more and more sad in spirit, and his sighs grew deeper and more quick. Then inquired the knave of the lord what sudden affliction, or cause of sorrow had happened. Alas! replied the wily master, I trust in heaven's goodness that neither of us two hath to day, by any frowardness of fortune, chanced to say the thing which is not for assuredly he that hath so done must this day perish. The knave, on hearing these doleful words, and perceiving real sorrow to be depicted on the paleness of his master's countenance, instantly felt as if his ears grew more wide, that not a word, or syllable, of so strange a discovery might escape his troubled sense. And So, with eager exclamations, he demanded of the lord to ease his suspense, and to explain why so cruel a doom was now about to fall upon companionable liars. Hear, then, dear knave, answered the lord to the earnestness of his servant-since thou must needs know, hearken! and God grant that no trouble come to thee from what I shall say. To-day we ride far, and in our course is a vast and heavy-rolling flood, of which the ford is narrow, and the pool is deep. To it hath heaven given the power of sweeping down into its dark holes all dealers in falsehood, who may rashly venture to put themselves within its truth-loving current! But to him who hath told no lie, there is no fear of this river:Spur we our horses, knave, for to-day our journey must be long. Then the knave thought,-long indeed must the journey be for some who are now here: and, as he spurred, he sighed heavier and deeper than his master had done before him--who now went gaily on nor ceased he to cry, Spur we our horses, knave, for to-day our journey must be long! Then came they to a brook. Its waters were small, and its channel such as a boy might leap across. Yet, nevertheless, the knave began to tremble, and faulteringly he asked, is this now the river where harmless liars must perish? This! ah no, replied the lord: this is but a brook-no liar need tremble here. Yet was the knave not wholly assured; and, stammering, he said—my gracious lord, thy servant now bethinks him that, he to-day hath made a fox too huge: that of which he spake was verily not so large as is an ox; but, stone and bone, as big as is a good-sized roe! The lord replied, with wonder in his tone, what of this fox concerneth me? If large or small I care not. Spur we our horses, knave, for to-day our journey must be long! Long indeed, still thought the serving-groom; and in sadness he crossed the brook. Then came they to a stream, running quickly through a green meadow, the stones showing themselves in many places above its frothy water. The varlet started, and cried aloud-another river! surely of rivers there is to-day no end: was it of this thou talkedst heretofore? No, replied the lord, not of this and more he said not: yet marked he, with inward gladness, his servant's fear.-Because, in good truth, rejoined the knave,-it is on my conscience to give thee note, that the fox of which I spake was not larger than a calf! Large or small, let me not be troubled with thy fox: the beast concerneth not me at all! As they quitted the woody country, they perceived a river in the way, which gave sign of having been swollen by the rains; and on it was a boat. This, then, is the doom of liars, said the knave; and he looked earnestly towards the passage-craft. Be informed, my good lord, that reynard was not larger than a fat wedder sheep! The lord seemed angry, and answered, this is not yet the grave of falsehood: why torment me with this cursed fox! Rather spur we Our horses, for we have far to go. Stone and bone, said the knave to himself, the end of my journey approacheth! Now the day declined, and the shadows of the travellers lengthened on the ground; but darker than the twilight was the sadness on the face of the knave. And, as the wind rustled the trees, he ever and anon turned pale, and inquired of his master, if the noise were of a torrent or stream of water? Still, as the evening fell, his eyes strove to discover the course of a winding river. But nothing of the sort could he discern, so that his spirits began to revive, and he was fain to join in discourse with the lord:-but the lord held his peace, and looked as one who expects an evil thing. Suddenly the way became steep, and they descended into a low and woody valley, in which was a broad and black river, creeping fearfully along, like the dark stream of Lethe, without bridge or bark to be seen near. Alas, alas, cried the knave, and the anguish oozed from the pores of his pale face. Ah miserable me! this then is the river in which liars must perish! Even so, said the lord: this is the stream of which I spake: but the ford is sound and good for true men: Spur we our horses, knave, for night approacheth, and we have yet far to go. My life is dear to me, said the trembling serving-man; and thou knowest that were it lost my wife would be disconsolate. In sincerity, then, I declare, that the fox, which I saw in the distant country, was not larger than he who fled from us in the wood this morning! Then laughed the lord aloud, and said, Ho, knave! wast thou afraid of thy life, and will nothing cure thy lying? Is not falsehood, which kills the soul, worse than death, which has mastery only over the body? This river is no more than any other; nor hath it a power such as I feigned. The ford is safe, and the waters gentle as those we have already passed. But who shall pass thee over the shame