Among the many desperate attempts which were made from time to time to dethrone her, the following is the most curious:—

M. d'Argenson and Madame d'Estrade had resolved upon raising to the throne of the favorite the young and beautiful Madame de Choiseul, wife of the court usher. The intrigue was conducted with so much art that the king granted an interview. At the hour fixed upon for the meeting a great agitation reigned in the cabinet of the minister. M. d'Argenson and Madame d'Estrade awaited the event with anxiety; Quesnai, physician to the king and to the favorite, was also present. All at once Madame de Choiseul rushed into the room; Madame d'Estrade ran to meet her with open arms.

"Well!" she exclaimed.

"Yes," replied Madame de Choiseul; "I am loved; she is going to be dismissed. He has given me his royal word on it."

A burst of joy resounded through the cabinet. Quesnai was, as we know, the friend of Madame de Pompadour; but he was at the same time the friend of Madame d'Estrade. M. d'Argenson imagined that in this revolution he would remain neuter at least, but he was mistaken.

"Doctor," said he, "nothing changes for you; we trust that you will remain with us."

"Monsieur le Comte," coldly replied Quesnai, rising from his seat, "I have been attached to Madame de Pompadour in her prosperity, and I shall remain so in her disgrace;" and so saying he left the room.

This Quesnai, of whom we have just made mention, was a man of uncouth and rustic manners, a true Danubian peasant. He inhabited a little entresol above the apartments of Madame de Pompadour at Versailles, where he would pass the whole of his time absorbed in schemes of political economy. Quesnai, however, did not want for friends, as he could boast of the esteem of all the most illustrious philosophers of the day. For those persons who did not go to court would come once a month to dine with the court physician. Marmontel, in his Memoirs, relates that he has dined there in company with Diderot, D'Alembert, Duclos, Helvetius, Turgot, and Buffon,—a goodly array of intellect. Thus on the ground floor they deliberated on peace and war, on the choice of ministers, the suppression of the Jesuits, the exile of the parliament, and the future destinies of France; while above stairs those who had not power, but who possessed ideas, labored unwittingly at the future destinies of the world. What was concocted in the rez-de-chaussee was demolished in the entresol. It would frequently happen, too, that Madame de Pompadour who could not receive the guests of Quesnai in her own apartments, would ascend to those of her physician to see and chat with them.

Every Sunday morning Madame de Pompadour received at her toilet all the artists, literary men, and great personages of the court, who had the entree of her apartments. Marmontel relates that on the arrival of Duclos and De Bernis, who never missed a single Sunday, she would say to the first, with a light air, "Bon jour, Duclos;" to the second, with an air and voice more amiable, "Bon jour, abbe:" accompanying her words occasionally with a little tap on his cheek. Artists and men of letters were invariably better received than the titled courtiers of France; while many of the nobility were truly lords-in-waiting, the two Vanloos, De la Tour, Boucher, and Cochin, had never to remain in the antechamber. The account of her first and only interview with Crebillon is interesting. Some one had informed her that the old tragic poet was living in the Marais, surrounded by his cats and dogs, in a state of poverty and neglect. "What say you!" she exclaimed; "in poverty and neglect?" She ran to seek the king, and asked for a pension for the poet of one hundred louis a-year from her privy purse. When Crebillon came to Versailles to thank her, she was in bed. "Let him come in," she exclaimed, "that I may see the gray-headed genius." At the sight of the fine old man—Crebillon was then eighty years of age—so poor and yet so proud, she was affected to tears. She received him with so touching a grace that the old poet was deeply moved. As he leaned over the bed to kiss her hand, the king appeared. "Ah, madame," exclaimed Crebillon, "the king has surprised us! I am lost!" This sally amused Louis XV. vastly; Crebillon's success was decided.

Madame de Pompadour passed her last days in a state of deep dejection. As she was now in the decline both of her favor and of her reign, she no longer had friends; even the king himself, though still submitting to her guidance, loved her no more. The Jesuits, too, whom she had driven from court, overwhelmed her with letters, in which they strove to depict to her the terrors of everlasting punishment.[E] Every hour that struck seemed to toll for her the death-knell of all her hopes and joys. On her first appearance at court, proud of her youth, her beauty, and her brilliant complexion, she had proscribed rouge and patches, saying that life was not a masked ball. She had now reached that sad period of life when she would be compelled to choose between rouge or the first wrinkles of incipient old age. "I shall never survive it," she used to say, mournfully,

[Footnote E: The fear of losing her power, and of becoming once more a bourgeoise of Paris, perpetually tormented her. After she had succeeded in suppressing the Jesuits, she fancied she beheld in each monk of the order as assassin and a poisoner.—Memoires historiques de la Cour de France.]

One night, during the year 1760, she was seized with a violent trembling, and sitting up in bed, called Madame du Hausset.

"I am sure," she said, "I am going to die. Madame de Vintimille and Madame de Chateauroux both died as young as myself: it is a species of fatality which strikes all those who have loved the king. What I regret least is life,—I am weary of flatteries and insults, of friendships and hatreds; but I own to you that I am terrified at the idea of being cast into some ditch or other, whether it be by the clergy, by Monseigneur the Dauphin, or by the people of Paris."

Madame du Hausset took her hands within her own, and assured her that if France had the misfortune to lose her, the king would not fail to give her a burial worthy of her rank and station.

"Alas!" rejoined Madame de Pompadour, "a burial worthy of me!—when we recollect that Madame de Mailly, repenting of having been his first mistress, desired to be interred in the cemetery of the Innocents; and not only that, but even under the common water-pipe."

She passed the night in tears. On the following morning, however, she resumed a little courage, and hastened to call to her aid all the resources of art to conceal the first ravages of time; but in vain did she seek to recover that adorable smile which twenty years before had made Louis XV. forget that he was King of France.

From this time forth she showed herself in Paris no more; and at court she would only appear by candle-light, and then in the apparel of a Queen of Golconda, crowned with diamonds, her arms covered with bracelets, and wearing a magnificent Indian robe, embroidered with gold and silver. She was always the beautiful Marchioness de Pompadour, but a closer inspection would show that the lovely face of former days was now but a made-up face, still charming, but like a restored painting, showing evident symptoms of having been here and there effaced and retouched. It was in the mouth that she first lost her beauty. She had in early life acquired the habit of biting her lips to conceal her emotions, and at thirty years of age her mouth had lost all its vivid brilliancy of color.

Some persons have stated that Madame de Pompadour died from the effects of poison, administered either by the Jesuits, who never ceased persecuting her with anonymous letters, or by her enemies at Versailles; but this story is not deserving of credit. Most persons are agreed that Madame de Pompadour died simply because she was five and forty years of age; and owing as she did all her power but to the charm of her beauty, its loss she was unable to survive. She suffered for a length of time in silence, hiding ever under a pallid smile the death she already felt in her heart. At length she took to her bed—that bed from which she was fated to rise no more. She was then at the Chateau of Choisy; neither the king nor his courtiers imagined that her disease was serious, but she herself well knew that her hour was come. She entreated the king to have her removed to Versailles; she wished to die upon the throne of her glory—to die as a queen in the royal palace, still issuing her orders to the troop of servile courtiers who were accustomed to wait humbly at her footstool.

Like Diana de Poitiers, Gabrielle d'Estrees, and Madame de Maintenon, she died in April. The cure of the Madeleine was present during her last moments. As the old man was preparing to retire, after giving her the benediction, she rallied for a moment, for she was then almost dead, and said to him, "Wait a bit, Monsieur le Cure, we will go together." These were her last words.

Up to this time the king had testified at least the semblance of friendship and gratitude toward Madame de Pompadour, but no sooner had she breathed her last than he began to consider how he could, in the speediest manner possible, get rid of her mortal remains. He gave immediate orders for the removal of the body to her house in Paris. As the conveyance was about to start, the king, who was standing at one of the windows of the Chateau, seeing a violent hailstorm breaking over Versailles, said, with a smile, half sad, half ironical, "The marchioness will have bad weather for her journey!"

That same day Madame de Pompadour's will was opened in his presence. Although she had long since been far from his heart, he could not restrain a tear at the reading of the document.

The marchioness, in her will, had forgotten none of her friends, nor any of her servants; the king himself was named. "I entreat the king," she wrote, "to accept the gift I make him of my hotel in Paris, in order that it may become the palace of one of his children: it is my desire that it may become the residence of Monseigneur le Comte de Provence." This hotel of Madame de Pompadour has since then been inhabited by illustrious hosts, for it is better known at the present day under the designation of the Elysee Bourbon, or rather the Elysee National.

