Whose is that form that ascends the rocky path-way towards the grey ruin? It is the maiden that climbs amongst the waving bushes, in the steep and narrow track. Her white dress flutters in the air; her steps slide; she pauses as if she would return. Midnight is near. She advances again: and now she is lost in the shade of the old tower.

Hark! in one loud, continuous, shrill cry, the owl is heard; the sound lengthens as it speeds; the boatmen listen aghast. The figure of the maiden passes by a chasm in the grey wall. The moon droops into the abyss, and all is dark.

But the youth had met his beloved one, and tears of joy and gratitude run down bis flushed cheeks. His arms entwine her waist: they are in the court-yard of the tower. Their eyes are full of love: their souls are as their eyes. Broken battlements rise over them; riven arches, fragments of fallen strength are about. Dreary gleam the narrow window-holes in the darkness; and the waving thistle rustles, as if to alarm.

They are seated on the soft moss that springs from the ancient stones. High beats the heart of the youth, for here suspicion does not watch: but the maiden trembles: her hands are cold: she is weak and timid, and mutters as a sick child.

A clammy horror creeps over her senses as she regards the blackness of a low door-way full before her face. It once led to the pit of tears-the deep dungeon of the ancient tower. But the youth's quick kisses have not fallen in vain on her lips: his heart beats against hers time and place vanish from her perception in her inward soul move the yearnings of delirious love.

In vain rushes through the ruin the power of the storm: in vain howl the gusts of the up-risen tempest through the desolate place. The owl shrieks against the wind in vain. The angel of female shame is about to fly-when lo, a burst of rain and thunder! The heavy bird gives a last cry, and strikes, with flapping wing, affrighted from his dark roost! A dead silence then prevails, and, from the church-steeple in the valley, is heard the iron-blow of the midnight hammer.

What rises from the black mouth of the tearful dungeon? The eyes of the lovers are fixed, as by a spiritual power. Is it fog? Is it cloud? Is it a human shape? Is it light contending with the darkness? A Spectral-woman comes forth: she advances towards the maiden and the youth; an infant lies at her breast, half covered by a stained shroud.

They were saved by the doleful vision!"Eternal Father, now is the doom accomplished: now is the long-past crime atoned for," uttered the pale lips of the Spectral-woman. "The decree is fulfilled; for two souls are this night rescued from the guilt into which my earthly life had fallen !"

The maiden sunk her head; the lover regarded her with a look of holy but troubled affection. Slowly the Spectral-woman raised in her arms the shroud-wrapped child. Mercy, mercy! was chanted in the air above: sweet sounds of harps were heard: the ghostly figures vanished in a flood of morning splendour. Soon all had disappeared: and in a calm, but dark night, the guiltless lovers descended to the Rhine from the old Single Tower of Neuftchaberg.

AT a small fishing village in Dutch Flanders, there is still shown the site of a hut, which was an object of much attention whilst it stood, on account of a singular legend that relates to its first inhabitant, a kind-hearted fellow, who depended on his boat for his subsistence, and his own happy disposition for cheerfulness during every hardship and privation. Thus the story goes: ole dark and stormy night in winter, as Jan Schalken was sitting with his goodnatured buxom wife by the fire, he was awakened from a transient doze by a knocking at the door of his hut.

He

started up, drew back the bolt, and a stranger entere. He was a tall man, but little could be distinguished either of his face or figure, as he wore a large dark cloak, which he had contrived to pull over his head after the fashion of a cowl. "I am a poor traveller, (said the stranger), and want a night's lodging. Will you grant it to me?" Aye, to be sure, (replied Schalken), but I am afraid your cheer will be but sorry. Had you come sooner you might have fared better. Sit down, however, and eat of what is left." The traveller took him at his

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word, and in a short time afterwards retired to his humble sleeping-place. In the morning as he was about to depart, he advanced towards Schalken, and giving him his hand, thus addressed him: "It is needless for you, my good friend, to know who I am; but of this be assured, that I can and will be grateful; for when the rich and the powerful turned me last night from their inhospitable gates, you welcomed me as man should welcome man, and looked with an eye of pity on the desolate traveller in the storm. I grant you three wishes. Be what they may, those wishes shall be gratified." Now Schalken certainly did not put much faith in these promises, yet he thought it the safest plan to make trial of them; and, accordingly, began to think how he should fix his wishes. Jan was a man who had few or no ambitious views; and was contented with the way of life in which he had been brought up. In fact he was so well satisfied with his situation, that he had not the least inclination to lose a single day of his laborious existence; but, on the contrary, had a very sincere wish of adding a few years to those which he was destined to live. This gave rise to wish the first. "Let my wife and myself live (he said) fifty years longer than nature has designed:" "It shall be done," cried the stranger. Whilst Schalken was puzzling his brain for a second wish, he bethought him that a pear-tree, which was in his little garden, had been frequently despoiled of its fruit, to the no small detriment of the said tree, and grievous disappointment of its owner. "For my second wish, grant that whoever climbs my pear-tree shall not have power to leave it until my permission be given."

