There is little doubt, that if Carl Blüven had kept his promise to the strange mariner, and decoyed Carintha into his power, God would have saved the child, and punished the unnatural father, by delivering him early into the hands of him with whom he made so sinful a bargain. But, although it was wicked in Carl to make such a bargain, it would have been more wicked still to fulfil it; and Carl's refusal to do this, as well as the good use which he made of his money, and the creditable way in which he discharged the duties of chief magistrate, had, no doubt, the effect of weakening the power of Kahlbrannar over him, and of, therefore, preventing the success of the many stratagems resorted to for getting Carl into his power. And so for more than twenty years after the marriage of Carintha, Carl Blüven continued to enjoy his prosperity, and to exercise, at due intervals, the office of chief magistrate: and he saw his grand-children grow around him; and at length buried his wife Uldewalla. But the penalty of the rash promise had yet to be paid.

It chanced that Carl Blüven,-who, by the bye, was now Carl Von Blüven, having long ago received that dignity,-was bidden to a feast at the house of a rich citizen, who lived just on the opposite side of the harbour. Although it was nearly half a league round the head of the harbour and across the draw-bridge, Carl walked round, rather than trust himself across in a boat; a conveyance which, ever since his interview on the quay, he had studiously avoided. It was a great

Carl

feast; many bowls of bishop* were emptied, and many a national song roared in chorus; so that Carl, as well as the rest of the guests, began to feel the effects of their potations. In the midst of their conviviality, and when it nearly approached midnight, the merriment was suddenly interrupted by the hollow beat of the alarm drum; and all hastily arising, and running to the window, which looked out upon the harbour, Carl saw that his own warehouse was in flames. was not yet tired of being a rich man, and so with only some hasty expressions of dismay, he hurried from the banquet, and ran at full speed towards the harbour. It was, as has been said, half a league round by the draw-bridge: the merchant saw his well stored warehouse within a stone throw of him, burning away the fumes of wine were in his head - and without further thought, he leaped into a boat that lay just below, and pushed across.

Scarcely had Carl Blüven done this, when he recollected his danger. Paddle as he would, the boat made no way what exertions the merchant made, and what were his thoughts, no one can tell. Some seamen were awoke by loud cries for help; and some, who jumped out of their hammocks, told how they saw a boat drifting out of the harbour.

Two or three days after this event, the Tellemarke, free trader, arrived in Bergen, from Iceland, and reported, "that but for a strong northerly breeze, she would have been sucked into the Maelstroom; that a

Bishop, a kind of mulled wine.

little before sunset, when within two leagues of the whirlpool, a small boat was seen drifting, empty; and that soon after another, the smallest and strangest built boat that ever was seen, passed close under their bows, to windward, paddling in the direction of the Maelstroom; that two mariners were in it; he at the helm of an exceeding tall stature, and singular countenance; that the other cried out for help; upon which the ship lay to, and manned a boat with four rowers; but that with all their exertions they were unable to gain upon the little boat, which was worked by a single paddle; and that the boatmen, fearing they might be drawn into the whirlpool, returned to the ship; and that, just at sunset, they could descry the small boat, by the help of their glasses, steering right across the Maelstroom, as if it had been a small pond." Of all which extraordinary facts, the master of the "Tellemarke" made a deposition before the chief magistrate who filled the chair after Carl Blüven had disappeared in so miraculous a manner.

THE LAST KING OF GRANADA.

There is a tradition, that Boabdil, the last Moorish king of Granada, was visited on the closing night of the siege, by three spectres or spirits, who gave him his choice of the means of restoration. He chose submission; and, on the same night, the troops of Spain gave the final blow to the Moorish monarchy.

THE moonbeam sleeps in silver on the ground,

The silent waters are a silver lake,

The mountain's forehead is with silver bound,

The moonbeams shine on rose and woodbine brake;

The dewy air, the earth, returns no sound;

All in a slumberous trance, delicious, deep, is drowned.

But all earth's grandeur in Boabdil's hall

Could shed no slumber's dew-drop on his eye; Though hung from golden roofs the silken pall, With lovely forms alive, and rubied dye; And Persian essences in clouds were rolled From gem-emblazoned urns of India's loveliest mould.

A thousand milk-white steeds were at his gate,
With hoofs of wind, and eyes like the gazelle,

On which a thousand turbaned chieftains sate,
From when the evening trumpet's solemn swell
Made all Granada's bowery valleys ring;
Watching the golden halls where lay the weary king.

And stormy thoughts swept thro' his heavy heart,

Such as oppress the crown and the tiar,

Of battles lost and won, of treacherous art,

That clouds in bloodshed empire's setting star, Dungeon and grave, ambition's purple game,

The strife that fills the soul with fever and with flame.

"Oh, for a friend!" exclaimed the weary king;
"Oh, for one heart that I might call my own!"
At once, like some sweet fountain murmuring,

His ear drank deep a faint half dreamy tone;
And lo! a shape of lustre seemed to glide,

With rose and amaranth crowned, a Moslem's Houri bride.

The glittering starlight wove the floating robe
That sparkled round her beauty-moulded form;
A jewel lay upon her bosom's globe,

Rich as the lights that through the northern storm Shoot heaven's blue splendour o'er the tossing main, To tell the seaman's heart of hope and home again.

"Lord of the Moslem, rise!" the vision said;
"And from thy forehead take the diadem;
Thy deadly bow be on the marble laid,

Thy scymetar unbound, thy signet-gem,
Thy plume once blazing in the battle's van;
And be a man again, and be no more than man.