of this day? In it thou must needs sink, unless penitence come to help thee over, and cause thee to look back on the gulph of thy lies, as on a danger from which thou hast been delivered by heaven's grace. And, as he railed against his servant, the lord rode on into the water, and both in safety reached the opposite shore. Then vowed the knave, by stone and bone, that from that time forward he would duly measure his words— and glad was he so to escape. Such is the story of the lying servant, and the merry lord, by which let the reader profit. THE CASTLE-GOBLIN, OR THE TOWER OF NEUFTCHABERG. Two lovers, a youth and a maiden, once lived on the banks of the Rhine, where it winds between lofty rocks, and is overhung with gloomy forests. The passage-barks go furiously with the stream of the river in this part; and the helmsman used to return thanks to the Virgin when he saw behind him the old Single Tower of Neuftchaberg. From this ruin, standing upright and alone, like a pinetree, the owl still sent a long and loud cry, when the shadow of night fell heavily from the lofty bank over the boiling current of the profound water. Once, only once, dear life of my soul, do I desire to have thee to myself, without fear of spies; that fancy may be left free to the delight which thy presence would ever bring, did not the evil eye of jealous suspicion watch me, as for the secret robber of the fold. She listened to his pleading breath, and tears filled her blue eyes. But the maiden spake not in reply, for her heart beat, and caused the words to die on her powerless tongue. Look up, my love, look up! Behold the old Single Tower of Neuftchaberg: to it the helmsman looks as he guides the passage-bark. Hearken! the owl sends forth his long and loud cry, for the shadow of night falls heavily on the deep water. Am I dear to thee, thou beloved one? If so, meet me there, above, even where the owl cries, at the safe midnight hour: then the world shall be only to us. The maiden shuddered: but, as she trembled, she came more close to the bosom of the youth. Thou art dear to me; and well thou knowest dear! but, alas, how shall I meet thee at midnight at the old Single Tower of Neuftchaberg! Doth not the cry of the foul bird already chill my blood? And shall I dare to meet the dull eyes of the Castle-Goblin, as they gleam with a grey light from the narrow window-holes of the silent ruin! As she spake, the owl again shrieked loud and long: it seemed the hollo of the Castle-Goblin: the lovers started; and the helmsman, as the sound leaped through the water-caves, made the sign of the cross, and prayed earnestly to the Virgin. In a moment all was again still; nothing was heard but the motion of the boiling current. Slowly rose the moon, with creeping edge, above the dim boundary of the night-sky. And, as she rose, a trembling light fell on the old Single Tower. Then its narrow windowholes appeared, and the clearing air shone beyond them. No Goblin-eyes gleamed as in horrid sockets: the bramble and the ivy hung over the rifted fragments, and the parted leaves of each were distinctly seen. The maiden stood close to the youth, who soothingly inclined her cheek to his. The night-wind mingled with their breathings, and the rushing of the impetuous Rhine seemed less fierce in its noise. The cry of the owl had ceased. And doth the beloved-one fear the Castle-Goblin, said the enamoured youth? Love hath no idle fears: it only dreadeth the jealous suspicion that causeth separation, and sad disappointment, and wan anxiety. The maiden wept, but still her cheek rested on the youth's. Ah, more than the Castle-Goblin, I dread the demons that dwell in the heart. Let me not name them: thou wilt spare me the shame. Guard then thy fidelity, whilst thou preservest thy patience; and save thyself from remorse, and me, thy love, from guilt and dark disgrace! And now the moon shone clear and full in the height of the heavenly arch. All the air was of a silvery blue: even the old Single Tower of Neuftchaberg was arrayed in a mild brightness. Its narrow window-holes seemed stripes of light, enlivening the gloom of its ruined walls. As the passage-bark glided swiftly below the rock, the sound of the anthem, sung by the helmsman to the divine Mother and Virgin, with hair of gold, rose above the rushing of the water. The lovers stood, silent and close together, in the beauty of the fair night. Scarcely were seen to move the heads of the wild field-flowers, as the gentle wind fleeted onward to the smiling dis tance. But soon the lover prayed more fervently than before: Meet me at the safe hour of midnight, in the mossgrown court of the ruined tower! There the world shall be only to us; and the evil eye of suspicion shall be away! Faultering accents moved on the tongue of the maiden, and she found her lips joined, with soft and lingering pressure, to the youth's. Passion was in their hearts. The moon descended redly to the opposite verge of the fading heaven. Moaning, deep, and broken, commenced again the hooting of the bird of night. The breeze came chill, and with a swelling noise, from the forest on the hills behind: the voice of the river rose; and a melancholy shade fell over the old Single Tower of Neuftchaberg. Where the lovers stood was now an empty space. They had disappeared. The wild field-flowers bent their heads to the ground, as the cutting wind glided swiftly by. See! the moon now scarcely preserves her swarthy discoloured rim, above the far-distant limit of the night-sky. A vapour is gone forth, and the shadows are dense. 