only operates as an incentive? I know not how I shall be able to relate the circumstances to you; for, as often as I think of them, a cold shudder comes over me. I opened the door with care. I had a light in my hand. My first resolve had been only to look in, and to rétire immediately. When I opened the door, I saw nothing but an empty room, and in the background, a green curtain, as if concealing an alcove or a bedchamber. I could not turn-the curtain looked so mysterious. Methought it moved it was the current rushing in through the open door. A strange oppressive smell pervaded the apartment. In order to be careful, I drew out the key-I advanced trembling-I felt a secret terror that the door would close of itself and for ever behind me. I drew near to the curtain. My heart beat, but it was no longer with curiosity. I drew it back-still I saw nothing; for the light threw only a weak and uncertain glimmer into the gloom. I advanced behind the curtain and now, sister-sister-think of my horror! Round about on the walls stood six skeletons. There was blood on the walls-blood on the floor. A shriek seemed to echo from the window-it was myself doubtless that screamed. The key fell from my hands. I was deafened -it sounded as if the castle were crumbling to the ground. Above the skeletons stood inscriptions with the names of the murdered-the six former wives of Berner with the date on which they were punished for their curiosity-or perhaps I may have but fancied that-for I know not when or how I came to my senses! O with what horrid fancies has my mind been since haunted! I had picked up the key-it had fallen among blood. I was in agony lest I should find the door had closed upon me. I rushed against the curtain, as if I were labouring to overturn a giant, and again I was alone in the desolate chamber. O think, sister-if I had been doomed to pass the night in that abode of misery-if the moon had shone into the bloody chamber -if the skeletons had moved or if my fancy had imparted life to them—I should have dashed my head against the wallsI should have clasped the hideous mouldering remnants in my arms-I should have gone distracted with terror and despair! O think-think of that, sistersuch visions are enough to drive one mad.

to cross that threshold, and it lies before you. O sister, what a castle this is-a slaughter-house!

Anne. Calm yourself, Agnes-It is I -I hold you here in my arms.

Agnes. Ah! what avails that, when horror is so near at hand? You have but

Anne. Sister, we must hence-our brothers must protect us. Would the old woman were not here?

Agnes. Perhaps she will assist us. Anne. Poor child! Doubtless she is in league with the monster.

Agnes. Heavens! and she so old!
Anne. Unfortunate sister!

Agnes. But perhaps he may not return. But lately you made me melancholy with that thought-now it is almost my only consolation.

Anne. But if he should return?

Agnes. Ah! sister, I fear me I am lost. That old woman! She must know every thing. What must be her feelings? But she has a revolting aspect. When she thinks of all this-when the thought of that chamber of blood is present with her, how can she eat, drink, or sleep? And he-he himself-O tell me! how can a man be so converted into a monster! It all seems to me like a hideous vision. And yet I am spell-bound in the centre of this fearful picture.

Anne. Compose yourself-if you would have a chance of salvation-if you would not lose your reason.

Agnes. It is half gone already. O Anne, it is frightful. Even when you were labouring to console me, methought it was the old woman that sate beside me-(grasping her.) But it is yourself— is it not?

Anne. Agnes-Agnes, restrain yourself. Away with this madness.

Agnes. Look on this key, that betrays all. Day and night I have laboured to efface this frightful spot, but all in vain.

Anne. Be calm-be calm.

MECHTHILDE enters with a lantern.

Anne. Are you astir so early.

Mech. I have been crawling through all the house already, for I have a presentiment that our master will be home to-day.

Agnes. My lord?

Mech. Your joy seems to agitate you strangely. But how is it, lady, that you too are up so early?

Anne. My sister is not well.

Mech. Not well! You too are pale. Ah! that will not please my master. I will sit beside you, for my sleep is by; at this early hour it is difficult to sleep. Agnes. Sit down.

