indeed should I be viewed with envy.”—“Grieve not yourself about that,” replied the talkative old lady; “it is safe in my possession: my son desired me, from some unaccountable reason, to secrete it from your notice; but promise to conceal it from him, and I will restore it to its right owner. Zoe was struck dumb with astonishment; indignation at the hypocrisy of Brenno, and joy at the discovery of her veil, prevented her reply. But when she received the veil from the hands of the good matron, she threw open the window, and as the magic robe floated gracefully down her fair form, it assumed the appearance of a milk-white swan, and sailed far away into the blue distant horizon.

The old lady in her turn now stared with astonishment. She tore the few hairs that time had yet left on her head, and when her son returned to claim his beautiful bride, taxed him with sullying the honour of his family, by marrying a she-devil in disguise. After a lengthy harangue, her enthusiasm for devotion so far conquered her reason, that she concluded by the most convincing of all arguments, à sound box on the ear. The son retorted the angry expostulations of his mother, and the noise of the quarrel brought all the neighbours in a hurry to the door. “My son,” shrieked the pious matron, " has leagued himself with a she-devil!"

A she-devil !" exclaimed a little fat bailiff, “ Heaven defend us all!”—“She was a Grecian lady,"returned the disappointed Brenno. “A she-devil," persisted the mother. “ A Grecian lady,” resumed the son.

" Whoever she is," said the indignant bailiff,“ it is clear that she has escaped the clutches of the most Holy Inquisition; but whether she be a male or female Beelzebub, or even Moloch himself, Mother Church will conjure her back again.”—“But what shall purify the character of our house,” returned the pious matron, “ that my son has for ever sullied ? A house that was prior to the flood, and was intimately acquainted with the patriarchs. A house that

The little fat bailiff here interrupted her expostulations, and, with a face of reverential purity, adjusted his wig, and informed the dis

consolate mother that one. consolation was still leftthat her son would be damned for ever. “Why to be sure there is some satisfaction in that,” whimpered the good lady, and dried her tears, consoling herself in the meanwhile with the pleasant probability of her son's damnation.

By this time the story had got wind, and a report was circulated through the ' town, that Brenno had made a compact with the devil; that the virtue of his mother had exposed the fraud; and that Apollyon, accompanied by a cloud of sulphur and brimstone, was seen to-fly away, with a torch in one hand and his tail in the other.

Worn down with anxiety, and fearful of the superstition of his countrymen, the unfortunate lover returned in a state of agony to his hermitage. Here he passed his hours of solitude, in fruitless lamentations for the fairy he had lost, and regret for his shameless duplicity. His only pleasure seemed to consist in wandering by the banks of the Swan's Pool, and in recalling the remembrance of the past. He thought of the beautiful Zoe, fond and gentle as he first knew her, and dwelt with agony on her soft smiles, her infantine simplicity. He was roaming one evening by the side of his favourite streamlet, when a light step passed beside him. He turned round to discover the intruder, and beheld the fair form of Zoe, the object of his thoughts by day, his dreams by night. “You are sorprised," she exclaimed, “at my return, but listen to my reasons.

I have wandered to other times; I have seen my dearest friends drop day by day into the grave, and life grow desolate and forlorn. On returning to the home of my ipfancy, I found my mother dead, my father sinking into the tomb. Friends-relations, that I left smiling in health and happiness were all-all gone, and I stood among my native hills, as a stranger in a foreign land. In the hour of my solitude, my thoughts reverted to you, with whom I had spent many of the happiest hours of my existence. I thought of your fondness, your regard to feminine delicacy, and I

resolved to return to you

for ever. Do you accept my offer, love?”