This was also assented to. Schalken was a sober man, and liked to sit down and chat with his wife of an evening; but she was a bustling body, and often jumped up in the midst of a conversation that she had only heard ten or twelve times, to scrub the table or set

their clay platters in order. Nothing disturbed him so much as this, and he determined if possible, to prevent a recurrence of the nuisance. With this object in view, he approached close to the stranger, and in a low whisper told his third and last wish that whoever sat in a particular chair in his hut, should not be able to move out of it until it should please him so to order. This wish was agreed to by the traveller, who, after many greetings, departed on his way.

Years passed on, and his last two wishes had been fully gratified by often detaining thieves in his tree, and his wife on her chair. The time was approaching when the promise of longevity would be falsified or made manifest. It happened that the birth-days of the fisherman and his wife were the same. They were sitting together on the evening of the day that made him 79 years, and Mietje 73 years of age, when the moon that was shining through the window of the hut seemed suddenly to be extinguished, and the stars rushed down the dark clouds and lay glaring on the surface of the ocean, over which was spread an unnatural calmness, although the skies appeared to be mastered by the winds, and were heaving onward, with their mighty waves of cloud. Birds dropped dead from the boughs, and the foliage of the trees turned to a pale red. All seemed to prognosticate the approach of Death and in a few minutes afterwards sure enough he came. He was, however, very different from all that the worthy couple had heard or fancied of him. He was certainly rather thin, and had very little colour, but he was well dressed, and his deportment was that of a gentleman. Bowing very politely to the ancient pair, he told them he merely came to give notice that by right they should have belonged to him on that day, but a fifty years' respite was granted, and when that period had expired, he should visit them again. He then walked away, and the moon, and the stars, and the waters regained

their natural appearance. For the next fifty years every thing passed on as quietly as before; but as the time drew nigh for the appointed advent of Death, Jan became thoughtful, and he felt no pleasure at the idea of the anticipated visit. The day arrived, and Death came preceded by the same horrors as on the former occasion. "Well, good folks, (said he), you now can have no objection to accompany me; for assuredly you have hitherto been highly privileged, and have lived long enough." The old dame wept and clung feebly to her husband, as if she feared they were to be divided after passing away from the earth on which they had dwelt so long and happily together. Poor Schalken also looked very downcast, and moved after Death but slowly. As they passed by Jan's garden, he turned to take a last look at it, when a sudden thought struck him. He called to Death and said, “ Sir, allow me to propose something to you. Our journey is a long one, and we have no provisions; I am too infirm, or I would climb yonder pear-tree, and take a stock of its best fruit with us; you are active and obliging, and will, I am sure, Sir, get it for us." Death, with great condescension, complied, and ascending the tree, gathered a great number of pears, which he threw down to old Schaĺken and his wife. At length he determined upon descending, but to his surprise and apparent consternation, discovered that he was immovable; nor would Jan allow him to leave the tree until he had given them a promise of living another half century.

They jogged on in the old way for fifty years more, and Death came to

Jan was seated at his little table, busily employed in writing, when Death entered. He raised his head sorrowfully, and the pen trembled in his hand, as he thus addressed him, " I confess that my former conduct towards you merits blame, but I have done with such knaveries now, and have learnt to know that life is of little worth, and that I have seen enough of it. Still, before I quit this world I should like to do all the good I can, and was engaged when you arrived in making a will, that a poor lad, who has been always kind to us, may receive this hut and my boat. Suffer me but to finish what I have begun, and I shall cheerfully follow wherever you may lead. Pray sit down, in a few minutes my task will be ended." Death, thus appealed to, could refuse no longer, and seated himself in a chair, from which he found it as difficult to rise as he had formerly to descend from the pear-tree. His liberation was bought at the expense of an additional fifty years, at the end of which period, and exactly on their birth-day, Jan Schalken and his wife died quietly in their bed, and the salt water flowed freely in the little village, in which they had lived long enough to be considered the father and mother of all its inhabitants.