his companions to stay the bark, and scarcely had they obeyed, when having leapt into the flood, he was soon descried by them, climbing up the jutting crags below the cavern-he entered beneath its low-browed opening, and disappeared. Gazing upon each other with looks of dread, and fearing to > speak, lest there should be horror in the tones of their own voices, they retired to some distance, waiting in the hope that the adventurer might re-appear: at length they returned to the castle, in the same silence of terror as they had hitherto observed. "Where was their companion, the Count-had he perished? How had they lost him-what had they beheld ?" These and similar questions were put to them by the terrified inmates: their replies were brief, vague, and incoherent, but all of dreadful import; and no doubt remained as to the youth's having become the victim of his own temerity. The following morning when the family were assembled, and preparing to commence their matin repast, Lord Albert advanced into the hall, and took his wonted station at the table, with the usual salutations. All started as if a spectre had stood before them-yet, strange to say, no one dared to address him as to his absence, or his mysterious return-for he had apparently but just quitted his chamber, clad in his wonted morning apparel; every one was as spell bound, since no sooner did any attempt to question the Count, than he felt the words die away upon his lips. There sat a wondrous paleness upon brow, yet was it not sad; there was, too, a more than common fire in the expression of his eye; he was thoughtful-at times abstracted, but instantly roused himself, and essayed to animate the conversation. If the silence of the others was singular, that of Albert himself was equally so, for he took no notice whatever of the occurrences of the preceding evening. No sooner had he quitted the hall, than every one began to inquire of his neighbour, if he knew his when, or how the Count had returned -to wonder at their own silence on this topic, and impute it to some magic charm. Day after day did they continue to express to each other their astonishment, their surmises, their apprehensions; but even his most familiar friends did not venture ever to speak a syllable to him on the subject of their curiosity: among other circumstances, which were whispered about, it had been remarked, that instead of the ring the Count used to wear, which was of great value and family antiquity, he now had one, of which the circlet itself, and not the ornament, was apparently cut out of a single piece of emerald, and, as some averred, who had taken the opportunity of examining it, unperceived by its wearer, inscribed with mystic characters. In time, however, these circumstances ceased to be the theme of their conversation, and even appeared forgotton during the preparations for the approaching nuptials between the Count and the Lady Bertha; and were never mentioned during the gaieties attendant upon their solemnization. On the evening after the bridal day, while the Count was conversing apart with one of his guests, in the recess of an oriel window, the faint beam of the new moon fell upon his face he looked up aghast, as if struck by some sudden, dreadful recollection, and, dashing his hand against his forehead, rushed wildly out of the apartment. Consternation seized all who witnessed this dreadful burst of dismay, of which none could tell the cause. Retired from his guests, the Count was hastily pacing to and fro, in a long gallery leading to his private apartments, when Bertha broke in upon him. She did not notice his extreme disorder, being herself hardly less agitated; but informed him, that on the preceding night, a figure, veiled in long flowing drapery, had been standing at their chamber door, and the next morning a ring picked up by her attendants on the 66 very spot where this mysterious appearance had been observed. She then gave the ring to her lord, it was that which he had formerly worn. Fatal, fatal night! Listen, Bertha !" exclaimed he, in a tone of anguish. "Impelled by curiosity, I visited the cave of the Water-Lady;' it was on the third of the moon. She compelled me to an interchange of rings. It was from her hand that I received this fatal one, which you observe on my finger, and which I am bound by a solemn vow never to lay aside. I vowed also," he shuddered as he spoke—" to consent to receive a visit from her on the third of the moon; this I was obliged to do, or incur all the consequence of her wrath, while yet in her power: from that fatal period, I have been obliged to submit to these intercourses with a strange being-the consequence of my unhallowed curiosity. Last night was due to her!" Bertha listened in horror; the Count looked on his, finger, the circlet of emerald was gone; how he knew not, but he hoped that he was now released from his terrible vow, yet felt a strange presentiment of impending