ON VIRGINIE'S NAME-DAY. TRANSLATED from the Flemish of K. L. LEDEGANCK.* . BY JOHN OXENFORD. Virginie ! On this day my heart is glad ; Nothing darksome, nothing sad. Are my hope and joy compris'd; Ledeganck is one of the few Flemish poets of the present day; and the above little poem was written in 1839. I need scarcely inform my readers that in Catholic countries, not the birth-day, but the "name-day," i. e., the day of the patron saint, is celebrated. THE PHANTOM CHASE. BY CORNELIUS COLVILLE. pre In one of the wildest districts of Germany there is an immense forest of huge and closely-planted timber, and which, seen at a distance, appears like a long and undulating dark belt skirting the verge of the horizon. It is one of those remarkable productions of nature which are only to be met with in thinly-populated and uncultivated parts of the country, into which civilisation has scarcely yet penetrated, and where Nature still sents herself in all her sublimity and irregularity, untamed by the hand of man, and neither rendered subservient to his puny devices, nor made to administer to his petty ambition. Here she rears her front erect and free as she came from the hands of an Almighty Creator. Man has changed her aspect; he has stunted her growth; he has shorn her of her ruggedness and her beauty; but her pathless forests, her mountain-peaks, her immense wastes and deserts, her crags and steeps, the surging ocean, the trackless sands, alike bear testimony to His wisdom and power, and appear to read a continual homily to man, and to declare his impotence and insignificance. Yes, he has prescribed a bound to the ocean; he has sent his winged messengers from shore to shore; he has devised a power that counteracts the currents of the tides and the free winds of heaven; he has almost annihilated both time and space; he has dived into the bowels of the earth, and ascended even into the clouds; he has rendered the land fruitful and productive; he has built him towns and cities, and covered the earth with monuments of his greatness;-but Nature still speaks, still declares her majesty, still stands out in bold relief to all human in ventions. It is in the district I have just spoken of that the scene of the present narrative is laid. An immense forest, as I have already intimated, covers a large tract of the country. It is thick and dark, and he who has ventured into its depths may be said to have taken his leave of the light of day. The country around is wild and mountainous, and presents few appearances of cultivation. Here and there, embowered in dark and overshadowing woods, an ancient baronial castle presents itself, having either completely fallen into decay, with its crumbling stones overgrown with ivy and other creeping plants, or into such a state of neglect as scarcely to render it inhabitable. This district, like many others in various parts of Germany, teems with legends and traditions, and, as might be expected from a country of so wild and romantic an aspect, of some of the most marvellous superstitions. The former are, perhaps, as strange and incredulous as the latter, but they are widely diffused and implicitly believed in by the people of this primeval wilderness. I have always thought that districts of this description are more favourable for the growth of these wild and romantic legends, these strange superstitions, than any other, and my reasons for the belief appear simple and rational. Those who live in regions of this kind are constantly surrounded by the works of Nature-they are more in communication, as it were, with the Almighty Being from whence they derive their existence than the inhabitants of cities-their souls are imbued with a sense of the wonderful works of creation, and hence, unsophisticated and unacquainted with the devices by which other men contrive to parry convictions which would fain force themselves upon them, they are willing to admit that the universe teems with things as marvellous as they are utterly beyond their comprehension. The forest in question is filled with demons; but whether the offsprings of fancy or otherwise, I will not pretend to say. It is, nevertheless, impossible to combat the pertinacity with which the people insist upon their existence, and which, as they assert, are frequently seen at midnight, and harbour a feeling of the most intense animosity towards the entire human race. A legend of very apocryphal authority is recorded relative to these wood-demons. A great number of years before the time of which I speak, an infant belonging to a peasant in the neighbourhood was stolen under the following strange circumstances. A woman, bearing a child in her arms, proceeded to a well, situated on the borders of the forest, to draw water. When she reached the spot, she knew not how she was to dispose of the child till she had filled her vessel. Twilight was fast merging into the darkness of the night, and there appeared to be nobody at hand who could render her the least assistance. She did not like to lay the child upon the ground, lest it should be stolen by the demons of the forest; and, on the other hand, she did not like to return home without a supply of water, of which the family stood in much need. In this predicament, she debated with herself for some moments as to how she should act, when suddenly, and without knowing whence he came, an old decrepid man presented himself to her, and at once declared his willingness to hold the child until she had drawn her water. The woman scrutinised for several seconds the appearance of the old man, but seeing nothing repulsive in his features, and judging that he was some poor mendicant travelling the country in search of food, she confided the infant to his keeping. When she had drawn the water, and was again about to take the child in her arms, a thick mist seemed to interpose itself between her and the old man, but when it had dispersed, neither he nor the child was visible, Frantic at her loss, and terrified at the occurrence of which she had been a witness, she hastened to communicate her misfortune to her neighbours, and if possible to devise some means whereby the child might be recovered. Search was made everywhere, but in vain; and to this day no tidings of it has ever been received. The well is still pointed out as the scene of the occurrence, but it has never been resorted to since that period after twilight. It was in this district, abounding with such remarkable legends and associations-a place which appeared to be the resort of such evil ministers, and which was almost shut out from all commerce with the world by the wildness of its character and its isolation, that I sought a retreat. I knew not the extent of my rashness. I could not see the misery, the desolation, that were to follow. My motives for doing so appeared to be sufficiently strong. The reader, however, may think otherwise. It was perhaps a delusion; I know not. It did not appear