Madame de Pompadour had several residences: she had received from the king an hotel at Paris and one at Fontainebleau; the estate of Crecy, the chateau of Aulnay, Brimborion sur Bellevue, the seigniories of Marigny and of Saint-Remy; an hotel at Compiegne, and one at Versailles; without counting the millions of francs in money bestowed at various times in addition to her regular income, for they never counted francs at Verseilles then.[F] For all this, we find Louis XV. giving the Marquis de Marigny, her brother, an order for two hundred and thirty thousand francs, to assist him in paying the debts of the marchioness. (Journal of Louis XV., published at the trial of Louis XVI.)

[Footnote F: Except Louis XV., who, it is said, used to amuse himself by making a private treasury. When he lost at play, he used always to pay out of the royal treasury.]

The marchioness was interred in a vault of the church of the Capuchins; by dint of interest and money her family had obtained the privilege of having a funeral oration pronounced over her mortal remains. This oration was a chef d'oeuvre, which ought most certainly to have been preserved for the honor of the Church. Unfortunately, this curious and most remarkable piece of eloquence was never printed, and history has inscribed but a few lines in its annals. When the priest approached the bier, he sprinkled the holy water, made the sign of the cross, and commenced his discourse in the following terms:—"I receive the body of the most high and powerful lady, Madame le Marquise de Pompadour, maid of honour to the queen. She was in the school of all virtues," &c. The remainder of this most edifying discourse is lost in oblivion, but surely the force of humbug could no further go.

Montesquieu's prediction concerning two remarkable personages of the eighteenth century (Voltaire and Madame de Pompadour) is curious,—curious alike for its truth, and for the knowledge of the world displayed by it.

One day, while on a visit to Ferney, Montesquieu being alone in Voltaire's magnificent saloon, which opened on the Lake of Geneva, was surprised by Marshal Richelieu (who had come over from Lyons to see how Voltaire would play in the Orphan of China) standing in deep thought before a pair of portraits which hung upon the wall.

"Well, Monsieur le President," said he, "you are studying, I perceive, Wit and Beauty."

"Wit and Beauty, Marshal!" replied Montesquieu; "you see before you the portraits of a man and a woman who will be the representatives of our century."

And has not this prediction of Montesquieu's been in some sort fulfilled?—Historians have styled the seventeenth century the century of Louis XIV. Could not the eighteenth be with more justice designated the century of Voltaire and Madame de Pompadour? For if these two characters be carefully studied, the entire spirit of the age will in them be found faithfully depicted.

But, O vanity of vanities! Madame de Pompadour, with all her wit, and grace, and beauty, after having strutted and fretted her little hour on life's fitful stage, has vanished from the theater of the world into utter oblivion, leaving, literally speaking, scarcely a trace behind. In the words of Diderot we may ask, "What now remains of this woman, the dispenser of millions, who overthrew the entire political system of Europe, and left her country dishonored, powerless, and impoverished, both in mind and resources? The Treaty of Versailles, which will last as long as it can; a statue by Bouchardon, which will be always admired; a few stones engraved by Gay, which will astonish a future generation of antiquarians; a pretty little picture by Vanloo; and a handful of ashes."

* * * * *

From Eliza Cook's Journal.

THE CHURCH OF THE VASA D'AGUA.

One very hot evening, in the year 1815, the curate of San Pedro, a village distant but a few leagues from Seville, returned very much fatigued to his poor home; his worthy housekeeper, Senora Margarita, about seventy years of age, awaited him. However much any one might have been accustomed to distress and privation among the Spanish peasantry, it was impossible not to be struck with the evidence of poverty in the house of the good priest. The nakedness of the walls, and scantiness of the furniture, were the more apparent, from a certain air about them of better days. Senora Margarita had just prepared for her master's supper an olla podrida, which notwithstanding the sauce, and high sounding name, was nothing more than the remains of his dinner, which she had disguised with the greatest skill. The curate, gratified at the odor of this savory dish, exclaimed,—

"Thank God, Margarita, for this dainty dish. By San Pedro, friend, you may well bless your stars to find such a supper in the house of your host."

At the word host, Margarita raised her eyes, and beheld a stranger who Accompanied her master. The face of the old dame assumed suddenly an expression of wrath and disappointment; her angry glances fell on the new comer, and again on her master, who looked down, and said with the timidity of a child who dreads the remonstrance of his parent:—

"Peace, Margarita, where there is enough, for two, there is always enough for three, and you would not have wished me to leave a Christian to starve? he has not eaten for three days."

"Santa Maria! he a Christian, he looks more like a robber," and muttering to herself, the housekeeper left the room. During this parley, the stranger remained motionless at the threshold of the door; he was tall, with long black hair, and flashing eyes, his clothes were in tatters, and the long rifle which he carried excited distrust rather than favor.

"Must I go away?" he inquired.

The curate replied, with an emphatic gesture, "never shall he, whom I shelter, be driven away, or made unwelcome: but sit down, put aside your gun, let us say grace, and to our repast."

"I never quit my weapon; as the proverb says, two friends are one, my rifle is my best friend; I shall keep it between my knees. Though you may not send me from your house till it suits me, there are others who would make me leave theirs against my will, and perhaps head-foremost. Now to your health, let us eat." The curate himself, although a man of good appetite, was amazed at the voracity of the stranger, who seemed to bolt rather than eat almost the whole of the dish, besides drinking the whole flask of wine, and leaving none for his host, or scarcely a morsel of the enormous loaf which occupied a corner of the table. Whilst he was eating so voraciously, he started at the slightest noise; if a gust of wind suddenly closed the door, he sprang up and leveling his rifle, seemed determined to repel intrusion; having recovered from his alarm, he again sat down, and went on with his repast. "Now," said he, speaking with his mouth full, "I must tax your kindness to the utmost. I am wounded in the thigh, and eight days have passed without its being dressed. Give me a few bits of linen, then you shall be rid of me."

"I do not wish to rid myself of you," replied the curate, interested in his guest in spite of his threatening demeanor, by his strange exciting conversation. "I am somewhat of a doctor; you will not have the awkwardness of a country barber, or dirty bandages to complain of, you shall see." so speaking, he drew forth, from a closet a bundle containing all things needed, and turning up his sleeves, prepared himself to discharge the duty of a surgeon.

The wound was deep, a ball had passed through the stranger's thigh, who, to be able to walk, must have exerted a strength and courage more than human. "You will not be able to proceed on your journey to-day," said the curate, probing the wound with the satisfaction of an amateur artist. "You must remain here to-night; good rest will restore your health and abate the inflammation, and the swelling will go down."

"I must depart to-day, at this very hour," replied the stranger, with a mournful sigh. "There are some who wait for me, others who seek me," he added with a ferocious smile. "Come, let us see, have you done your dressing? Good: here am I light and easy, as if I never had been wounded. Give me a loaf—take this piece of gold in payment for your hospitality, and farewell." The curate refused the tendered gold with emphasis. "As you please, pardon me—farewell." So saying, the stranger departed, taking with him the loaf which Margarita had so unwillingly brought at her master's order. Soon his tall figure disappeared in the foliage of the wood about the village.

An hour later, the report of fire-arms was heard. The stranger reappeared, bleeding, and wounded in the breast. He was ghastly, as if dying.

"Here," said he, presenting to the old priest some pieces of gold. "My children—in the ravine—in the wood—near the little brook."

He fell, just as half a dozen soldiers rushed in, arms in hand; they met with no resistance from the wounded man, whom they closely bound, and, after some time, allowed the priest to dress his wound; but in spite of all his remarks on the danger of moving a man so severely wounded, they placed him on a cart.

"Basta," said they, "he can but die. He is the great robber, Don Jose della Ribera." Jose thanked the good priest, by a motion of his head, then asked for a glass of water, and as the priest stooped to put it to his lips, he faintly said, "You remember."

The curate replied with a nod, and when the troop had departed, in spite of the remonstrances of Margarita, who represented to him the danger of going out in the night, and the inutility of such a step, he quickly crossed the wood toward the ravine, and there found the dead body of a woman, killed, no doubt, by some stray shot from the guards. A baby lay at her breast, by her side a little boy of about four years old, who was endeavoring to wake her, pulling her by the sleeve, thinking she had fallen asleep, and calling her mamma. One may judge of Margarita's surprise when the curate returned with two children on his arms.

"Santa Madre! What can this mean! What will you do in the night? We have not even sufficient food for ourselves, and yet you bring two children. I must go and beg from door to door, for them and ourselves. And who are these children? The sons of a bandit—a gipsy; and worse, perhaps. Have they ever been baptized?"

At this moment, the infant uttered a plaintive cry: "What will you do to feed this baby? we cannot afford a nurse; we must use the bottle, and you have no idea of the wretched nights we shall have with him."

"You will sleep in spite of all," replied the good curate.