Mech. We can amuse ourselves with story-telling. Nothing serves better to keep the eyes open, especially when the stories are somewhat terrible,

Anne. I know none: but you may tell us something.

Mech. See, the moon is going down. The sky is getting black and gloomy. Your lamp is going out; I will place my lantern on the table. Truly, lady, I know not many, and am but an indifferent story-teller; but I will try.

'There was once a forester who lived in a thick wood-so thick, that the sunbeams only pierced through it in broken beams; and when the horn blew, it sounded awfully in that green loneliness. The house of the forester lay in the very thickest of the wood. His children grew up in the wilderness, and saw nobody but their father, for their mother had been long dead.

At a certain period of the year, the father was always accustomed to shut himself up for a whole day in the hut; and then the children used to hear a strange noise about the house-a whining, and shouting, and running, and crying; in short, a disturbance as if the devil himself were abroad. At such times they spent their time in the hut in singing and prayer; and their father warned the children carefully not to go out.

'It happened, however, on one occasion, that he was obliged to go on a journey during the week when that day hap. pened. He gave them the strongest orders not to stir out; but the girl, partly through curiosity, partly that she had forgotten the day, went out of the hut. Not far from the house, there lay a grey stagnant lake, round which old moss-grown willows stood. The girl sat down by the lake; and as she looked in, she thought she saw strange bearded countenances gazing at her. The trees began to rustle; something seemed to move in the distance; the water began to boil up, to grow blacker and blacker, and all at once something like a fish or a frog sprung up, and three bloody, bloody hands slowly rose, and pointed with their crimson fingers towards the girl'

Agnes. Bloody! Sister, sister, for God's sake! look at the old witch! See how her face is distorted! Look, sister!

Mech. Child! what is the matter?

Agnes. Bloody, did you say? Yes, bloody, thou loathsome hag! Your life is one of blood, ye butchers, ye ruthless murderers! Away with her, I cannot bear her grinning visage opposite to me! Away! So long as I am mistress here, I shall be obeyed.

Mech. These are strange attacks.

Anne. You are heated-these are mere imaginations.

Agnes. Then why did she speak of blood? I cannot hear the word without going mad.

Anne. You must lie down again. Sleep may refresh you.

Agnes. Sleep! O, no-no sleep. I cannot sleep-but I will rest beside you -I will hold your dear hand in mine, while you speak consolation to me. [Exeunt.

[Exit.

Anne. O sister, calm yourself. Agnes. You should have seen how her visage changed during the story.

Peter. Remain there, I will come up. Leave the gates open. The others with the booty will be here immediately. [They enter the gate. Agnes. He is coming here. It is he indeed!

Anne. Collect yourself, dear sister, all may yet be well.

Agnes. I am sick of life: yet death is terrible to me. I understand not myself. PETER BERNER appears on the balcony. Agnes. I had a presentiment that you would come.

Peter. I have returned sooner than I had calculated on. My foes are defeated, and rich booty has fallen into our hands. Agnes. Fortune seems always to accompany you.

Peter. Think you so?-And how, in the meantime, have you been? Agnes. Quite well.

Peter. Methinks you look pale.
Agnes. We rose this morning so early.

MECHTHILDE enters.

Peter. How have you crawled up, old house-dragon?

Mech. I came to wish you joy, my lord.
Peter. I thank you.

Mech. The morning meal is ready. Peter. Good. It is a fair prospect from hence. But standing at this height one must be wary; sometimes the inclination seizes us to leap down; the depth of the descent lures us into the abyss.

Anne. Women think not of such things; but my brother Simon would talk of it for hours.

Agnes. Here are the keys; but I'll give you them afterwards. Peter. Very good. every thing?

You have seen

Agnes. With delight. I have satiated myself with wonders.

Peter. I think you may as well give me them now.

Agnes. Here. The golden one I shall keep.

Peter. For what purpose?
Agnes. As a remembrance.
Peter. Little fool!

