himself in a splendid saloon, filled with a numerous company.

The din and confusion which prevailed here, tended in some degree to dispel the pleasure he had experienced in contemplating the splendour of the other apartments, and in anticipating the enjoyment arising from a complete rejection of those eternal insincerities which are a stain upon social intercourse. Having entered, he soon discovered that each individual was acting with as little restraint as if he were completely alone. Some were gesticulating before the large mirrors that adorned the walls, and throwing themselves into strange attitudes, and each expressing aloud his unqualified admiration of his own person. Others, who held manuscripts in their hands, were extolling the beauties of their own composition, and appeared to be lost in ecstasy at the contemplation of their own genius. Some were dancing-but all singly ;-some singing; others talking aloud to themselves, and expressing, very unreservedly, their opinions of the rest of the company; every one, in short, was manifesting his perfect disregard of all form or restraint.

At first, Biribissi was delighted at what he considered to be liberty, freedom, ingenuousness, candour, and a love of veracity; in a short time, however, he was disgusted at their extravagance, particularly as they did not scruple to make certain observations on his person, which, notwithstanding his enthusiasm for sincerity, he could very well have spared; the more so, as his features and countenance were not altogether formed to call forth expressions of admiration. So irritated, indeed, did he at length become, in consequence

of some comments on his figure, very candidly offered to him, that he aimed a blow at the commentator himself, for the purpose of convincing him, not logically, but manually

of the exceeding bad taste of his critique, and how little it was relished. But, lo! no sooner had he struck him, than the whole scene vanished, and he found himself standing in the presence of Almaforatati, who expressed his admiration at his vehemence, by a countenance not of the sternest cast for a magician. "Biribissi," exclaimed he, "you ap pear to be somewhat disturbed? How! has any thing occurred within the Palace of Sincerity, that could possibly excite your displeasure?" But the astonished, the indignant, the abashed Biribissi replied not. "Well," continued Almaforatati, "unless all my science has forsaken me, I may venture to predict that, henceforward your unqualified admiration of unqualified sincerity will be considerably diminished-will be less fervent, less romantic. The lesson you have just received, and the scene you have just been witnessing, must convince you that the forms against which you exclaim as being incompatible with liberty, as abridging-and they undoubtedly do-the freedom of each individual, are precisely that which preserves social intercourse, and polishes down its asperities, rendering it less harsh, and less likely to wound the tenderness of self-love. The insincerity which you so much decry is but that decent veil, without which truth itself disgusts; while the candour you have hitherto affected to admire, is but too often a mere disguise, beneath which may be detected, obstinacy, rudeness, and selfishness."

row defile or glen, where the waters, being hemmed in, rush with impetuosity through fragments of rock

impeding their course. Of these, the following legend is related. The last possessor of the castle, which had not been inhabited for several centuries, was Count Albert, a youthful nobleman, descended from an illustrious ancestry; daring, enthusiastic, and addicted to study; but his studies were of such a nature that they incurred for him, among his credulous dependants, the imputation of holding unhallowed intercourse with supernatural beings. Independently, however, of the censures his conduct occasioned in this respect, he was admired by all for possessing, in an eminent degree, personal courage and prowess, qualities so necessary, and therefore so highly prized, in those ages. Yet even those who were most forward to commend his undauntedness could not forbear blaming the indiscretions of his curiosity, which led him to venture into scenes that would, by the fancied horror attached to them, have appalled the bravest of his followers. During the most stormy weather, when the spirits of the air were supposed to be wreaking their fury on the elements in the depth of night, at what hour the departed were supposed to revisit the earth, and forms obscure and terrific to appear to the unfortunate traveller who should be bewildered on his way,-even at such seasons would Albert venture into the recesses of the woods, enjoy the conflict of nature on the blasted heath, and explore the wildest solitudes around his domain.

Such practices occasioned much conjecture and rumour-and many prophesied, that some terrible visitation would overtake the man, who, if not actually leagued with the powers of darkness, delighted in all that was terrific and appalling; nor did the less scrupulous or the more imaginative hesitate to relate, with particular circumstance and detail, the dreadful mysteries he was reported, at such times, to have witnessed.

In the defile, which, as has been stated, was in the immediate vicinity

VOL. III.

of the castle, it was said that a fairy, or spirit, named by the peasantry the Water Lady, had been heard by night, singing within a cave hollowed in the rock, just above the most dangerous part of the current.

