen! His only daughter had either been rapt away to the grave, or he was to have some wood-demon for a son-inlaw, and perchance a troop of goblin grandchildren. As usual, he was completely bewildered, and all the castle in an uproar. The men were ordered to take horse, and to scour every road and path and glen of the Odenwald. The baron himself had just drawn on his jack-boots, girded on his sword, and was about to mount his steed to sally forth on the doubtful quest, when he was brought to a pause by a new apparition. A lady was seen approaching the castle, mounted on a palfrey, attended by a cavalier on horseback. She galloped up to the gate, sprang from her horse, and, falling at the baron's feet, embraced his knees. It was his lost daughter, and her companionthe Spectre Bridegroom! The baron was astounded. He looked at his daughter, then at the spectre, and almost doubted the evidence of his senses. The latter, too, was wonderfully improved in his appearance, since his visit to the world of spirits. His dress was splendid, and set off a noble figure of manly symmetry. He was no longer pale and melancholy. fine countenance was flushed with the glow of youth, and joy rioted in his large dark eye.

His

The mystery was soon cleared up. The cavalier (for in truth, as you must have known all the while, he was no goblin) announced himself as Sir Herman Von Starkenfaust. He related his adventure with the young count. He told how he had hastened to the castle to deliver the unwelcome tidings, but that the eloquence of the baron had interrupted him in

every attempt to tell his tale; how the sight of the bride had completely captivated him, and that to pass a few hours near her, he had tacitly suffered the mistake to continue; how he had been sorely perplexed in what way to make a decent retreat, until the baron's goblin stories had suggested his eccentric exit; how, fearing the feudal hostility of the family, he had repeated his visits by stealth-had haunted the garden beneath the young lady's window-had wooed-had won-had borne away in triumph-and, in a word, had wedded the fair. Under any other circumstances, the baron would have been inflexible, for he was tenacious of paternal authority, and devoutly obstinate in all family feuds; but he loved his daughter; he had lamented her as lost; he rejoiced to find her still alive; and, though her husband was of a hostile house, yet, thank Heaven, he was not a goblin. There was something, it must be acknowledged, that did not exactly accord with his notions of strict veracity, in the joke the knight had passed upon him of his being a dead man; but several old friends present, who had served in the wars, assured him that every stratagem was excusable in love, and that the cavalier was entitled to especial privilege, having lately served as a trooper.

Matters, therefore, were happily arranged. The baron pardoned the young couple on the spot. The revels at the castle were resumed. The poor relations overwhelmed this new member of the family with loving kindness; he was so gallant, so generous-and so rich. The aunts, it is true, were somewhat scandalized that their system of strict seclusion and passive obedience should be so badly exemplified, but attributed it all to their negligence in not having the windows grated. One of them was particularly mortified at having her marvellous story marred, and that the only spectre she had ever seen should turn out a counterfeit; but the niece seemed perfectly happy at having found him substantial flesh and blood -and so the story ends.

THE OATH.

"Do you," said Fanny, t'other day,
"In earnest love me as you say?
Or are these tender words applied
Alike to fifty girls beside?"
"Dear, cruel girl," said I, "forbear-
For by these cherry lips I swear"-
She stopp'd me as the oath I took,

And said, "You've sworn-so kiss the book."

FESTUS.

[Philip James Bailey, born at Nottingham, 29d April, 1816. He is the son of Thomas Bailey, author of the Annals of Notts. He studied at the Glasgow University, and was called to the bar in 1840. Festus first appeared in 1839 (the eighth edition in 1868), and was at once acknowledged to be a great poem. "With a truth, force, and simplicity seldom paralleled," says Dr. Westland Marston, "we have here disclosed the very inmost life of a sincere and energetic mind." The Rev. P. Landreth says: "There is no poem in any language which gives such a noble and striking idea of humanity under a divine grace which bears it victorious from and through evil, within and without." The scope of the poem is somewhat similar to that of Goethe's Faust, from which it differs, however, in many essential principles. Festus is tempted by Lucifer, but is purified and saved, as is Lucifer himself, by divine grace. Mr. Bailey's other works are: The Angel World, now incorporated with Festus; The Mystic; The Age, a satire; and The Universal Hymn. We have selected the scene from Festus in which the hero reveals something of his own character.]

Scene-Home; Dusk

FESTUS, HELEN, and the STUDENT.