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 drops into the abyss, and all is dark. But the youth hath met his beloved one, and tears of joy and gratitude run down his 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. Drearily gleam the narrow windowholes 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 are saved by the doleful vision! Eternal Father, now is the doom accomplished: now is the longpast 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 chaunted 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. THE CHARACTER OF POPE. To the Editor of the London Magazine. MR. BOWLES has to apologize to the Editors of the London Magazine, for troubling them on the subject of the letter, relative to himself, which appeared in their last number; and he would request them to publish this note, in their next. Passing by any expressions in that letter, which Mr. Bowles thinks he does not deserve, he begs solemnly to say, that, when he justified Pope, he did it gladly, and in the sincerity of his heart. He begs to say, moreover, that if Mr. Gilchrist, or any other writer, shall prove that Pope's artifice and disingenuousness, were not such as they appeared to be to Mr. Bowles when he wrote, with regard to the publication of his letters, or the quarrel with Addison, no one will MORE sincerely REJOICE than himself. And he will not only think it a justice due to the memory of a great poet, PUBLICLY TO DECLARE this, but to acknowledge that the thanks of every friend to literature will be due to Mr. Gilchrist. Bremkill, August 9, 1820. TABLE-TALK. No. III. ON THE CONVERSATION OF AUTHORS. AN author is bound to write-well or ill, wisely or foolishly: it is his trade. But I do not see that he is bound to talk, any more than he is bound to dance, or ride, or fence better than other people. Reading, study, silence, thought, are a bad introduction to loquacity. It would be sooner learnt of chambermaids and tapsters. He understands the art and mystery of his own profession, which is bookmaking: what right has any one to expect or require more from him-to make a bow gracefully on entering or leaving a room, to make love charmingly, or to make a fortune at all? In all things there is a division of labour. A lord is no less amorous for writing ridiculous love-letters, nor a general less successful for wanting wit and honesty. Why then may not a poor author say nothing, and yet pass muster? Set him on the top of a stage-coach, he will make no figure; he is mum-chance, while the slang wit flies about as fast as the dust, with the crack of the whip and the clatter of the horses' heels: put him in a ring of boxers, he is a poor creature And of his port as meck as is a maidintroduce him to a tea-party of milliner's girls, and they are ready to split their sides with laughing at him: over his bottle, he is dry: in the drawing-room rude or shy: he is too refined for the vulgar, too clownish for the fashionable:--" he is one that cannot make a good leg, one that cannot eat a mess of broth cleanly, one that cannot ride a horse without spurgalling, one that cannot salute a woman, and look on her directly:"in courts, in camps, in town and country, he is a cypher or a butt: he is good for nothing but a laughingstock or a scare-crow. You can scarcely get a word out of him for love or money. He knows nothing. He has no notion of pleasure or business, or of what is going on in the world; he does not understand cookery (unless he is a doctor in divinity) nor surgery, nor chemistry (unless he is a quidnunc) nor mechanics, nor husbandry and tillage (unless he is as great an admirer of Tull's Husbandry, and has profited as much by it as the philosopher of Botley)—no, nor music, painting, the Drama, nor the Fine Arts in general. "What the deuce is it then, my good sir, that he does understand, or know any thing about? "Books, Venus, books!" "What books?"-" Not receiptbooks, Madonna, nor account-books, nor books of pharmacy, or the veterinary art (they belong to their respective callings and handicrafts) but books of liberal taste and general knowledge."-" What do you mean by that general knowledge which implies not a knowledge of things in general, but an ignorance (by your own account) of every one in particular: or by that liberal taste which scorns the pursuits and acquirements of the rest of the world in succession, and is confined exclusively, and by way of excellence, to what nobody takes an interest in but yourself, and a few idlers like yourself? Is this what the critics mean by the belles-lettres, and the study of humanity?" Book-knowledge, in a word, then, is knowledge communicable by books: and it is general and liberal for this reason, that it is intelligible and interesting on the bare suggestion. That to which any one feels a romantic attachment, merely from finding it in a book, must be interesting in itself: that which he instantly forms a lively and entire conception of, from seeing a few marks and scratches upon paper, must be taken from common nature: that which, the first time you meet with it, seizes upon the attention as a curious speculation, must exercise the general faculties of the human mind. There are certain broader aspects of society and views of things common to every subject, and more or less cognisable to every mind; and these the scholar treats and founds his claim to general attention upon, without being charge |