"O! santa Maria, he cannot be more than six months old! Happily I have a little milk here, I must warm it," and forgetting her anger, Margarita took the infant from the priest, kissed it, and soothed it to rest. She knelt before the fire, stirred the embers to heat the milk quicker, and when this little one had had enough, she put him to sleep, and the other had his turn. Whilst Margarita gave him some supper, undressed him, and made him a bed for the night, of the priest's cloak, the good old man related to her how he had found the children; in what manner they had been bequeathed to him.

"O! that is fine and good," said Margarita, "but how can they and we be fed?"

The curate took the Bible, and read aloud—

"Whosoever shall give, even a cup of cold water, to one of the least, being a disciple; verily I say unto you, he shall not lose his reward."

"Amen," responded the housekeeper.

The next day, the good father ordered the burial of the poor woman, and he himself read the service over her grave.

Twelve years from this time, the curate of San-Pedro, then seventy years of age, was warming himself in the sun, in front of his house. It was winter, and there had been no sunshine for two days.

Beside him stood a boy, ten or twelve years old, reading aloud the daily prayers, and from time to time casting a look of envy on a youth of about sixteen, tall, handsome, and muscular, who labored in the garden adjoining that of the priest. Margarita, being now blind, was listening attentively, when the youngest boy exclaimed, "O! what a beautiful coach," as a splendid equipage drove up near the door.

A domestic, richly dressed, dismounted, and asked the old priest to give him a glass of water for his master.

"Carlos," said the priest to the younger boy, "give this nobleman a glass of water, and add to it a glass of wine, if he will accept it. Be quick!"

The gentleman alighted from the coach. He seemed about fifty.

"Are the children your nephews?" inquired he.

"Much better," said the priest, "they are mine by adoption, be it understood."

"How so?"

"I shall tell you, for I can refuse nothing to such a gentleman; for poor and inexperienced in the world as I am, I need good advice, how best to provide for these two boys."

"Make ensigns of them in the king's guards, and in order to keep up a suitable appearance, he must allow them a pension of six thousand ducats."

"I ask your advice, my lord, not mockery."

"Then you must have your church rebuilt, and by the side of it, a pretty parsonage house, with handsome iron railings to inclose the whole. When this work will be complete, it shall be called the church of the Vasa d'Agua, (Glass of Water.) Here is the plan of it, will it suit you?"

"What can this mean?"

"What vague remembrance is mine; these features—this voice mean that I am Don Jose della Ribera. Twelve years ago, I was the brigand Jose. I escaped from prison, and the times have changed; from the chief of robbers, I have become the chief of a party. You befriended me. You have been a father to my children. Let them come to embrace me—let them come," and he opened his arms to receive them. They fell on his bosom.

When he had long pressed them, and kissed them by turns, with tears, and half-uttered expressions of gratitude, he held out his hand to the old priest—

"Well, my father, will you not accept the church?"

The curate, greatly moved, turned to Margarita, and said: "Whosoever shall give even a cup of cold water unto one of the least, being my disciple; verily I say to you, he shall not lose his reward."

"Amen," responded the old dame, who wept for joy at the happiness of her master, and his children by adoption, at whose departure she also grieved.

Twelve months afterward, Don Jose della Ribera and his two sons attended at the consecration of the church of San Pedro, one of the prettiest churches in the environs of Seville.

* * * * *

SONG—BY MISS JEWSBURY.

There once was a brave cavalier, Commanded by Cupid to bow; And his mistress, though lovely, I hear Had a very Sultana-like brow; In battles and sieges he fought With many a Saracen Nero, Till back to his mistress he brought The fame and the heart of a hero: But when he presumed to demand The hero's reward in all story, His mistress, in accents most bland— Desired him to gather more glory Poor Camille!

So back went the young cavalier, (Where dwells such obedience now?) And he wove amid pennant and spear, A wreath for that fair cruel brow; How crimson the roses he sent, But not with the summer sun's glow; 'Twas the crimson of battle—and lent By a brave heart forever laid low! Now if such a lover I knew, And if I might be his adviser, I would bid him be tender and true, But certainly bid him be wiser. Poor Camille!

* * * * *

FROM PETRARCH.

Weeping for all my long lost years, I go, And for that love which to this world confined A spirit whose strong flight, for heaven designed, No mean example might one man bestow. Thou, who didst view my wonderings and my woe, Great King of heaven! unseen, immortal mind! Succor this weary being, frail and blind; And may thy grace o'er all my failings flow! Then, though my life through warring tempests passed; My death may tranquilly and slowly come; And my calm soul may flee in peace at last: While o'er that space which shuts me from the tomb, And on my death-bed, be thy blessing cast— From Thee, in trembling hope, I wait my doom.

* * * * *

[From Bentley's Miscellany]

THE FEMALE WRECKER; AND THE HOUSE OF MYSTERY.

A BRACE OF GHOST STORIES.

BY THE AUTHOR OF "THE EXPERIENCES OF A GAOL CHAPLAIN."

It was a glorious summer's evening in July. The sun, robed in a thousand hues of gorgeous brilliancy, was setting behind the noble hill which towers over the little hamlet of Shaldon; light pleasure-skiffs, with tiny sail, were dotted over the bay;[A] the ebb tide was gently laving the hissing strand; and at intervals, wafted by the breeze, came from some merry party afloat, a ringing, joyous laugh, or some slight snatch of song. It was an evening which breathed serenity and repose.

[Footnote A: Teignmouth, Devon.]

Seated on one of the benches which skirt that pleasant promenade[B] were two feeble-looking men, with whom the summer of life had apparently passed. They conversed slowly and at intervals. That the theme interested both was clear from the earnest tone of the one, and the attention rendered by the other. It was connected too in some way with the sea: for, from time to time, the speaker paused and eyed wistfully the slumbering monster at his feet; and more than once the ejaculation was audible—"the secret is buried there!"

[Footnote B: The Denne.]

"And you believe this?" said the listener, half incredulously, half respectfully, when his elderly companion ceased.

"I do—firmly."

The other smiled, and then continued in a lower tone—

"All delusion! the result of a heated fancy—all delusion from beginning to end!"

"What is delusion?" said a tall military-looking figure, striding up and joining the group. "We all have, at one period or other of our lives, to battle with delusion and succumb to it. Now. sir," turning to the elder gentleman (his name was Ancelot) and making a courteous bow—"pray favor me with your case and symptoms."

The party addressed looked nettled, and replied—

"Mine was no delusion; it was a stern and solemn reality."

"Well, give it what name you please," returned his companion, "only let Major Newburgh hear the tale as you narrated it to me."

"To be again discredited? Excuse me, Trevor, no."

"Oh! but," interposed the major, "I'm of a very confiding disposition. I believe everything and every body. The more extraordinary the narrative, the more faith am I inclined to place in it. Trevor, there, as we all know," added he, laughingly, "has a twist. He's a 'total abstinence' man—a homeopathic man—a Benthamite, and secretly favors Mesmerism. With such abounding faith upon some points, we will allow him to be somewhat skeptical upon others. Come, your narrative."

"At the sober age of two-and-forty, a period when the season of delusion is pretty well over," said Mr. Ancelot, pointedly, "I found myself in charge of a notorious fishing-village on the coast of Lincolnshire. It was famous, or rather infamous, for the smuggling carried on in its creeks, and for the vigilant and relentless wreckers which it numbered in its hovels. 'Rough materials!' said the bishop, Dr. Prettyman, when I waited upon him to be licensed to the curacy—rough materials to work upon; but by care and diligence, Mr. Ancelot, wondrous changes may be effected. Your predecessor, a feeble-minded man, gave but a sorry account of your flock; but under your auspices, I hope they will become a church-going and a church-loving people! Make them churchmen—you understand me? Make them churchmen!'... Heaven help me! They needed first to be made honest and temperate—to be humanized and Christianized! 'Church-loving and church-going!' The chaplaincy of Newgate is not, perhaps, a sinecure; that of the Model Prison at Pentonville has, probably, its hours of toil; and that attached to Horsemonger Lane is not entirely a bed of roses; but if you wish to wear a man's heart and soul out; to depress his spirits and prostrate his energies—if you would make him long to exchange his lot with the day-laborer who whistles at the plow,—station him as a curate, far apart from his fellows, in a village made up of prize-fighters, smugglers, and wreckers!" To my lonely cure, with a heavy heart, I went; and by a most reckless and rebellious crew I speedily found myself surrounded—a crew which defied control. Intoxicating liquors of all kinds abounded. The meanest hovel smelt of spirits. Nor was there any want of contraband tobacco. Foreign luxuries, in a word, were rife among them. And yet they were always in want—always craving from their clergyman temporal aid—in his spiritual capacity they were slow to trouble him; had ever on their lips the entreaty 'give'—'give;' and always protested that they 'were come to their furthest, and had not a shilling in the world to help themselves withal.'

"For recklessness, drunkenness, and midnight brawls, all England could not match that parish.

