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THE FATHER'S FATAL VOW!

From the German.

Opposite to Bingen, on the river Rhine, the ruined castle of Rüdesheim crowns a lofty rock that overhangs the water; and on an insulated crag, midway across the river, stands an ancient ivy-covered tower, called the "Mausthurm," or (Mouse Tower,) from a marvellous tradition of the 10th century, respecting an Archbishop Hatto, who was devoured by a host of rats. But the mouldering walls of Rüdesheim most powerfully awaken the sympathies of the traveller by the following mournful legend

Ir was at the time when St. Bernard preached the gospel at Spire that Brömser, Knight of Rüdesheim, took up the Cross, and set out for the Holy Land. During one of the many disastrous battles of that Crusade, it was his fate to be captured by the infidels and transported to a spot whence his deliverance seemed hopeless. Though Fortune had thus deserted him, he still clung to his religion; and with pious zeal vowed, that, in the event of recovering his freedom, his only child, Gisele, should dedicate her future life to the services of the Virgin in immediately taking the veil. Days, weeks, months, years, rolled heavily away, and still Brömser was a captive: at length, however, a series of successes enabled the Christians to penetrate as far as his place of thraldom, and the knight was again free. His enthusiasm in the cause had, however, subsided, and Brömser returned to Germany. He arrived at Rüdesheim, entered his castle gate, and in an instant was recognized by his daughter, now grown to woman-hood. She rushed into his arms blooming with all the graces, youth, beauty, and innocence, could impart, and beaming with a filial affection as ardent as it was sincere. How the blood froze in her father's veins as he recollected his vow! and when he announced it to his daughter, animated with joy at his safe return, "Oh what a change was there!" Gisele had given her heart to a neighbouring knight wholly worthy of her love, and the completion of their happiness awaited but the long looked-for return of her parent.

And was she thus suddenly to see her fairest hopes nipped in the bud,-her

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dearest prospects blasted, her tenderest ties thus violently torn asunder? She threw herself at her father's feet and implored him to grant her some little respite. She assured him of her determination to abandon her love and devote herself to the accomplishment of his vow; but entreated that she might not be forced from the spot where she had first seen the light of day, nor torn from the presence of a parent for whom, she trusted, her present resolution would evince the intensity of her affection. The only pleasure she aspired to in future, was that of nursing his declining health. She reminded him of the innumerable times he had borne her, yet an infant, in his arms; of the happy, irrevocable days, when she had sported in all the playfulness of childhood on his knee; and now, was it possible, that heaven could require her to abandon him when most he needed her support? Brömser's heart bled; but the thought of his vow stifled the tenderness of parental affection. He even threatened his daughter with his malediction if she hesitated in her compliance. This menace completed the frenzy of Gisele. Her head became giddy,-her senses forsook her, and she burst unconsciously from the room. A father's curse seemed to pursue her like a phantom; she flew along the balcony that overhung the Rhine. It was night; the tempest howled, and the waves lashed furiously the rocks on which the castle stood, but Gisele heard them not. She rushed madly forwards;-the abyss was at her feet.

In the morning her distracted attendants found the mangled corpse of their mistress near the tower of Hatto !

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IN THE to deco habegon of profil worl

HALLS OF WERDENDORFF!

From the German.

"The traveller full often the tale will inquire,
And wander the time-stricken ruins between,'
The peasants, full oft, will encircle the fire,
And talk of Lord Albert and fair Josephine;
Will tell what grim spectres the wand'rer appal,
Whose feet so unhallowed o'er Werdendorff rove!
How lights more than mortal illumine the hall,
While Albert is clasped by his skeleton love!
Full oft will the damsel 'mid eve's sober gloom,
Review each sad spot of the desolate scene;
Will shuddering pass by the libertine's tomb,
And weep o'er the lovely but frail Josephine."

ALBERT, lord of the ancient castle of Werdendorff, on the borders of the Black Forest, was a nobleman of elegant person, and fascinating manners; but his heart was prone to deceit. He was well versed in all the wily arts of seduction, and he paid slight attention to the fulfilling of either religious or

moral duties, when opposed as a bar to his pleasures.