misfortune. Bertha, notwithstanding her own distress, endeavoured to cheer him, but became alarmed herself at the ashy paleness of his countenance: he tried to persuade her he was not so disturbed as she imagined, and turned to a mirror, for the purpose of seeing whether his features wore the deadly aspect she fancied; but a cry of horror issued from his lips: the mirror had reflected his dress, but neither his hands nor his face. He felt that he was under the bann of that mysterious being, with whom his fate was so strangely linked. A deadly chill darted through his heart; he rushed to his chamber, but no sooner had he laid his fingers upon the bolt of the door, than he felt them grasped by a cold icy hand. "Albert," cried a voice," thou hast broken the compact so solemnly ratified between us. Last night was the third of the moon: know that spirits may not be trifled with." Bertha had followed her bridegroom: she had heard the awful voice-she felt that some strange visitation was at hand, yet was not therefore deterred from entering the apartment. The next day, no traces of either Albert or Bertha could be discovered, they were never seen again; and all agreed that they had perished by the revenge of the " Water-Lady." The castle was deserted; became a ruin, and the peasantry used ever afterwards to point out with dismay the fatal cavern of the Black Water Vault, and to relate to the traveller the legend of the Water-Lady. THE HARP. A Tale. FROM THE GERMAN OF KÖRNER. THE secretary Sellner had begun to taste the first spring of happiness with his youthful bride. Their union was not founded on that vague and evanescent passion which often lives and dies almost in the same moment-sympathy and esteem formed the basis of their attachment. Time and experience, without diminishing the ardour, had confirmed the permanence of their mutual sentiments. It was long since they had discovered that they were formed for each other, but want of fortune imposed the necessity of a tedious probation; till Sellner, by obtaining the patent for a place, found himself in possession of an easy competence, and on the following Sunday brought home in triumph his long-betrothed bride. A succession of ceremonious visits for some weeks engrossed many of those hours that the young couple would have devoted to each other. But no sooner was this generous duty fulfilled than they eagerly escaped from the intrusion of society to their delicious solitude; and the fine summer evenings were but too short for plans and anticipations of future felicity. Sellner's flute and Josephine's harp filled up the intervals of conversation, and with their harmonious unison seemed to sound the prelude to many succeeding years of bliss and concord. One evening, when Josephine had played longer than usual, she suddenly complained of head-ache; she had, in reality, risen with this symptom of indisposition, but concealed it from her anxious husband; naturally susceptible of nervous complaints, the attention which she had lent to the music, and the emotions it excited in her delicate frame, had increased a slight indisposition to fever, and she was now evidently ill. A physician was called in, who so little anticipated danger that he promised a cure on the morrow. But after a night spent in delirium, her disorder was pronounced a nervous fever, which completely baffled the efforts of medical skill, and on the ninth day was confessedly mortal. Josephine herself was perfectly sensible of her approaching dissolution, and with mild resignation submitted to her fate. Addressing her husband, for the last time, she exclaimed, "My dear Edward, heaven can witness it is with unutterable regret that I depart from this fair world, where I have found with thee a state of supreme felicity; but though I am no longer permitted to live in those arms, doubt not thy faithful Josephine shall still hover round thee, and as a guardian-angel encircle thee till we meet again." She had scarcely uttered these words when she sunk on her pillow, and soon fell into a slumber, from which she awoke no more; and when the clock was striking nine, it was observed that she had breathed her last. The agonies of Sellner may be more easily conceived than described; during some days it appeared doubtful whether he would survive; and when, after a confinement of some weeks, he was at length permitted to leave his chamber, the powers of youth seemed paralyzed, his limbs were enfeebled, his frame emaciated, and he sunk into a state of stupor, from which he was only to be roused by the bitterness of grief. To this poignant anguish succeeded a fixed melancholy; a deep sorrow consecrated the memory of his beloved: her apartment remained precisely in the state in which it had been left previous to her death; on the work-table lay her unfinished task; the harp stood in its accustomed nook untouched and silent ; every night Sellner went in a sort of pilgrimage to the