"To the general and prevailing aspect of poverty, there was one, and that a marked exception. It presented itself in the person of Abigail Lassiter—a widow—who was reputed to be wealthy, and with whose means, unscrupulously acquired, a tale of murder was strangely blended. Abigail's husband had been a smuggler, and she herself was a daring and keen-eyed wrecker. For a season both throve. He had escaped detection in many a heavy run of contraband goods; and she had come in for many a valuable 'waif and stray' which the receding waters left upon the slimy strand. It was, however, her last venture, which, in her neighbors' language, had made her. Made her, indeed, independent of her fellows, but a murderer before her God!... About day-break in a thick misty morning in April, a vessel, heavily laden, was seen to ground on 'The Jibber Sand;' and after striking heavily for some hours, suddenly to part asunder. The sea was so rough, and the wind so high, that no help could be rendered from the shore. Midday drew on—came—passed, and the villagers assembled on the heights (their eyes fixed the while on the devoted vessel like vultures watching for their prey) had at length the satisfaction of seeing the laboring bark yield to the war of the elements, and her timbers float, piecemeal, over the waters.

"But nothing of any consequence came ashore. A stray spar or two, a hen-coop, two or three empty barrels, a child's light straw hat, and a sailor's cap—these were all.

"The gale held: the wind blew off shore, and at nightfall the wrecking-party, hungry, weary, and out of humor, retired to their cabins. About an hour after midnight heavy rain fell; the wind shifted, and blew inshore. With the first appearance of dawn, Abigail's cottage door was seen slowly to unclose, and she herself to emerge from it, and stealthily creep down to the shore. Once there, a steep sea-wall—thrown up to protect the adjoining lowlands from inundation—screened her from observation. She was absent about an hour, returned apparently empty-handed, reentered her cottage, nor passed its threshold again during the remainder of the day.

"But that was a memorable day for the industrious. My villagers were early astir. Their muddy shore was strewed with fragments of the wreck; and when the tide went down, and the gale moderated, half imbedded in the Jibber Sand was found 'goodly spoil.' Packages of costly shawls, hampers of Dutch liqueurs, bales of linen, several kegs of brandy, and two small canvas-bags containing bullion, were a few of the 'waifs and strays' which keen eyes speedily detected, and stalwart arms as speedily appropriated.

"Later on in the afternoon a very bustling personage made his appearance, much blown and overheated, who announced himself as 'acting under authority from Lloyd's,' and 'representing the under-writers.' At his heels, uttering volleys of threats, and menacing every soul he met with hideous 'penalties according to act of parliament,' followed a very lady-like young gentleman, with a thin reedy voice, and light down upon his chin, 'charged with protecting the public revenue.' Well for him in a dark night if he could protect himself!

"Worthy souls! They might as well have spared their well-fed nags, and have remained at home snugly housed in their chimney-corner. ''Tis the early bird that gets the worm.' They had missed it by hours. The spoil was housed. It was buried in cottage gardens, and cabbages planted over it. It was secreted among the thatch, where even the best trained bird-nesting urchin would have missed it. It was stored away under more than one hollow hearth-stone, on which a cheerful wood-fire was crackling and blazing. When were the 'womenkind' in a wrecker's village at a loss for expedients?

"But a discovery was made that afternoon, which, for the moment, made the boisterous gentleman from Lloyd's falter in his denunciations, and hushed the menaces of the indignant and well-dressed personage who protected the revenue, and saddened the few hearts amongst us not entirely devoid of feeling.

"On a little knoll—called in memory of an unfortunate suicide, 'The Mad Maiden's Knoll,'—was found the body of a lady, youthful and fair, and by her side that of a little infant, a few weeks old. The babe, carefully swathed in countless warm wrappers, was lying in a rude cradle of wicker-work; this was firmly fastened to the lady's waist, who, on her part, had been securely lashed to a spar. 'Twas a piteous sight! But one's sympathies were called into still more painful exercise when it was found that the unfortunate lady's corpse had been rifled by some unprincipled marauder; that both ears had been torn, and two of her fingers had been crushed and broken in the attempt to plunder them of the rings with which they had been laden. Nor was this all. Every part of her dress had been carefully examined. Her stays had been ripped open, and a packet, assumed to be of value, had apparently been taken thence. What strengthened this surmise was the fact that a fragment of a purple morocco note-case still adhered to her dress. This fragment bore the words in gilt letters, 'Bank Notes;' below were the initials 'F.H.B.' The sight drew forth general expressions of pity: but pity gave place to indignation when the district surgeon joined the group, and after a careful examination of the body, said slowly, 'I suspect—I more than suspect—I am almost positive, that this lady reached the shore alive. The winds and waves have not destroyed her. She has perished by the hand of another. Look here,' and he pointed to a small dark rim round the neck, 'this is the effect of strangulation; and my belief is that the corpse before us is that of a murdered woman.'

"The coroner of the district was summoned, a jury empanneled, and the simple facts relative to the discovery of the bodies of the woman and infant were briefly placed on record. Few cared to speak openly. All had an interest in saying as little as possible. 'Return an open verdict, gentlemen; return an open verdict by all means,' suggested the wary official; 'that is the shortest course you can adopt; safe and perfectly legal; it decides nothing, contradicts nothing, concludes nothing.' No advice could be more palatable to the parties he addressed. 'Found dead,' was the ready response; 'but by what means, drowning or otherwise; there is no evidence to show.'

"The coroner was delighted.

"'Precisely so; quite sufficient. My gig, and a glass of brandy and water.'"

* * * * *

"No one claimed the bodies. Early interment was necessary; and a few hours after the inquest was concluded, mother and child were consigned to their parent earth.

"Six weeks afterward, an elderly man, with a most imperious manner and a foreign accent, came down to the village and asked countless questions relative to the shipwreck. The unhappy lady, he said, was his niece; and earnest were the inquiries he made touching a large sum of money, which, to his certain knowledge, she had about her when she went on shipboard. Of this money, as a matter of course, no satisfactory tidings were forthcoming. He then became violent; called the village a nest of pirates; cursed the inhabitants without mercy; hoped that heaven's lightnings would speedily fall, and raze the hamlet to the ground; and indulged in a variety of comments, some just, some foolish, and all angry.

"But with all his anxiety about his niece, and all his burning indignation against her plunderers, he never visited the unhappy lady's grave; never directed a stone to be placed over her; never deplored her fate; never uttered a remark about her infant, save and except an avowal of his unbounded satisfaction that it had perished with the mother-his ever-recurring subject of regret was, not that he had lost his niece, but that he had lost her money!

"Oh world! how base are thy calculations, how sordid thy conclusions! The young, the fair, the helpless, the innocent may perish, it matters not. Loss of relatives, of children, of country, of character, all may be borne with complacency but—loss of money!

"Meanwhile the party who was suspected to have benefited most largely by the shipwreck, went about her daily occupations with her usual subdued and poverty-stricken air. There was nothing in Abigail Lassiter's dress or manner to indicate the slightest improvement in her worldly circumstances. She toiled as earnestly, dressed as simply, and lived as sparingly as ever. But quietly and almost imperceptibly a vast change was wrought in the aspect of her dwelling. It was carefully repaired and considerably enlarged, a small piece of pasture land was bought, and then a handsome Alderney cow made her appearance. A garden of some extent, at the rear of the cottage, was next laid out, and stocked, and last of all a commodious spring cart and clever cob were seen on the little homestead. But comfort there was none. An invisible hand fought against its inmates. Their career of success was closed. A curse and not a blessing was henceforth to track them. On a sudden the husband, Mark Lassiter, was betrayed in one of his smuggling expeditions, encountered the coast-guard where he least expected them, was fired at, captured, and died in jail of his wounds. The eldest son—'Black Ben,' the pugilist—killed his man, was accused of foul play, and compelled to fly the country. Robin, second mate of a merchant vessel then lying in Hull Docks, still remained to her, and him she hastily summoned home for counsel. Vain precaution! A final separation had already taken place between them. While wondering at his tardy movements, a brief unfeeling letter apprised her that, 'returning to his ship at midnight decidedly the worse for liquor,' Robin Lassiter had missed his footing on the narrow plank connecting the vessel with the shore, fallen into deep water, and had sunk to rise no more.

"These successive bereavements paralyzed her. For the first time the idea seems to have presented itself, that it was possible adversity might overwhelm her. She confined herself rigidly to her home; said that the moan of the sea wearied and worried her, and blocked up every window which looked upon the ocean! For hours she would sit, abstractedly, in silence. Then, wringing her hands, would wake up with a wistful cry, and repeat—'Wrong never comes right! Wrong never comes right!'

"Much as I knew she hated religion, its ministers, its sanctuary, and every object which, by possibility, could remind her that there was a coming future, I yet felt it my duty to make another and a third attempt at an interview. She received me ungraciously enough, but not insolently. Her fair, soft, feminine features betrayed evident annoyance at my visit, but still there was an absence of that air of menace and hatred which characterized her in former days.