Festus. I knew one once-he was a friend of mine: I knew him well; his mind, habits, and works, Taste, temper, temperament, and every thing; Yet with as kind a heart as beats, he was

Earthlike no sooner made than marred. Though young,

He wrote amid the ruins of his heart;
They were his throne and theme-like some lone king,
Who tells the story of the land he lost,
And how he lost it.

Helen. Nay, but it saddens thee.
Festus.

"Tis like enough.
We slip away like shadows into shade;
We end, and make no mark we had begun;
We come to nothing, like a pure intent.
When we have hoped, sought, striven, and lost our aim,
Then the truth fronts us, beaming out of darkness,
Like a white brow, through its overshadowing hair-
As though the day were overcast, my Helen!
But I was speaking of my friend. He was
Quick, generous, simple, obstinate in end,
High-hearted from his youth; his spirit rose
In many a glittering fold and gleamy crest,
Hydra-like to its hindrance; mastering all,
Save one thing-love, and that out-hearted him.
Nor did he think enough, till it was over,
How bright a thing he was breaking, or he would
Surely have shunned it, nor have let his life
Be pulled to pieces like a rose by a child.

And his heart's passions made him oft do that
Which made him writhe to think on what he had done,
And thin his blood by weeping at a night.

If madness wrought the sin, the sin wrought madness,
And made a round of ruin. It is sad

Then he loved.

Brings sorrow, but love's objects,
Student.

Festus. I said so. I have seen him, when he hath had A letter from his lady dear, he blessed

The paper that her hand had travelled over,
And her eye looked on; and would think he saw
Gleams of that light she lavished from her eyes
Wandering amid the words of love there traced,
Like glow-worms among beds of flowers. He seemed
To bear with being but because she loved him.
She was the sheath wherein his soul had rest,
As hath a sword from war: and he at night
Would solemnly and singularly curse

Each minute that he had not thought of her.
Helen. Now that was like a lover! and she loved
Him, and him only.

Festus. There is a dark and bright to every thing;
To everything but beauty such as thine,
And that is all bright. If a fault in him,

"Twas one which made him do the sweetest wrongs
Man ever did. And yet a whisper went
That he did wrong: and if that whisper had
Echo in him or not, it mattered little;
Or right or wrong, he were alike unhappy.
Ah me! ah me! that there should be so much
To call up love, so little to delight!
The best enjoyment is half disappointment
To that we mean or would have in this world.
And there were many strange and sudden lights
Beckoned him towards them; they were wreckers' lights:
But he shunned these, and righted when she rose,
Moon of his life, that ebbed and flowed with her.
A sea of sorrow struck him, but he held
On; dashed all sorrow from him as a bark
Spray from her bow bounding: he lifted up
His head, and the deep ate his shadow merely.
Helen. A poet not in love is out at sea;
He must have a lay-figure.

Helen. Describe the lady, too; of course she was. Above all praise and all comparison.

Festus. Why, true. Her heart was all humanity
Her soul all God's; in spirit and in form
Like fair. Her cheek had the pale pearly pink
Of sea-shells, the world's sweetest tint, as though
She lived, one half might deem, on roses sopped
In silver dew; she spake as with the voice
Of spheral harmony which greets the soul
When at the hour of death the saved one knows
His sister angels near; her eye was as

The golden pane the setting sun doth just
Imblaze; which shows, till heaven comes down again,
All other lights but grades of gloom; her dark,
Long rolling locks were as a stream the slave
Might search for gold, and searching find. Her frown-
Helen. Nay, could she frown?

Festus.

Ay, but a radiant frown
In common with the stars, which men malign
Who call malignant. Stars are always kind.
Helen. Enough. I have her picture perfect. Cease.
Student. What were his griefs?

Festus.
He who hath most of heart
Knows most of sorrow; not a thing he saw
Nor did, but was to him, at times, a woe;
At times indifferent, at times a joy.
Folly and sin and memory make a curse
Wherewith the future fires my vie in vain.
The sorrows of the soul are graver still.

Student. Where and when did he study? Did he mix Much with the world, or was he a recluse?

Festus. He had no times of study, and no place;
All places and all times to him were one.
His soul was like the wind-harp, which he loved,
And sounded only when the spirit blew.
Sometimes in feasts and follies, for he went
Lifelike through all things; and his thoughts then rose
Like sparkles in the bright wine, brighter still.
Sometimes in dreams, and then the shining words
Would wake him in the dark before his face.