“ Sweetest, sweetest girl," passionately replied Brenno, “I am thine, for ever thine. My love, my virgin bride, we will henceforth live solely for each other, devoting each thought and each moment to delight.”-“Thus, then, I seal our union,” resumed Zoe, tearing in a thousand pieces the magic web of immortality. “I shall not need eternal beauty while your affection lasts. To you I shall be ever beautiful; and when age obscures the fair front of youth, the mind of the lover will continue the delusion. Here, then, where we first met, we will for ever live; and the wood that once echoed the song of love shall still reply to our bridal felicity. We will wander, hand in hand, through a world which affection shall strew with roses; and when Brenno sinks into the tomb, Zoe will not long remain behind. Why should I court immortality, when he is gone for whom alone I desired it? Is there a pleasure in sitting by the grave of a beloved object, and feeling that all we once held dear is flownnever to return? No! my love—thy bride shall never survive the fate that shall bow thee to the earth, but wither like a floweret on its stem when thou hast ceased to be. In the quiet grave we will repose together, and, locked in each other's arms, await the period of a more glorious resurrection."

She ceased, and the heart of Brenno 'was happy. They lived long and tranquilly together; and the beautiful Zoe imparted the privilege of immortality to her children, whose descendants still flourish in the darkbrowed mountains of Swabia. Years and years have rolled on; and by the banks of the Bath of Beauty a little tomb may still be seen, bearing on its mouldering tablets the simple names of Zoe and Brenno. At the period of the equinox, a sweet strain of music is heard to float along the magic pool, and the spirits of the lovers rise from their cold tenements, to visit the spots that were once so dear. They are friendly to man,

and are accustomed to warn him of impending sorrows;

.and if fate throws a cloud athwart the sunshine of his path, it is the province of the fairies to dissipate the gloom, and restore the original splendor.

JULIA:

AN ANCIENT BALLAD.

To the graves, where sleepe the dead,

Hapless Julia took her way;
Sighs to heave, and teares to shed

O’er the spot where Damon laye.
Manye a blooming flower she bore,

O'er the green grass turf to throw;
And, while fast her teares did pour,

Thus she sang to soothe her woe:
is Soft and safe, thou lowly grave,

Fast o'er thee my teares shall flowe;
Onlye hope the hapless have,

Onlye refuge left for woe.
Constant love and grief sincere

Shall thy hallowed turf pervade;
And many a heartfelt sigh and teare,

Hapless youth, shall soothe thy shade.
“Lighted by the moon's pale shine,

See me, to thy memorye true,
Lowly bending at thy shrine,

Many a votive flower to strewe :
But how little do these flowers

Prove my love and constancye!
Yet a few sad feeting hours

And, dear youth, I'll followe thee.
“Rose, replete with scent and hue,

Sweetest flower that nature blowes ;
Damon flourished once like

you,
Now o'er him the green grass grows.
Rose, go deck his hallowed grave,

Lily, o'er the green turfe twine;

Honour meete that turfe should have,

Beautye's bed and Virtue's shrine.
“ Primrose pale, and violet blue,

Jasmin sweete, and eglantine,
Nightly here thy sweetes I strewe :

Proude to deck my true love's shrine.
Like you, my Damon bloomed a daye;

He did die, and so must you;
But such charms can you displaye?

Halfe so virtuous, halfe so true?
“ No, sweete flowerets, no such charms,

No such virtues can you boast;
Yet he's torne from

Yet my faithful love is crost.
But a radiant morne shall rise

(Loitering moments, faster flowe!)
When with him I'll treade the skies,

Smile at deathe, and laughe at woe.”
Thus she sung, and strewed the flower,

Beate her breast, and wept, and sighed;
And, when toll’d the midnight houre,

On the green turfe grave she dy'd.
Manye a nightingale forlorne

Sung her knell, while breezes sighed;
Haughty Grandeur heard with scorn,

How so poore a mayden dy'd!

my

fond armes;

THEATRICAL MISERIES,

ORIGINAL AND SELECTED,

BY LACHRYMAL GLUM.

ATTENDING three country cousins to the Opera, who after staring at the figures painted upon the ceiling, &c. &c. constantly and audibly ask you, who such and such a person

with a star; at the same time, to pre