"'You visit me?' was her inquiry; 'why?'

"'To condole with you on the ravages which death has made in your family.'

"Her reply was instant and firmly uttered.

"'Yes; two are gone. Their part is played and over. I presume they are at rest.'

"A passing remark followed, in which a hope was expressed that I should see her at church.

"'Never, until I'm brought there. I shouldn't know myself in such a place, nor would those who assemble there know me.'

"While framing my reply she continued—

"'Your visit, sir, is wholly unexpected; I have never troubled the clergy, and I hope they will not trouble me; I have my sorrows, and I keep them to myself.'

"'They will overwhelm you unless aid be granted—'

"She interrupted me.

"'I seek it not, and therefore have no right to expect it. But why should I detain you sir,' said she, rising from her seat; 'there are others who may prize your presence more than I do.'

"One of Wilson's little volumes was in my hand. I proffered it with the remark—'You will perhaps read this in my absence?'

"She declined it with a gesture of impatience.

"'No! no! I seldom read, and my hourly endeavor now is not to think! This way lies your road, sir. Farewell.'

"A more thoroughly unsatisfactory interview it is scarcely possible to imagine.

"Two years had rolled away, when, one morning, a message reached me that 'Dame Lassiter was ill,' and wished I would 'call in the course of the day.' Within the hour came another summons: 'Dame Lassiter was much worse,' and begged to 'see me without delay.' Before midday I was at the cottage. Her sole attendant,—a bold, saucy, harsh looking girl of eighteen,—awaited me at the threshold.

"'Right glad am I you're come,' was her greeting; 'the mistress, sir, has been asking for you ever since day-break.'

"'She is worse then?'

"She lowered her voice to a whisper, and continued:—

"'She's going! She'll not hold it long. The doctors have given her up, and there's no more medicine to be gone for. This last is a sure sign.'

"'Is she sensible?'

"The girl hesitated.

"'In times she be,' was her reply, rather doubtfully given! 'in times she be; but there's something about her I don't quite fancy; the plain fact is, she's rather quair, and I shall go up to the village. You'll not mind being alone, I dare say?'

"And without waiting for a reply this careful and considerate attendant hurriedly opened the door; went out; and then locked it briskly and firmly on the outside. I was a prisoner, and my companion a dying woman! For the moment I felt startled; but a hollow moan of anguish, sadly and painfully reiterated in the chamber above, at once recalled me to my duties, and bade me seek the sufferer. In a room of fair dimensions lay, stricken and emaciated, the once active and dauntless Abigail. On entering I could with difficulty disguise my surprise at the variety of articles which it contained, and at the costliness and splendor of many of them. The curtains of the sick woman's bed were of figured silk damask; and though here and there a dark spot was visible where sea-water, or some other destructive agency, had penetrated, enough still remained to vindicate the richness of the fabric and the brilliancy of the color. The linen on the bed was of the finest texture, apparently the production of a Dutch loom, while the vessel which held her night-drink was an antique goblet, indisputably of foreign workmanship,—its materials silver and mother-of-pearl. Under the window, which commanded her flower garden, stood a small work-table of birds'-eye maple, which methought had once stood in the lady's cabin of some splendidly appointed steamer. Her wash-stand was of mahogany richly carved: on the shelf above it stood an ebony writing-desk, inlaid with silver; below was a lady's dressing case—ivory—and elaborately carved. Two cases of foreign birds of exquisite plumage completed the decoration of the apartment. It is true necessitous sailors and carousing smugglers might have contributed some of the costly articles I saw around me; but as I gazed on them the thought recurred, are not these the wages of iniquity? Have they not been rifled from the grasp of the helpless, the drowning, and the dying?

"I spoke. She was in full possession of her faculties; but manifestly near her end. I expressed my sorrow at finding her so feeble; told her that I had readily obeyed her summons; and asked her whether I should read to her.

"'Neither read to me,' was her distinct reply: 'nor pray with me; but listen to me. They tell me I have not many hours to live. If so, I have something to disclose; and some money which I should wish—I should wish'—she hesitated and became silent—'the point is, am I beyond recovery? If so I should desire that this money—'

"'Under any circumstances,' was my reply, 'confess all; restore all'

"She looked up quickly and said sharply; 'Why restore?'

"'To prove the sincerity of your regrets.'

"'Ah, well!' said she, thoughtfully, 'if I could only satisfy myself that recovery was impossible. I have much to leave behind me; and there are some circumstances—'

"She hesitated and was silent. A minute or two elapsed and I urged—

"'Be candid and be just,—make reparation while you possess the power.'

"'You advise well,' said she, faintly. 'I would fain relieve my mind. It is sorely oppressed, for with regard to my property—my—my savings—'

"As she spoke there arose, close to us, clear and painfully audible, a low, mocking laugh. It was not akin to mirth. There was no gladness in its tone. It betokened enmity, triumph, scorn. The dying woman heard it, and cowered beneath its influence. An expression of agonizing fear passed over her countenance. Some minutes elapsed before she could sufficiently command herself to speak or even listen.

"'Carry out forthwith,' said I, in a tone of resolution I could with difficulty command, 'carry out your present determination. Make restitution to the utmost of your power. Restore all; confess all.'

"'I will do so and now,' was her reply.

"Again that bitter, scornful, chilling laugh; and closer to us! To no ebullition of any earthly emotion can I compare it. It resembled none. It conveyed scorn, exultation, defiance, hatred. It seemed an uncontrollable burst of triumph over a parting and ruined soul. Again, I gazed steadfastly on the dying woman. A spasm convulsed her countenance. She pointed feebly to some unseen object—unseen at least by me—and clasped her hands with an imploring gesture. Another spasm came on-a second-a third—and all was silence. I was alone with the dead."

* * * * *

"And you are persuaded that these sounds were real and not fanciful, that imagination had nothing to do with the scene?" said the younger of the three when the aged speaker had concluded.

The reply was immediate.

"I state simply what I heard; that, and no more. No opportunity for trick existed. The cottage had one door, and but one. The dying woman and myself were the only parties within its walls. We were locked in from without: until the attendant returned and unclosed the door there was no possibility of either entering or quitting the dwelling. I was alone with the dead for upward of an hour—no enviable vigil—when it pleased her unfeeling and gossiping retainer to return and release me. Believe it, say you? I do believe it—and most firmly—as fact and not fancy."

"And what say you, Major?" pursued the questioner, turning to his military companion.

"I believe it also, and the more readily from recollecting what once occurred to myself. Soon after my awkward hit at Vittoria, where I received a bullet, which I carry about with me to this hour, I was ordered home on sick leave. Landing at Falmouth from a filthy transport, feeble, feverish, solitary and wretched, I was recognized by a former intimate, who followed me to my inn and insisted upon taking me down with him into ——shire. Rest and country air, he was sure, would recruit me. In vain I explained the wretched cripple I was. In vain I submitted that the 'hospital mates,' one and all, entertained the worst opinion of my injury. He would take no denial. It was a case, he contended, not for the knife or the doctor; but for beef-steaks and Barclay's stout. And this opinion he would make good, in my instance, against the whole hospital staff at home and abroad. Too weak to contest the point, I gave in; and promised that, if living, that day week should find me at —— House. The first part of my journey I made out with comparatively little suffering. The latter part, where I was obliged to have recourse to a hack chaise, neither wind nor weather tight—ill hung, and badly driven, was torture. At length, unable to endure longer agony, I got out; and bidding the postboy drive with my luggage to —— House, limped along across the fields under the pilotage of an old laborer—it was a work of time—to my destination.

"My gray-haired guide, who commiserated my situation, was very inquisitive about 'the war and Lord Wellington;' asked whether all the Spaniards lived on 'mules' flesh fried with onions,' as he 'had been told for truth;' inquired what 'our side' thought of 'Boney's covenant with the devil,' a covenant, (according to his reading,) to this effect, that 'the devil had given Boney a lease of luck for threescore and three years, and that when it was up he was to be shot by a Spanish maiden with a silver bullet.' Many folks, he said, believed all this to be true and sartain; but that he, for his part, 'did not hold with it: what did I think?' But however talkative about the war, my venerable pilot was reserved about —— House. I asked him if he knew it. 'These fifty years and more,' was his answer. 'The House of Mystery; good people live there now,—yes, good people, kind people,—a blessed change for all about and around the House of Mystery. More he would not utter. At length I reached the winning post, hobbled in, received a cordial welcome, and retired early to bed.

