thee of sure but unseen danger. The walls of Geneva are strong, and the arms and hearts of her citizens firm and trusty; but her hour is come, and the path of the destroyer, although secret, is like her own blue Rhone, which hides itself for a time beneath the earth only to spring forth more strongly and irresistibly than ever." "Thy words are dark and dreadful: but I do not know of any cause for fear, or of any means of avoiding it, if it exists." "Fly with me, fly to my own rich vales in fertile Italy; there with thy heart and hand reward my love, and think no more of those grim walls, and sullen citizens, with souls as iron as their beavers, and hearts as cold as the waters of their lake." "Oh! no, no, no: my father's head is gray, and, but for me alone, all his affections, all his hopes are buried in my mother's grave. He hates thy creed and nation. When I told him that a stranger had rescued his daughter from the wave, he raised his hands to heaven and blessed him. I told him that that stranger was a Savoyard; he checked his unfinished benediction, and cursed thee. But if he knew thee, Theodore, thy noble heart, thy constant love, methinks that time and entreaty would make him listen to his daughter's prayer." "Alas! my Isabel, entreaty would be vain, and time is already flapping his wings, loaded with inevitable ruin, over yon devoted city and its inhabitants. Thy father shall be safe-trust that to me-and trust me too, that what I promise I can perform. But thou, my loved one, thou must not look upon the horrid face of war; and though my power extends to save thy father from injury, it would be easier to save the wall-flowers on the - ramparts of thy city from the foot of the invader, than one so fair, so feeble, from his violence and lust." "Whoe'er thou art," she said, "there is a spell upon my heart which love and gratitude have twined, and which makes it thine for ever; but sooner would I lock my hand in that of the savage Martigny himself, when reeking with the best blood of Geneva's citizens, than leave my father's side when his gray hairs are in danger, and my native city when treachery is in her streets, and outrage is approaching her walls."

These words were uttered with an animation and vehemence so unusual to her, that Theodore stood for a moment transfixed with wonder; and before he recovered his self

possession, Isabel, with the velocity of lightning, had regained her skiff, and was sailing before the wind to Geneva. "Curse on my amorous folly!" he exclaimed, "that for a pair of pale cheeks and sparkling eyes, has perhaps ruined a better concerted stratagem than ever entered the brain of the Grecian Simon. I must away, or the false girl will awake the slumbering citizens to their defence before the deed is done; and yet, must I devote her to the foul grasp of ruffian violence! No, no, my power is equal to save or destroy." As he uttered these words, he rapidly ascended the rocks which skirted that part of the lake on which he stood, and was soon lost among the wild woods that crowned their suminit. The principal events of that night are matters of history, and are universally known. The Savoyards, by means of an unexpected attack during a period of profound peace, and aided by internal treachery, hoped to make themselves masters of the city of Geneva. The citizens, however, had by some unknown means obtained intelligence of the designs of the enemy, and were prepared to repel their attacks. Every street was lined with soldiers, and a band of the bravest and most determined, under the command of Eustace Beauvoisin (Isabel's father,) manned the city walls. The struggle was short but sanguinarythe invaders were beaten back at every point-their best troops were left dead in the trenches-and above two hun. dred prisoners (among whom was the Count de Martigny himself) fell into the hands of the citizens. The successful party set no bounds either to their exultation or their revenge. The rejoicings were continued for three successive days. The neighboring country was ravaged without cessation and without remorse; and all the prisoners were ordered by a decrec of the Diet, to be treated as felons, and hanged in the most public places in the city. This decree was rigorously and unrelentingly executed. The Savoyard soldiers, without any distinction, as to rank or character, suffered the ignominious punishment to which they were condemned, and the streets of Geneva were blocked up by gibbets, which the most timid and merciful of its inhabitants gazed upon with satisfaction and triumph.

The Count of Martigny, both on account of his rank and of the peculiar degree of hatred with which each Genevese