At the distance of half a league from his stately abode, resided the fair Josephine in an humble cottage, happy, virtuous, and respected. Beauty and innocence were the only dower she possessed, Her father had been a subaltern

officer in the emperor's service. Her mother was the only child of a very poor, but very respectable pastor. Francisco, her father, had fallen in the field of battle when she had attained her fifth year. His disconsolate widow retired with her trifling pension from Vienna, where she had hitherto resided, to the vicinity of Werdendorff, where she lived with her darling child in a peaceful and retired seclusion now so congenial to their feelings. The education of Josephine she attended to with the most sedulous care, and was amply repaid by the docility of her pupil. At the age of sixten, Josephine lost her parent, who, previous to her dissolution, gave every advice that a virtuous mind could dictate, with regard to the subsequent conduct of her daughter. Josephine listened to her virtuous counsels with attention, and while the pearly drops chased each other down her pallid cheeks, promised a strict adherence to the wishes of her dying parent. Alas! how little to be depended upon are the promises and resolutions of mortals!

The remains of the mother of Josephine being decently interred, the sorrowing girl soon felt herself obliged to grant less indulgence to heartfelt grief, that she might toil for each day's bread. Her parent's pension expired with her; and our fair maid, to pay the rent of her cottage, and defray her necessary expenditures, was obliged to leave her humble pallet with the first salute of the lark, and ply her needle with assiduous and unremitting industry. Her Her labour was crowned with success. She lived happy, virtuous, and respected, for the first three years after her mother's decease. She was then predestined to experience a fatal reverse: the veil of innocent simplicity was to be torn from her mind, and the vacancy filled up by the dark cloud of guilt.

Albert of Werdendorff beheld the maid in all her native pride of beauty, softened by angelic modesty, and her unconsciousness of the superlative charms she possessed. Albert longed to call

this fair flowret his own; not as a tender admirer, to protect her honourably from all the storms of fate, but as a rude spoiler, that wantonly plucks the rose from its native branch, and then, regardless of its beauties, casts it to wither on the ground.

It is needless to describe minutely the various arts that Lord Albert descended to, in order to seduce the unsuspecting victim of his deceptions. His superior rank, fortune, and connections, were so many circumstances to furnish him with favourable pretexts to forward his designs.

Though Albert was lord of the castle of Werdendorff, and had there a splendid establishment, yet he depended on his father, for a princely addition to his possessions. He made Josephine to believe, that it was impossible for him to espouse her during his father's life; but called on heaven, and every saint, to witness the inviolable faith and constancy he would always maintain towards her: that he should always regard her as his wife; and, as soon as he should be free to offer his hand, their marriage should be legally solemnized. Josephine had many virtuous sentiments; but Albert, by sophistry, overcame those scruples; and the unfortunate maiden' added one more to the many that suffer their credulous hearts to be seduced by the wily serpent, like objects of their tender and faithful love.

Josephine's breast was no longer the abode of serenity. In Albert's presence her spirits were elated; she listened with delight to the repetition of his vows, and, blinded by delusive passion, esteemed herself one of the happiest of the happy. But in the lone hours of solitude, she was oft times miserable. Regret, remorse, and apprehension, would enter, though obtrusive guests. From the casement of her cottage, Josephine could behold the stately castle of Werdendorff, and discern its portals opened for the reception of guests invited to the noble banquets and festive balls, which often made its lofty roofs

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resound with their mirth. On these occasions Josephine would sigh, and ponder on the wide difference between herself and Lord Albert in their stations, and wonder if her fond hopes would ever be realized.

At midnight, when all the inhabitants of the castle were wrapt in repose, was the time that Lord Albert paid his visits to Josephine's cottage, which hour was mutually chosen by the lovers for their interviews, that they might elude the observation of those around them. And when the moon gave no ray of light to Lord Albert in his progress over the dark and fenny moor, Josephine would place a lighted taper at her casement, to guide him to her humble abode.

Ah! ill-fated maid! thou did'st soon experience the dire truth, that men betray, and that vows can be broken; and that illicit love, though at first ardent, will soon decay, and leave nought but wretchedness behind.

Albert had been Josephine's favoured lover about six months, when, one hapless night, Josephine had placed the taper in her window as usual; and sat wishing the arrival of Albert in anxious expectation. More than once she conjectured she heard his well-known footsteps approach the door. She flew to open it, and her eye fixed on vacancy alone, while she shed bitter tears at the disappointment. Another and another night elapsed; Albert came not; and Josephine's anguish and suspense became insupportable.

On the fourth morning of Albert's unusual absence, Josephine arose from her pallet after a few hours of restless and perturbed sleep; she approached the window, and her eyes taking their usual direction across the moor to the castle of Werdendorff, she beheld its gay banners streaming on the walls.

Anxious to learn the cause of this rejoicing, Josephine mingled with a groupe of rustic maidens who were repairing to the castle. She asked them, in tremulous accents, what propitious event they were celebrating at the cha

teau; but the villagers were as ignorant as herself. When they came to the outer portal of the edifice, they beheld a gay procession passing from the hall to the chapel.