"None but those who have lain for weeks in a crowded military hospital, who have battled day by day with death, now flushed with fever, now racked with agonizing spasmodic action in every nerve, can conceive the effect of the quiet, the pure air, the bracing freshness of the country. The stillness which reigned around,—the peaceful landscape beneath my window,—the balmy fragrance of the flowers,—the hush of woods reposing in all the stillness of a summer's twilight,—the faint tinkling of the distant sheep-bell,—the musical murmur of the rill which gurgled gaily and gladly from beneath the base of the sun-dial,—the deer dotted over the park, and grazing lazily in groups beneath the branching oaks, made up a picture which soothed and calmed me. I went to bed satisfied that I should sleep. I did so without a single twinge till after midnight. Then I was roused by a grating sound at a distance. It drew nearer, became more and more distinct, and presently at a pelting pace, up drove a carriage and four. I say four, because a man used to horses all his life, can, by their tramp, judge, though blindfold, pretty accurately as to their numbers. I heard the easy roll of the carriage, the grating of the wheels on the gravel, the sharp pull-up at the main entrance, the impatient pawing of the animals on the hard and well-rolled road. All this I caught most distinctly. But though I listened keenly I heard no bell ring, no door unclose, no servant hasten to these new arrivals. I thought it odd. I struck my repeater. 'A quarter to one. Strange hour, surely, for visitors to arrive! However, no business of mine. I have not, happily, to rise and do the honors.' And, after a yawn or two, and a hurried, though I trust grateful acknowledgment for the comparative ease I was enjoying, I turned upon my side and dozed off. I had slept about two hours when a similar noise again aroused me. Up came another carriage at the same slapping pace. Pat, pat, pat, went the hoofs upon the hard avenue. The wheels rattled; the gravel grated on the ear; there was the same quick, sharp, knowing pull-up at the main door, and the same impatient stamp of high-fed steeds anxious to be off, and eager for the rest and feed of the stable. I became irritated and angry. 'A pretty house,' said I, 'for an invalid! Guests arriving at all hours! Moreover, a precious lot of fresh faces shall I have to encounter at the breakfast table. A nice figure I am! My walk particularly straight and lively! I shall be "the observed of all observers" with a vengeance. I wish with all my soul I had remained at Exeter. I had there my hospitable friends, the Greens, in "the Barn-field," to keep an eye to me, while here, carriages are driving up at a splitting pace from midnight to cock-crowing.' And fuming and fretting, chafed and annoyed, I lay feverish and discontented till daybreak.

"The next morning, having taken peculiar pains with my toilet, and having arrived at the inevitable conclusion that I hobbled worse than ever, and was as infirm as an old gentleman of eighty, I presented myself in the breakfast room.

"I expected to find it lined with fresh faces. I was mistaken. The party assembled was the same, without diminution or addition, which I had quitted the preceding evening. After an interchange of civilities I hazarded an inquiry:—

"'Where are the new arrivals?'

"'There are no new arrivals,' said my hostess; 'I hope you are not tired of us already?'

"'You allude to an utter impossibility,' was my rejoinder; 'but beyond all doubt two carriages drove up to the main entrance early this morning.'

"'You are our only guest,' observed my hostess with an air of peculiar gravity, and even perceptible annoyance in her manner.

"'You see us as we are, a quiet family party, Mr. Newburgh,' observed the youngest daughter hastily, and then adroitly changed the conversation.

"'Oh,' thought I, 'I'm on unsafe ground. Some disagreeable people, self-invited, and dismissed at all hazards. Very well. Moi c'est egal! What concern have I with the family arrangements of another?'

"The second night of my visit drew on. I slept well and soundly till about three in the morning, when my slumbers were suddenly broken by a rapid rush of horsemen across the lawn, directly under my dressing-room window. 'Hunting at three in the morning is a rank absurdity,' was my comment; 'but if I ever heard the sound of horses and horsemen I did then. The park gates must have been left open, and the farm horses have broken loose. Utter destruction to the lawn, and to the flower beds, and the glorious rhododendrons! What negligent menials.' And while murmuring my abhorrence of such atrocious carelessness, and my deep regret at its results, my eyes closed. The next morning I peeped with apprehension from my window, on what I presumed would prove a scene of devastation. All was fair and smiling, gaze where I would. Here was the trim and smoothly shaven lawn—there the blooming parterre—beyond the early flowering shrubs not a twig, not a leaf injured. I left my room in amazement.

"Below, the papers had arrived. They gave the details of another and decisive battle. That, and an expedition during the morning to a neighboring Roman encampment, banished the horsemen of the preceding night, nor did they recur till I found myself in my room, exhausted and bent down with pain, at eleven. The fact was I had played the fool and overwalked myself, and my avenger, the bullet, began to remind me of his presence in my system. For three mortal hours no poor wretch, save in his death struggle, endured greater agony than I did. At last, a 'compassion that never faileth,' bestowed on me an interval of ease, and I slept. Heavily, I imagine, since for some time a strange booming noise droned continuously in my ears before it waked me. At last I was roused. I listened. The sound was like nothing I had ever heard before. It seemed as if a heavy-sledge hammer, or huge wooden mallet, carefully muffled in wadding, was at work in the room below me. The stable clock struck four. 'No mason,' thought I, 'no mason would commence his day's work at four in the morning. Burglars, perhaps,' and I resolved to give alarm. The noise suddenly ceased, and some three minutes afterward as suddenly recommenced in the children's play-room immediately above me. 'Be they whom they may they shall be disturbed.' And I began to dress in the dark with all possible expedition. Some partial progress was made when the noise ceased in the upper room and descended forthwith to my own. An instant afterward it seemed to proceed from the library. In about twenty minutes it ceased altogether.

"'No mason, no burglar,' was my conclusion. 'This noise has nothing in common with either the one or the other. Did my old guide speak accurately when he called this "The House of Mystery?" Whether it be such or no, it is not the house for me. I can't sleep in it. I must flit; and I will do so with the morning's light.'

"But with the morning's light came bright and cheerful faces, kindly inquiries, and renewed hospitality, and with them an abandonment of my menaced departure. During the day an opportunity presented itself of mentioning to my young host the harassing disturbances of the night, and asking for an explanation.

"'I can give none,' was his reply: 'after many years residence in the house, and ceaseless endeavors to ascertain the cause of these annoyances, you are as much au fait of their origin as myself.'

"'Is their[*sic] no motive, adequate or inadequate,' I continued, 'which can be assigned for these nightly visitations?'

"'None beyond the tradition—apparently authentic—that an ancestor of ours, a man whose character will not bear investigation, met his death, unfairly, in an old house on the site of which this is built. He was a miser, and presumed to be extremely wealthy. He lived secluded from society; his factotum and agent being an Italian valet, who was perfectly aware of the ample means of his master. On a sudden my vicious kinsman disappeared, and shortly afterward the valet. But the story runs—tradition it must still be called—that the former was robbed, brutally beaten, and finally walled up in some recess by his desperate retainer. So immured he died of actual starvation; but according to the legend, much of the miser's wealth continued hidden about the mansion which the Italian's fears prevented his carrying off, and which still remains, snug and safe, in some dusty repository, ready to reward "a fortunate speculator." I only wish,' continued he merrily, 'I could light upon the hoard! Give me a clew, dear Newburgh, and I'll buy you a troop.'

"'At any rate,' said I, 'from the mirth with which you treat it, the visitation is not unpleasant.'

"'You are in error,' said my entertainer; 'the subject is unquestionably annoying, and one which my mother and the family studiously avoid. As for your bed-room—the porch-room—I am aware that parties occupying it have occasionally heard the strangest noises on the gravel-walk immediately below them. Your hostess was most averse to those quarters being assigned you; but I thought that the room being large and lofty, and the steps to it few, you would occupy it with comfort. I am grieved that my arrangement has proved disagreeable.' And then, finishing off with a hearty laugh, in which, for the life of me I couldn't join, my host added, 'if he be walled up, I am sure you will say, Newburgh, that he's a persevering old gentleman, and makes the most laudable efforts to get out of his cell.'"

"The levity of some persons," was the major's grave aside, "how inconceivable, how indescribable!"