Agnes. Now, seriously, I don't intend to give it you. I must try your patience a little.

Peter. My patience does not bear much. Agnes. And yet we have not been so long married as to quarrel already.

Peter. After a quarrel the reconciliation is the sweeter.

Agnes. I never saw you in such goodhumour.

Agnes. I see you do not trust me; so I'll keep the key a little longer in jest. Peter. You will give it to me—I ask it seriously.

Peter. I am well to-day. has succeeded with me. wife, give me the key. Agnes. Here, then.

Peter. Now we will go down to breakfast.

Mech. Come, my lord.

Peter. (Playing with the key.) What is the matter?

Every thing Now, childish

Agnes. Nothing. Shall we go?
Peter. What spot is this?

Agnes. A spot! Perhaps it may have got it just now.

soon.

Peter. Now! hypocritical serpent. O Agnes! I thought not to lose you so None of my wives left me so suddenly; for to all of them my commands were of some force for a few weeks. But you

Agnes. Ah! be not angry.

Peter. Accursed curiosity. (He throws the key from him) Through thee came the first sin into the guiltless world, and still thou leadest men to sins too dark, too monstrous to be named. The crime of the first mother of mankind has poisoned all her daughters, and woe to the deceived husband who trusts to your false tenderness, the feigned innocence of your eyes, your smiles, the pressure of your hands! Deceit is your trade, and you are beautiful only that you may the better deceive. Your very sex should be swept from the face of the earth. This shameless curiosity-this baseness of heart-this contemptible weakness of disposition it is, which with you dissevers every tie,-makes you break your plighted faith and then, allied with cowardice, tempts you to the most ruthless murders. Hell itself! the very embraces of the devil, are the price ye pay for the indulgence of this pleasure. Enough! you have chosen your fate.

Agnes. I tremble to look on you. Have pity on me!

Peter. Old woman, take up the key. Mech. You wish to open the Cabinet? Good. [Exit. Agnes. (Kneels.) Have mercy! Forgive me my presumption; you shall not repent of it; I will reward you for it with all my love.

Peter. Do I not know you? At this moment you loathe me, you would fly if but an opportunity offered.

Agnes. So young, and yet to die so terrible a death!-Discard me as your wife-make me your servant; the servant of your housekeeper; any thing; but O! let me live!

Peter. Your prayers are vain. It is

Anne. (Kneels.) O spare my sister; let your heart be moved as becomes a man: give mercy as you expect mercy; look on the agony of your poor wife! Let my tears find their way to your heart. I will not say her guilt is trifling, but the greater it is, the more noble will be your lenity.

Agnes. Dear, dear husband, look on me with kindness; not so; not with these fearful eyes. Let me cling to your knees; turn not from me so coldly, think of the love you once bore to me. Ah! let me not die this fearful fearful death; drag me not into the bloody chamber; drive me forth to the woods-to the wilderness-to the stags and wolves; but oh! let me not die here; not to-day!

Peter. All is in vain.

Agnes. Every prayer-every tear in vain?

Peter. By the heaven above us! Agnes. (Rising hastily.) Then rise, sister, pollute your knees no longer. Now hear me for the last time, thou coldblooded, blood-thirsty monster! hear that I loathe thee, that thou wilt not escape thy punishment.

Anne. Had we but other two women here, our nails should scratch your little serpent-like eyes out of your head.

Agnes. Detestable monster!-no man, but an abortion-the mother that bore you should have drowned you like a dog, in order to avert the evil you were to bring upon the world.

Peter. Ho! ho! What prevents me from throwing you both down from this height? Bethink yourselves, ye are mad. Is this language for women-Now come, Agnes. The door beneath is unlocked.

Agnes. And is this your final purpose. O woe is me! I cannot move, my strength is exhausted.

Peter. Come !

Agnes. One prayer to Heaven-you will allow me time for that?