to be so, and the result does not warrant my coming to that conclusion. It harrowed up my soul-it deprived me of rest-it drove slumber from my eyes-it hung like a millstone about my neck, and never permitted me to enjoy happiness for a single moment. I became disgusted with life-with the world-with society. There was no place of refuge but in solitude-in a total es trangement from mankind. Heavens! what an affliction-what a grievous burden to bear! Oh, ye who pass quietly along the beaten track of life, who neither diverge to the right hand nor to the left, whom neither Fancy nor Passion can allure from the even course; who are not too much enamoured of the flowers that are strewn in your way, nor too much grieved or disappointed by the thorns and briars with which ye are beset; who pass from childhood to youth, from youth to manhood, from manhood to old age, with a steadfast equanimity, and the current of whose lives flows smoothly as the waters of a clear and tranquil river,—it is not ye who will appreciate the calamities that are chronicled here-it is not ye who can sympathise with sufferings such as mine. There are, peradventure, hearts that may. Heaven grant that they be few!-Heaven grant that calamities such as mine may not be common to mankind! I must resume my narrative, and check these reflections as much as possible. I was a believer in predestination, and was impressed with a conviction that I was destined to accomplish an act which made me shudder whenever I thought of it. I believed I was predestined to be a murderer-I believed that he who was ordained to fall a victim to my inhuman cruelty, in whose blood my hands were to be imbued, was my own brother. O God! what anguish of spirit, what writhings of the body, did this dreadful conviction occasion me. Was it possible that I could ever contemplate such an act-was it possible that I could put it into execution-was it possible that I could injure even a hair of his head? No; the supposition was monstrous-incredible. It was thus I tried to argue with myself, but in vain. The fearful truth still forced itself upon my mind-it was useless to attempt to shake it off. It was written in my destiny-the decree had gone forth-the edict of Heaven was irrevocable. My countenance did not betoken the character of a murderer, my disposition in no respect delighted in cruelty; but, notwithstanding this, I could not escape the doom that awaited me. I was very young when this conviction forced itself upon my mind-I had scarcely attained my sixteenth year. I was living with my family in Danzig, and was preparing myself to enter one of the German universities. Our family, besides my parents, consisted of a brother and sister. My disposition, however, was altogether different from either of the two latter, and few persons would have supposed that so close a relationship subsisted between us. They were lively and gay in their dispositions; their lives appeared to be a long holiday-a perpetual rejoicing. They laughed, they sung, they danced, they delighted in all the games and pastimes peculiar to youth. The bloom of health mantled upon their cheeks, the vivacity of youth sparkled in their eyes. They were favourites with everybody. I was the reverse of all this. Life afforded me no pleasure; I was miserable. My bodily health declined, and I shrunk almost to a skeleton. I loved to be alone-I avoided society. Why should I obtrude myself upon people who did not love nor appreciate me? Why should my presence throw a damp upon the hilarity of others? Why should I mar the enjoyment of those whose evil star had not been in the ascendant? I would not do so-my pride forbade it. If they were capable of enjoying themselves, I would not interfere with their happiness, however much I might envy it. I gave myself up to study and reflection-they were my only solace for those enjoyments of which I was deprived, and which were so bountifully distributed amongst others. Though, however, I was much alone, I still loved the society of every member of my family, and my brother and I were to each other everything which so tender a relationship warranted. I remember on one occasion he and I were walking in the country together. It was towards evening. The scene before us was calculated to inspire us with delight. The flowers bloomed from the hedge-rows, the birds poured forth their melody from every spray and bough, but I was sad, and wrapped in meditation. "Wie kommt es, Carl," I said to my brother, "dass du immer so lustig bist, und ich immer so traurig?" "Ich weiss nicht. Du hast keine Ursache so traurig zu sein.” "Ach du weisst nicht alles, lieber Carl; du verstehst mich gar nicht." "Dass ist wohl möglich, aber warum bist du nicht wie andere Leute?" "Dass kann nimmer der Fall sein." "Warum nicht?" "Gott hat es so beschlossen." "Dass ist Unsinn, lieber Bruder." The evening began to close fast in upon us, and being fatigued, I seated myself upon the earth, whilst my brother amused himself by wandering about in the neighbourhood. I was obliged to quit Danzig, my family connexions-everything that I held most dear to obviate the dreadful destiny that awaited me. Ha, ha! futile attempt-impotent endeavour! Frustrate the designs of Heaven, oppose a decree which was fixed and irreversible! It was preposterous to think of it. I, nevertheless, made the attempt, with a full determination never to return to my family again. As I have already said, I sought an asylum in a district that accorded with my character-it was wild and solitary. The people were rude and uncultivated, and they were neither curious to know who I was or whence I had come. Notwithstanding this, I did not like their society; they were happy and contented, and although they suffered many privations, they did not seem to feel them. I penetrated into the depths of the forest. I knew not its character, or I should not have ventured to take so hazardous a step. The evening was approaching as I entered its silent and gloomy recesses. The rays of the sun were still shining upon the tops of the trees, and the birds had yet scarcely sought their nests. There was scarcely a breath of air to stir the leaves of the trees, and the deepest silence reigned around. I had some difficulty at first to force my way; the underwood was thick and troublesome, and frequently the pending boughs of the trees put a stop to my progress: I was patient and persevering, and I succeeded in overcoming these difficulties. When I had got deeper into the forest, the way was less impeded by these obstacles, so that I could walk more at my leisure and ease. The scene was novel, and pleased me, and I was not oppressed by the presence of any member of the human family. If I were sad and melancholy, there was nobody to observe me; if I was oppressed with thoughts which almost drove me beside myself, there was none to perceive the anguish I endured. Yet the change was salutary, agreeable. It befitted my humour, |