"My visit," continued he, "lasted about a fortnight, during the whole of which period, at intervals, the rapping was audible in different parts of the house. It appeared to me however—I watched attentively—to come with the greatest frequency from the hall. Thence it sounded as if an immense mallet, muffled in feathers or cotton, was striking heavily on the floor. The noise was generally heard between twelve and two. The blows sometimes followed each other with great rapidity; at other times more slowly and leisurely. One singularity of the visitation was this—that in whatever part of the house you might be listening, the noise seemed to come from a remote direction. If you heard the blows in the drawing-room, they appeared to be given in the library. And if you heard them in the library, they seemed to be falling in the nursery. The invisible workman was busy always at a distance. Another feature was its locomotive powers. It moved with the most extraordinary rapidity. Nothing that I could think of—mice, rats, drains, currents of air, dropping of water—would explain it. If the noise had been caused by the agency of any one of these causes, it would have been heard in the day time. It never was. Night was the season, and the only season in which the ponderous, but invisible, mallet was wielded. Nothing could exceed the kindness with which I was treated. No words can do justice to the thoughtful and delicate hospitality which I received. But I declare to you this mysterious visitation was too much for me. It was impossible to listen to it at night without depression. Perhaps my nerves were unstrung. The tone of my system might be enfeebled. The fault, I dare say, was in myself. But to lie awake, as I often did, during long hours from pain, and to hear this muffled, hollow, droning, mysterious noise passing from room to room about the house—to listen to it now above me, now below me, now quite close to my chamber door, and in a couple of seconds rising up from the very center of the hall, and to be all the while utterly unable to account for it, fevered me. I curtailed my visit; but the nursing and kindness I received are graven in my memory. Bearing all these matters in remembrance," said the major firmly; "recollecting my own strange experience, how can I discredit Mr. Ancelot's narrative? I firmly believe it. We are surrounded by mysteries. The invisible world enshrouds us. Spirits have their regards intently fixed on us, and a very slight vail divides us. Spurn the vulgar error," said the old veteran stoutly, "that a soldier must be a scoffer. I remember the holy record, and its thrilling declaration; 'We are a spectacle unto angels and unto men.'" A pause ensued, which neither of the listeners cared to terminate. At length he spoke again. "The dews are falling. The last pleasure-boat has landed its fair freight upon the Denne. The breeze from the sea blows keenly, and warns us elderlies to think of our night-possets and our pillows. Trevor, give me your arm. Happy dog! You have no bullet in your back! May you never know the agony of existence when even to move some dozen yards is torture!"

* * * * *

We should do our utmost to encourage the Beautiful, for the Useful encourages itself.—Goethe.

* * * * *

[From the Ladies' Companion.]

THE LADY LUCY'S SECRET.

BY MRS. NEWTON CROSLAND.

"With clamourous demands of debt, broken bonds, And the detention of long due debts, Against my honor."—TIMON OF ATHENS

"How in the turmoil of life can love stand, Where there is not one heart, and one mouth, and one hand?" LONGFELLOW

In a charming morning-room of a charming London house, neighboring Hyde-Park, there lounged over the breakfast-table a wedded pair,—the rich merchant Farrars, and his young wife, the Lady Lucy. Five years of married life had, in most respects, more than realized the brightest hopes which had been born and cherished in the dreaming days of courtship. Till the age of forty, the active mind of Walter Ferrars had been chiefly occupied by business,—not in mean shuffling, speculative dealings, but on the broad basis of large transactions and an almost chivalrous system of integrity.

Then, when a secured position and the privileges of wealth had introduced him to that inner circle of English society which not wealth alone can penetrate, but where wealth in some due proportion is an element necessary to hold fast a place, it was thought most natural and proper that he should choose a wife from the class which seems set apart from the rest of womankind like the choice flowers of a conservatory, on whom no rude breath must blow. The youthful, but nearly portionless, daughter of a poor Earl seemed the very bride decreed by some good angel for the merchant-prince.

But though the nuptials fulfilled nearly all the requirements of a mariage de convenance, there was in reality very much more of the ingredients in their hearts which amalgamate into very genuine "love," than always meet at the altar; though of course "the World" resolutely refused to believe anything of the sort—the World, which is capable of so much kindness, and goodness, and justice, among its individuals, taken "separately and singly," and yet is such a false, malignant, many-headed monster in its corporate body! Walter Ferrars had a warm heart, that yearned for affection, as well as a clear head; and, fascinated as he had been by the youthful grace and beauty, the high-bred repose of manner and cultivated talents of the Lady Lucy, he set himself resolutely to win and keep her girlish heart, not expecting that the man of forty was to obtain it without an effort. Thus, when he assumed a husband's name, he did not "drop the lover." His was still the watchful care, made up of the thousand little thoughtful kindnesses of daily life, neither relaxed in a tete-a-tete, nor increased in public. He was the pleased and ready escort for every occasion, save only when some imperative business claimed his time and presence; and these calls now were rare, for he had long since arrived at the position when efficient servants and assistants carry out the plans a superior has organized.

Is there wonder that the wife was grateful? Few—few women indeed are insensible to the power of continued kindness; they may have a heart of stone for the impetuous impulsive lover, but habitual tenderness-that seems so unselfish—touches the finest chords of their nature, and awakens affection that might have lain dormant through a long life, but for this one sweet influence. Thus it was that the wife of five years loved her husband with an almost adoring worship. She had felt her own mind expand in the intimate communion with his fine intellect; she had felt her own weaknesses grow less, as if she had absorbed some of his strength of character; and she had recognised the very dawn of principles and opinions which had been unknown to her in the days of her thoughtless, ignorant, inexperienced girlhood. And yet with all her love, with all her matured intelligence, she had never lost a certain awe of her husband, which his seniority had perhaps first implanted, and alas! one fatal circumstance had gone far to render morbid.

They sat at breakfast. It was early spring, and though the sunshine streamed through the windows, and from one of them there crept the odors of the conservatory, a bright fire gleamed and crackled in the grate; and shed a charm of cheerfulness through the room. Mr. Ferrars had a newspaper in his hand, but not yet had he perused a line, for his son and heir, a brave boy of three years old, a very model of patrician beauty, was climbing his large chair, playing antics of many sorts, and even affecting to pull his father's still rich and curling hair, so little awe had the young Walter of the head of the house—while Mr. Farrars' parental glee was like a deep bass to the child's crowing laugh. Lady Lucy smiled too, but she shook her head, and said more than once, "Naughty papa is spoiling Watty." It was a pretty scene; the room was redolent of elegance, and the young mother, in her exquisitely simple but tasteful morning dress, was one of its chief ornaments. Who would think that beneath all this sweetness of life there was still a serpent!

A post was just in, and a servant entered with several letters; among those delivered to Lady Lucy were two or three large unsightly, ill-shaped epistles, that seemed strange company for the others. An observing stranger might have noticed that Lady Lucy's cheek paled, and then flushed; that she crushed up her letters together, without immediately opening them, and that presently she slid the ugly ones into the pocket of her satin apron. Mr. Ferrars read his almost with a glance—for they were masculine letters, laconic, and to the point, conveying necessary information, in three lines and a half—and he smiled, as after a while he observed his wife apparently intent on a truly feminine epistle—four sides of delicate paper closely crossed—and exclaimed gaily:

"My dear Lucy, there's an hour's reading for you, at least; so I shall ring and send Watty to the nursery, and settle steadily to the Times."

But though Lady Lucy really perused the letter, her mind refused to retain the pleasant chit-chat gossip it contained. Her thoughst[*sic] were far away, and had she narrowly examined her motives she would have known that she bent over the friendly sheet chiefly as an excuse for silence, and to conceal her passing emotions. Meanwhile the newspaper crackled in her husband's hand as he moved its broad leaves.

Presently Mr. Ferrars started with an exclamation of grief and astonishment that completely roused his absent wife.

"My dear Walter, what has happened?" she asked, with great anxiety.

"A man a bankrupt, whom I thought as safe as the Bank of England. Though it is true people talked about him months ago—spoke suspiciously of his personal extravagance, and, above all, said that his wife was ruining him."

"His wife!"

"Yes;—but I cannot understand that sort of thing. A few hundreds a year more or less could be of little moment to a man like Beaufort, and I don't suppose she spent more than you do, my darling. At any rate she was never better dressed. Yet I believe the truth was, that she got frightfully into debt unknown to him; and debt is a sort of thing that multiplies itself in a most astonishing manner, and sows by the wayside the seeds of all sorts of misery. Then people say that when pay-day came at last, bickerings ensued, their domestic happiness was broken up. Beaufort grew reckless, and plunged into the excitement of the maddest speculations."

"How dreadful!" murmured Lady Lucy.

"Dreadful, indeed! I don't know what I should do with such a wife."

"Would not you forgive her if you loved her very much?" asked Lady Lucy, and she spoke in the singularly calm tone of suppressed emotion.

"Once, perhaps, once; and if her fault were the fault of youthful inexperience,—but so much falseness, mean deception, and mental deterioration must have accompanied such transactions, that—in short, I thank Heaven that I have never been put to the trial."

As he spoke, the eyes of Mr. Farrars were fixed on the leading article of the Times, not on his wife. Presently Lady Lucy glided from the room, without her absence being at the moment observed. Once in her dressing-room she turned the key, and sinking into a low chair, gave vent to her grief in some of the bitterest tears she had ever shed. She, too, was in debt; "frightfully," her husband had used the right word; "hopelessly," so far as satisfying her creditors even out of the large allowance Mr. Farrars made her; and still she had not the courage voluntarily to tell the truth, which yet she knew must burst upon him ere long. From what small beginnings had this Upas shadow come upon her! And what "falseness, mean deception, and mental deterioration" had truly been hers!