bosom beat against him, was reserved to be the last victim. On the day of his execution the streets were lined with spectators, and the principal families in the city occupied stations around the scaffold. So great was the universal joy at having their persecutor in their power, that even the wives and daughters of the most distinguished citizens were anxious to view the punishment inflicted upon him, whom they considered alike the enemy of heaven and of themselves. Isabel, was not of this number: but her father sternly compelled her to be a witness of the dismal scene. The hour of noon was fast approaching, and the bell of the cathedral of St. Pierre, heavily and solemnly tolled the kneel of the unfortunate Martigny. The fatal cavalcade approached the place of execution. A stern and solemn triumph gleamed in the eyes of the Genevese soldiers as they trod by the side of the victim; but most of the spectators, especially the females, were melted into tears, when they beheld the fine manly form of the prisoner, whose youthful beauty seemed better fitted for the royal levee, or a lady's bower, than for the melancholy fate, to which he was about to be consigned. His head was bare, and his light flaxen hair fell in a rich profusion of locks down his shoulders, but left unshaded his finely proportioned and sun burnt features. He wore the uniform of the Savoyard army, and a star on his breast indicating his rank, while he held in his hand a small ivory cross, which he frequently and fervently kissed. His deportment was firm and contemptuous; and as he looked on the formal, and frequently grotesque figures of his guards, his features even assumed an expression of risibility. The sight of the gibbet, however, seemed to appal him, for he had not been apprised of the ignominious nature of his punishment. "And is this," he said, as he scornfully dashed away a tear which had gathered in his eye, "ye heretic dogs, is this the death to which you doom the heir of Martigny?" A stern and bitter smile played on the lips of his guards, but they remained silent. "Oh, God," he continued, "in the field, on the wave, or on the block, which has reeked so often with the bravest and noblest blood, I could have died smiling, but this." His emotion seemed increasing, but, with a violent effort, he suppressed every outward sign of it; for the visible satisfaction which gleamed on the dark faces

around him, at the state of weakness to which they had reduced the proud heart of their foe, was more galling to his soul than the shameful death to which he was devoted.

By the time he reached the place of execution his face had resumed its calm and scornful air, and he sprang upon the scaffold with apparently unconcerned alacrity. At the same moment a dreadful shriek issued from that part of the surrounding booths in which the family of Beauvoisin sat; and in another instant a female, deadly pale, and with her hair and dress disordered, had darted on the scaffold, and clapsed the prisoner in her arms. "Theodore ?" she cried, "Theodore ?—can it be thou? oh! they dare not take thy life-thou bravest, best of men! Avaunt, ye blood-thirsty brood! ye cannot tear me from him! No: till my arms grow cold in death I'll clasp him thus, and defy the world to sever us!"—"Oh, Isabel !" he said, "it is too much: my soul can bear no more-I hoped thy eyes had been spared this sight-but the cold tyrants have decreed it thus: oh! leave me leave me-it is in vain-unmannered ruffians, spare her!" While he spoke the soldiers forcibly tore her from him, and were dragging her through the crowd. "My father! save him! he saved thy child--Theodore! supplicate him he is kind." She turned her eyes to the scaffold as she uttered these words, and beheld the form of Martigny, writhing in the air, and convulsed with the last mortal agony. A fearful shriek burst from her heart, and she sunk senseless in the arms of those who bore her.

Isabel survived this event more than a twelvemonth; but her reason had fled, and her health was so shattered that final recovery was hopeless. She took scarcely any food-refused all intercourse with her former friends, and even with her father, would sit silent and motionless for days together. One thing only soothed her mind, or afforded any gratification; and this as she was an experienced steerswoman, her friends indulged her in-to sail from the city of Geneva to that spot on which she used to meet her lover. This she did constantly every evening; but when she landed, and had waited a short time, her shrieks and cries were pitiable. This practice, one evening, proved fatal; instead of steering to the usual landing place, a little above the city, she entered the Rhone, where it emerges

from the lake. The rapidity of its waves mastered and overturned the frail bark in which she sailed, and the unfortunate Isabel sunk to rise no more!

The tragic nature of these events made an impression on the popular mind which three centuries have not effaced. The spirit of Isabel is still said to sail every night from Geneva to Clase, to meet her lover; and the track across the lake, which this unearthly traveller pursues, is distinguished by the name of "The Spectre's Voyage."

THE KNAVISH GHOST.

In the year 1704, a gentleman, to all appearance of large fortune, took furnished lodgings in a house in Soho-square. After he had resided there some weeks with his establishment, he lost his brother, who had lived at Hampstead, and who, on his death-bed, particularly desired to be interred in the family vault in Westminster Abbey. The gentleman requested his landlord to permit him to bring the corpse of his brother to his lodgings, and make arrangements there for the funeral. The landlord, without hesitation, signified his compliance.

The body, dressed in a white shroud, was accordingly brought in a very handsome coffin, and placed in the great dining-room. The funeral was to take place the next day, and the lodger and his servants went out to make the necessary preparations for the solemnities. He staid out late, but this was no uncommon thing. The landlord and his family, conceiving that they had no occasion to wait for him, retired to bed as usual, about twelve o'clock. One maid servant was left up to let him in, and to boil some water, which he had desired might be ready for making tea on his return. The girl was accordingly sitting alone in the kitchen, when a tall, spectre-looking figure entered, and clapped itself down in a chair opposite her.

The maid was by no means one of the most timid of her sex; but she was terrified beyond expression, lonely as she was, at this unexpected apparition. Uttering a loud scream, she flew out like an arrow, at a side-door, and hurried to