Albert was determined to ascertain the truth, and, if possible, obtain an interview with the supernatural inhabitant of the Black Water Vault. Such a daring project excited the horror of all who heard it; since many were the tales respecting persons having been enticed to listen to the strains of the spirit, and afterwards perishing in the foaming waters: for she was said to delight in attracting the unwary, and the curious. But though the design of the young Count appeared so fraught with danger, and obstinate temerity, nothing could induce him to abandon the enterprize; neither the entreaties of his friends, nor those of Bertha, his betrothed bride, whom he was shortly to conduct to the altar: it rather seemed as if all obstacles and dissuasives did but irritate his unhallowed curiosity. One evening, the third of the new moon, the Count, attended by two companions, whom he had prevailed upon to assist him in rowing his boat, and steering it among the eddies of the torrent, departed for the scene of research. They proceeded in silence, for Albert was buried in thought, the others were mute from apprehension. No sooner did they approach the narrow pass where the foaming and congregated waters dash furiously through the contracted channel, than was heard the voice of one within the cavern.

The music was so strangely sweet and fascinating, that, although struck with awe at the supernatural sounds, they were induced to advance. A form was soon dimly descried: it was that of a female arrayed in floating drapery, but her features they might not discern, as she wore a thick veil. They continued to approach the spot so as to be able to catch distinctly the following words, which were chaunted in a tone of solemn adjuration.

By this time they had arrived opposite to the cave: Albert motioned to 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 cavernhe 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, 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 on his 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 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 conversation, and even appeared forgotten 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 re

collection, 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 seen standing at their chamber door, and the next morning a ring picked up by her attendants on the 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: from her it was 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 moonthis I was obliged to do, or incur all the consequences 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 bis 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 "WaterLady." 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.

insolent sceptic. We cannot build our castle on air, nor present our readers with visions of our own, instead of honest matters of theatrical fact. We might indeed feign that certain plays had been acted, and proceed to dissect them, without more ado, and offer up their mangled limbs to the keen appetites of our country readers, but we should be found out' in the end; and-like the Barmecide, who, in the spirit of princely fun, proffered to his guest his shadowy refections, we might get our box o' the ear, as soundly as the Persian did, for our pains.

We must be even brief therefore. The only plays which have been lately represented are Venice Preserved, The Duenna,'-and one or two others of ancient date: and there has been a new melo-drama also, called Undine,' and two interludes. We will say a few words upon each.

COVENT GARDEN.

Venice Preserved has been brought forward in order, that Miss Dance (the new actress) might attempt the character of Belvidera.-This tragedy is almost the only one (perhaps the only one) which may be considered to have broken the dull line of mediocrity, which connects our liv ing dramatic writers with those of the Elizabethan age. It has faults, doubtless, and very great faults of language; but there is a nerve and a strength about it, and a redeeming dramatic power also, which lifts it beyond all the other tragedies which

have been written since the restoration of Charles the Second. Southern's diction was generally in better taste than that of Otway, but his muse was weaker, and his dramatic skill was less. Finer images might be selected, perhaps, from the extravagant writings of Lee, but he had the pomp rather than the power of poetry, and he had not that tact for character, nor had he the good keeping of Ot

they do not say a great deal that is profound. There is little of that concentrated style of speech,-that pith of expression for which the writers of the time of Elizabeth were so remarkable, and less of their simplicity. Pierre, indeed, is a bold and striking figure, who stands out, like a rock, from amidst that sea of sorrow which Belvidera and her weak and vacillating husband pour forth. He is, in fact, the hero of the play; and, like a pleasant discord in music, he saves it from the monotony which would otherwise attend it. If the character of Jaffier had been more condensed, it would have been very good, for it is good in the conception; but it is eked out too much, and Otway (who had not a very great poetical faculty) has given him too much of flowery phrase to render him altogether pleasant to any one besides his wife. Still, Jaffier has great passion and great tenderness; though, in representation, he shrinks before the firm and more masterly spirit of Pierre.-To give the reader an idea of what we object to, we will quote a passage, from the first act, which is supposed to be spoken by Jaffier, The first three lines may well have been uttered by an exulting husband or lover; but what shall we say of the simile that follows?-is it not misplaced and most tediously prolonged?—is it not dull, unnatural ? .

Reign, reign ye monarchs, that divide the world;

Busy rebellion ne'er will let ye know
Tranquillity and happiness like mine!
Like gaudy ships the obsequious billows

fall

And rise again to lift you in your pride; They wait but for a storm and then de