Even the fancied relief of weeping was a luxury denied to her, for she feared to show the evidence of tears; thus after a little while she strove to drive them back, and by bathing her face before the glass, and drawing the braids of her soft hair a little nearer her eyes, she was tolerably successful in hiding their trace. Never, when dressing for court or gala, had she consulted her mirror so closely; and now, though the tears were dried; she was shocked at the lines of anguish—those delvers of the wrinkles of age—which marked her countenance. She sat before her looking-glass, one hand supporting her head, the other clutching the hidden letters which she had not yet the courage to open. There was a light tap at the door.

"Who is there?" inquired Lady Lucy.

"It is I, my lady," replied Harris, her faithful maid. "Madame Dalmas is here."

Lady Lucy unlocked her door and gave orders that the visitor should be shown up. With the name had come a flush of hope that some trifling temporary help would be hers. Madame Dalmas called herself a French-woman, and signed herself "Antoinette," but she was really an English Jewess of low extraction, whose true name was Sarah Solomons. Her "profession" was to purchase—and sell—the cast-off apparel of ladies of fashion; and few of the sisterhood have carried the art of double cheating to so great a proficiency. With always a roll of bank notes in her old leathern pocket-book, and always a dirty canvas bag full of bright sovereigns in her pocket, she had ever the subtle temptation for her victims ready.

Madame Dalmas—for she must be called according to the name engraved on her card—was a little meanly-dressed woman of about forty, with bright eyes and a hooked nose, a restless shuffling manner, and an ill-pitched voice. Her jargon was a mixture of bad French and worse English.

"Bon jour, miladi Lucy," she exclaimed, as she entered Lady Lucy's sanctum, "need not inquire of health, you look si charmante. Oh, si belle!—that make you wear old clothes so longer dan oder ladies, and have so leetel for me to buy. Milady Lucy Ferrars know she look well in anything, but yet she should not wear old clothes: no right—for example—for de trade, and de hoosband always like de wife well dressed—ha—ha!"

Poor Lady Lucy! Too sick at heart to have any relish for Madame Dalmas' nauseous compliments, and more than half aware of her cheats and falsehoods, she yet tolerated the creature from her own dire necessities.

"Sit down, Madame Dalmas," she said, "I am dreadfully in want of money; but I really don't know what I have for you."

"De green velvet, which you not let me have before Easter, I still give you four pounds for it, though perhaps you worn it very much since then."

"Only twice—only seven times in all—and it cost me twenty guineas," sighed Lady Lucy.

"Ah, but so old-fashioned—I do believe I not see my money for it. Voyez-vous, de Lady Lucy is one petite lady—si jolie mais tres petite. If she were de tall grand lady, you see de great dresses could fit small lady, but de leetle dresses fit but ver few."

"If I sell the green velvet I must have another next winter," murmured Lady Lucy.

"Ah! vous avez raison—when de season nouveautes come in. I tell you what—you let me have also de white lace robe you show me once, the same time I bought from you one little old pearl brooch."

"My wedding-dress? Oh no, I cannot sell my wedding-dress!" exclaimed poor Lady Lucy, pressing her hands convulsively together.

"What for not?—you not want to marry over again—I give you twenty-two pounds for it."

"Twenty-two pounds!—why it is Brussels point, and cost a hundred and twenty."

"Ah, I know—but you forget I perhaps keep it ten years and not sell—and besides you buy dear; great lady often buy ver dear!" and Madame Dalmas shook her head with the solemnity of a sage.

"No, no; I cannot sell my wedding-dress," again murmured the wife. And be it recorded, the temptress, for once, was baffled; but at the expiration of an hour, Madame Dalmas left the house, with a huge bundle under her arm, and a quiet satisfaction revealed in her countenance, had any one thought it worth while to study the expression of her disagreeable face.

Again Lady Lucy locked her door; and placing a bank-note and some sovereigns on the table, she sank into a low chair, and while a few large silent tears flowed down her cheeks, she at last found courage to open the three letters which had hitherto remained unread in her apron pocket. The first—the second, seemed to contain nothing to surprise her, however much there might be to annoy—but it was different with that last: here was a gross overcharge, and perhaps it was not with quite a disagreeable feeling that Lady Lucy found something of which she could justly complain. She rose hurriedly and unlocked a small writing-desk, which had long been used as a receptacle for old letters and accounts.

To tell the truth, the interior of the desk did not present a very orderly arrangement. Cards of address, bills paid and unpaid, copies of verses, and papers of many descriptions, were huddled together, and it was not by any means surprising that Lady Lucy failed in her search for the original account, by which to rectify the error in her shoemaker's bill. In the hurry and nervous trepidation which had latterly become almost a constitutional ailment with her, she turned out the contents of the writing-desk into an easy chair, and then kneeling before it, she set herself to the task of carefully examining the papers. Soon she came to one letter which had been little expected in that place, and which still bore the marks of a rose, whose withered leaves also remained, that had been put away in its folds. The rose Walter Ferrars had given her on the eve of their marriage, and the letter was in his handwriting, and bore but a few days earlier date. With quickened pulses she opened the envelope; and though a mist rose before her eyes, it seemed to form into a mirror in which she saw the by-gone hours. And so she read—and read.

It is the fashion to laugh at love-letters, perhaps because only the silly ones come to light. With the noblest of both sexes such effusions are sacred, and would be profaned by the perusal of a third person: but when a warm and true heart is joined to a manly intellect; when reason sanctions and constancy maintains the choice which has been made, there is little doubt but much of simple, truthful, touching eloquence is often to be found in a "lover's" letter. That which the wife now perused with strange and mingled feelings was evidently a reply to some girlish depreciation of herself, and contained these words:—

"You tell me that in the scanty years of your past life, you already look back on a hundred follies, and that you have unnumbered faults of character at which I do not even guess. Making some allowance for a figurative expression, I will answer 'it may be so.' What then? I have never called you an angel, and never desired you to be perfect. The weaknesses which cling, tendril-like, to a fine nature, not unfrequently bind us to it by ties we do not seek to sever. I know you for a true-hearted girl, but with the bitter lessons of life still unlearned; let it be my part to shield you from their sad knowledge,—yet whatever sorrow or evil falls upon you, I must or ought to share. Let us have no secrets; and while the Truth which gives its purest luster to your eye, and its richest rose to your cheek, still reigns in your soul, I cannot dream of a fault grave enough to deserve harsher rebuke than the kiss of forgiveness."

What lines to read at such a moment! No wonder their meaning reached her mind far differently than it had done when they were first received. Then she could have little heeded it; witness how carelessly the letter had been put away—how forgotten had been its contents.

Her tears had flowed in torrents, but Lucy Ferrars no longer strove to check them. And yet there gleamed through them a brighter smile than had visited her countenance for many a month. A resolve approved by all her better nature was growing firm within her heart; and that which an hour before would have seemed too dreadful to contemplate was losing half its terrors. How often an ascent, which looks in the distance a bare precipice, shows us, when we approach its face, the notches by which we may climb!—and not a few of the difficulties of life yield to our will when we bravely encounter them.

"Why did I fear him so much?" murmured Lady Lucy to herself. "I ought not to have needed such an assurance as this to throw myself at his feet, and bear even scorn and rebuke, rather than prolong the reign of falsehood and deceit. Yes—yes," and gathering a heap of papers in her hand with the "love-letter" beneath, she descended the stairs.

There is no denying that Lady Lucy paused at the library door—no denying that her heart beat quickly, and her breath seemed well-nigh spent; but she was right to act on the good impulse, and not wait until the new-born courage should sink.

Mr. Ferrars had finished the newspaper, and was writing an unimportant note; his back was to the door, and hearing the rustle of his wife's dress, and knowing her step, he did not turn his head sufficiently to observe her countenance, but he said, good-humoredly,

"At last! What have you been about? I thought we were to go out before luncheon to look at the bracelet I mentioned to you."

"No, Walter—no bracelet—you must never give me any jewels again;" and as Lady Lucy spoke she leaned against a chair for support. At such words her husband turned quickly round, started up, and exclaimed.

"Lucy, my love!—in tears—what has happened?" and, finding that even when he wound his arm around her she was still mute, he continued, "Speak—this silence breaks my heart—what have I done to lose your confidence?"

"Not you—I—" gasped the wife. "Your words at breakfast—this letter—have rolled the stone from my heart—I must confess—the truth—I am like Mrs. Beaufort—in debt—frightfully in debt." And with a gesture, as if she would crush herself into the earth, she slipped from his arms and sank literally on the floor.

Whatever pang Mr. Ferrars felt at the knowledge of her fault, it seemed Overpowered by the sense of her present anguish—an anguish that proved how bitter had been the expiation; and he lifted his wife to the sofa, bent over her with fondness, called her by all the dear pet names to which her ear was accustomed, and nearer twenty times than once gave her the "kiss of forgiveness."