sanctuary of his love, and taking his flute, breathed forth, in deep plaintive tones, his fervent aspirations for the cherished shade. He was thus standing in Josephine's apartment, lost in thought, when a broad gleam of moonlight fell on the open window, and from the neighbouring tower the watchman proclaimed the ninth hour; at this moment, as if touched by some invisible spirit, the harp was heard to respond to his flute in perfect unison. Thunderstruck at this prodigy, Sellner suspended his flute, and the harp became silent; he then began, with deep emotion, Josephine's favourite air, when the harp resumed its melodious vibrations, thrilling with ecstacy. At this confirmation of his hopes he sunk on the ground, no longer doubting the presence of the beloved spirit; and whilst he opened his arms to clasp her to his breast, he seemed to drink in the breath of spring, and a pale glimmering light flitted before his eyes. "I know thee, blessed spirit!" exclaimed the bewildered Sell lief that he should not survive the approaching evening. No arguments could remove from his mind this fatal presage ; as the day declined, it gained strength; and he earnestly entreated, as his last request, to be conveyed to Josephine's apartment. The prayer was granted. Sellner no sooner reached the wellknown spot than he gazed with ineffable satisfaction on every object endeared by affectionate remembrance. ner, thou didst promise to hover round my steps, to encircle me with thy immortal love. Thou hast redeemed thy word; it is thy breath that glows on my lips; I feel myself surrounded by thy presence." With rapturous emotion he snatched the flute, and the harp again responded, but gradually its tones became softer, till the melodious murmurs ceased, and all again was silent. Sellner's feeble frame was completely disordered by these tumultuous emotions; when he threw himself on his bed, it was only to rave deliriously of the harp. After a sleepless night he rose only to anticipate the renewal of his emotions; with unspeakable impatience he awaited the return of evening, when he again repaired to Josephine's apartment; where, as before, when the clock struck nine, the harp began to play, in concert with the flute, and prolonged its melodious accompaniment till the tones gradually subsided to a faint and tremulous vibration, and all again was silent. Exhausted by this second trial, it was with difficulty that Sellner tottered to his chamber, where the visible alteration in his appearance excited so much alarm, that the physician was again call-long before he could bring himself to ed in, who, with sorrow and dismay, detected aggravated symptoms of the fever which had proved so fatal to Josephine; and so rapid was its progress that in two days the patient's fate appeared inevitable. Sellner became more composed, and revealed to the physician the secret of his late mysterious communications, avowing his be The evening hour advanced; he dismissed his attendants, the physician alone remaining in the apartment When the clock struck nine Sellner's countenance was suddenly illumined; the glow of hope and pleasure flushed his wan cheeks, and he passionately exclaimed-" Josephine, greet me once more at parting, that I may overcome the pangs of death." At these words the harp breathed forth a strain of jubilee, a sudden gleam of light waved round the dying man, who, on beholding the sign, exclaimed-" I come I come to thee !" and sunk senseless on the couch. It was in vain that the astonished physician hastened to his assistance, and he too late discovered that life had yielded in the conflict. It was divulge the mysterious circumstances which had preceded Sellner's dissolution; but once, in a moment of confidence, he was insensibly led to make the detail to a few intimate friends, and finally produced the harp, which he had appropriated to himself as a legacy from the dead. The following is one of a series of interesting tales on the traditions of the Scottish coast, and was originally printed in the London Magazine. On the Scottish side of the sea of Solway, is seen from Allanbay and Skinverness the beautiful old castle of Caerlaverock, standing on a small woody promontory, bounded by the river Nith on one side, by the deep sea on another, by the almost impassable morass of Solway on a third; while far beyond may be observed the three spires of Dumfries, and the high green hills of Dalswinton and Keir. It was formerly the residence of the almost 4 princely names of Douglas, Seaton, Kirkpatrick, and Maxwell: it is now the dwelling place of the hawk and the owl; its courts are a lair for cattle, and its walls afford a midnight shelter to the passing smuggler; or, like those of the city doomed in Scripture, are places for the fishermen to dry their nets. tween this fine old ruin and the banks of the Nith, at the foot of a grove of pines, and within a stone cast of tidemark, the remains of a rude cottage Be |