Peter. Then be quick, I will wait below. [Exit. Agnes. Ah! sister-were it not better to leap down at once from this giddy height. But my courage fails me. (She kneels.) I will pray. O, if my brothers could but come! Sister, look out into the country-it were possible. Ah! I cannot give a thought to heaven. See you nothing?

beware of falling. Now, see you any thing?

Peter. (From below.) Agnes!
Agnes. Immediately.

Anne. I see nothing but the field, and the wood, and the mountains. All is calm-not a breath stirs. The trees on this side shut out the prospect.

Agnes. If your head be not giddy, I would pray you to ascend the tower-but

Agnes. Alas! and I cannot pray. Involuntarily I feel myself calling Simon, Anthony, as if help were yet at hand.

Peter. (Below.) Agnes, you make me impatient!

Agnes. But one short prayer! See you nothing still?

Anne. I see dust rising.

Agnes. O joy, joy!

Anne. Alas, alas! it is but a flock of sheep.

Agnes. Am I not a fool to hope for impossibilities? I will resign myself to my fate. I will reconcile myself to death. Come down, sister-you see nothing still -and let me take leave of you.

Anne. I see a horseman-two.
Agnes. How? is it possible?

Anne. They rush like lightning down the mountain, the one after the other. Agnes. O God!

Anne. The one is before the otherfar before.

Peter. (Below.) Agnes, I am coming. Agnes. I am on my way to you; my sister is giving me a last embrace.

Anne. He comes nearer and nearer ! Agnes. Do you not know him? Anne. No-yes!-It is Simon! (She waves her handkerchief.) Oh woe! his horse stumbles with him-he falls-he rises he runs on foot !

Agnes. Where am I? I know not whether I am alive or dead.

have been omitted; nor is there any thing in the humour of the Fool, or the folly of the Counsellor, which, to those accustomed to the Touchstone or Dogberry of Shakspeare, is likely to reconcile them to the introduction of characters so totally unconnected with the plot. The wit, such as it is, is too obviously

prepared, and the characters too palpably opposed to each other, on a principle of absolute contrast. Had Bluebeard been written in three confined to the single idea of the Acts instead of five, and the action punishment of curiosity, it would have been an admirable effective acting play. The whole of the last Act is dramatic, and agitating in the highest degree. As it is, however, we scarcely wonder that, as yet, Bluebeard, though printed in 1797, and read, admired, and lauded by every German critic, since Schlegel led the way in the Jena Literatur Zeitung, has found no manager enterprising enough to bring it upon the stage.

AMONG the many dangers to which the empire, as the reward of its democratic madness, is now exposed, there is none which appears so immediate as that of dismemberment, from the distractions of Ireland, and the powerful influence which the Reform Bill has given to its reckless and unprincipled agitators. We were told again and again, till great part of the nation came to believe the fallacy, that the Catholic influence would be absolutely trifling in Parliament; that five or six members were all that the priests would be able to return for an hundred years to come; that they would be lost amidst the crowd of English Protestants; and that, of all the chimeras on earth, the most extravagant was to expect danger from that quarter. These principles the Whigs incessantly inculcated for thirty years; and on them they acted in passing the Irish Reform Bill, and giving to its ardent,

VOL. XXXIII. NO. CCIV.

impassioned, destitute, and priestridden population the same privileges as to the sober yeomanry of Eng

land.

What is the consequence? Are the Catholics so very despicable? Is the Popish priesthood so very powerless in the formation of legislative authority? Is the cause of the Repeal-in other words, of the dismemberment of the empire, so very hopeless? Is O'Connell, the great agitator, reduced, as he said he would be by emancipation, to a mere plodding nisi prius lawyer? The reverse of all this has avowedly taken place. The Catholic priests have returned above half of the Irish members; O'Connell himself is at the head of a band of ten of his own relations; and thirty more are ready to obey his summons. The Repealers constitute an undoubted majority of the legislators sent from the other side of the Channel.

P