The sentinel, in reply to Josephine's interrogatories, informed her, that Lord Albert was then gone to the chapel to seal his nuptial vows with Lady Guimilda, the proud daughter of a neighbouring baran, whose possessions were immense, and she the sole heiress.

Josephine replied not; her heart was full, even to bursting. She retreated from her companions, and seeking the covert of a friendly wood, gave way to all her frantic ravings of despair, which was still aggravated by every passing gale, bearing along the echoes of the loud shouts of revelry that pervaded the castle, and proclaimed Albert's perjury and her ruin.

As soon as the first violence of her grief was abated, she began to cherish delusive ideas. She thought the sentinel might have deceived her; or, at least, he might have been in an error himself, supposing Lord Albert the bridegroom of the proud Guimilda; and she thought it more probable, that it was some friend of his, who had solemnized his marriage at Werdendorff castle.

Cherishing this weak hope, she returned to her cottage; and partially disguising herself in a long mantle, and a thick white veil, she repaired at twilight to the castle, and, unobserved, mingled in the revelling crowd. But alas! the sentinel's intelligence she soon found to be too true; and the gayest among the gay throng was the false Albert and his bride Guimilda.

Once convinced, Josephine tarried no longer in the castle-hall. With torturing sensations, and faultering steps, she left the abode of her haughty rival, and once more sought her lonely dwelling. The night was dark, and the wind shook the rushes, and all around, like her own heart, was drear and forlorn. With folded arms, and her whole

person like the statue of despair, sat Josephine by the casement. Fond recollections caused her tears to flow, when she called to mind how oft in that window she had placed the taper to light her then ardent lover over the moor.

While she was thus reflecting, she heard footsteps approach her cottagedoor; and presently she heard her own name softly pronounced. She instantly recognized Lord Albert's voice; and opening the casement, she cried indignantly, Away to Guimilda, away to the pleasures that reign in Werdendorff 'castle. Why leave you my rival's bed to add another insult to the woes you have caused me ?"

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Lord Albert renewed his entreaties for admission; and Josephine, at length, imprudently yielded to his request.

Albert exerted all his eloquence to convince the fair one, that his heart had no share in the nuptial contract with 'Guimilda; that there Josephine's image reigned triumphant, while her rival could claim nought but his hand. By the stern command of his father, he protested he had joined his fate to Guimilda's, who would only leave him his fortune on that condition: but that his love to Josephine should never be diminished by that circumstance; but that he would transplant her to a more pleasing abode, where she might reside in elegant retirement, and appear in a situation more congenial to his wishes than her present dwelling would allow, or, indeed, her near vivacity to the castle render it prudent.

The soft blandishments of her deceiver again lured her to guile; and her anger was completely vanquished by love.

Again was the board spread with the choice delicacies, and delicious wines, that Lord Albert had brought with him from the castle'; the flower-footed hours winged away with rapturous delight, and again the soft smile beamed on the lovely countenance of Josephine.

"Adieu, my beloved," said Lord Albert; the first blush of morn em

purples the east, and warns me from thy arms."

Josephine enquired affectionately when she was next to expect her loved lord. He replied, that he would return at the dark hour of midnight, and again clasp her in his arms.

Lorp Albert's bosom beat high as he sped homewards across the moor. The horrid deed he had committed, did not at that moment appal him. He congratulated himself on being freed from a mistress, whom satiety had for some time past made him detest.

In relating to Josephine the cause of his marriage with the Lady Guimilda, he had been guilty of a great falsehood. The known wealth of the heiress, at first, induced Lord Albert to visit at her father's villa; for avarice was a ruling passion with the youth. But when he beheld the haughty fair one, he instantly became a captive to her beauty, and loathed Josephine.

His nightly visits to Josephine, though conducted with much cautious secrecy, had by some means reached the ears of the proud Guimilda. No pity for the poor maiden filled her breast; she hated her fair rival, for having a prior claim to Lord Albert's heart. Her revengeful temper made her feel that she should never enjoy perfect happiness while Josephine existed. She thought that there was more than a probability, that, for all Albert's declarations to the contrary, when she conversed with him on the subject, that, after a short time would elapse, his heart might grow cold towards the legal partner of his fortune, and return with redoubled ardour to his deserted mistress. She knew the infirmities of her own temper; and the angelic sweetness of disposition which her informants had represented Josephine to possess, contrasted with her own hateur, caprice, and tyranny, made the confirmation of her fears appear as strong as proofs of holy writ.

To glut her revenge, and leave no room for apprehension, she formed the horrid project of demanding the follow

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