All things talked thoughts to him. The sea went mad,
And the wind whined as 'twere in pain, to show
Each one his meaning; and the awful sun
Thundered his thoughts into him; and at night
The stars would whisper theirs, the moon sigh hers.
The spirit speaks all tongues and understands
Both God's and angel's, man's and all dumb things,
Down to an insect's inarticulate hum,
And an inaudible organ. And it was
The spirit spake to him of everything;
And with the moony eyes like those we see,
Thousands on thousands, crowding air in dreams,
Looked into him its mighty meanings, till

He felt the power fulfil him, as a cloud

In every fibre feels the forming wind.

He spake the world's one tongue; in earth and heaven
There is but one, it is the word of truth.

To him the eye let out its hidden meaning;
And young and old made their hearts over to him;

And thoughts were told to him as unto none Save one who heareth said and unsaid, all. And his heart held these as a grate its gleeds, Where others warm them.

Student.

I would I had known him. Festus. All things were inspiration unto him: Wood, wold, hill, field, sea, city, solitude, And crowds and streets, and man where'er he was; And the blue eye of God which is above us; Brook-bounded pine spinnies where spirits fit; And haunted pits the rustic hurries by, Where cold wet ghosts sit ringing jingling bells; Old orchard's leaf-roofed aisles, and red-cheeked load; And the blood-coloured tears which yew-trees weep O'er churchyard graves, like murderers remorseful. The dark green rings where fairies sit and sup, Crushing the violet dew in the acorn cup; Where by his new-made bride the bridegroom sips, The white moon shimmering on their longing lips; The large o'erloaded wealthy-looking wains, Quietly swaggering home through leafy lanes, Leaving on all low branches, as they come, Straws for the birds, ears of the harvest home. Summer's warm soil or winter's cruel sky, Clear, cold, and icy-blue like a sea-eagle's eye; All things to Him bare thoughts of minstrelsy. He drew his light from that he was amidst, As doth a lamp from air, which hath itself Matter of light although it show not. His Was but the power to light what might be lit; He met a muse in every lovely maid, And learned a song from every lip he loved. But his heart ripened most 'neath southern eyes, Which sunned their sweets into him all day long: For fortune called him southwards, towards the sun. Helen. Did he love music? Festus.

The only music he Or learned or listened to was from the lips Of her he loved; and then he learned by heart Her words, delicious as the candied dew, And durable, which gems the rose, on shores Pacific, where the western sun hath sown The soil conceptive with the seed of gold. Albeit she would try to teach him tunes, And put his fingers on the keys; but he Could only see her eyes, and hear her voice, And feel her touch.

He knew so much, leading the life he did.
Student. Yet it may seem less strange when we think
back,

That we, in the dark chamber of the heart,
Sitting alone, see the world tabled to us;
And the world wonders how recluses know
So much, and most of all how we know them.
It is they who paint themselves upon our hearts
In their own lights and darknesses, not we;
One stream of light is to us from above,
And that is that we see by, light of God.

Festus. We do not make our thoughts; they grow

in us

Like grain in wood: the growth is of the skies,
Which are of nature, nature is of God.
The world is full of glorious likenesses.
The poet's power is to sort these out,
And to make music from the common strings
With which the world is strung; to make the dumb
Earth utter heavenly harmony, and draw
Life clear, and sweet, and harmless as spring water,
Welling its way through flowers. Without faith,
Illimitable faith-strong as a state's

In its own might-in God, no bard can be.
All things are signs of other and of nature.
It is at night we see heaven moveth, and

A darkness thick with suns. The thoughts we think
Subsist the same in God as stars in heaven.
And as these specks of light will prove great worlds,
When we approach them sometime free from flesh,
So too our thoughts will become magnified
To mindlike things immortal. And as space

Is but a property of God wherein

Is laid all matter, other attributes

May be the infinite homes of mind and soul.
And thoughts rise from our souls, as from the sea
The clouds sublimed in heaven. The cloud is cold,
Although ablaze with lightning-though it shine
At all points like a constellation; so
We live not to ourselves, our work is life;

In bright and ceaseless labour as a star

Which shineth unto all worlds but itself.

Helen. And were this friend and bard of whom thou