I

come and visit me. I never thought that you loved me. I did not require a return of affection at first, and was therefore happy; but as time flew on, this changed; I could not bear your indifference, my heart broke, I grew more and more sad-I wept when I sang of happy lovers, and though you sometimes saw my tears you did not guess the reason. kept my secret well, very well, for it preyed on my heart's core, banishing pleasure from my days, and sleep from my nights. I would not for worlds live my life over again, yet I nursed and fondled my sorrow. Opium-eating has its fascination, so has sorrow; I suffered it to wind itself into my veins, till it formed my life-it was always with me, part of me, and I called this sorrow love, because the two were so blended in one I could see no distinction, no barrier to mark the line between them. Then you spoke of leaving us, of going with your sister to Halle. How could I support life without seeing you? My brain whirled, my sorrow grew too poignant, it was beyond my endurance; I determined to die, and rid myself of this cruel life, which offered me no happiness in the future. No; the present was agony, the future a deep void containing nothing, and yet I felt THAT NOTHING crush me to the ground. Death was at least oblivion; it might be happiness, it might not, but one thing I knew it was, which was change. How I craved for change, freedom from the thraldom I had courted and encouraged, till I could not throw it off again, but must needs sit down and let it overwhelm me, or break the thread of life, die, and be free. It was poetical to die; my life had had no poetry-I was ugly, neglected, and insignificant. I loved poetry, I loved the beautiful. Many have died by their own hand; I thought of Werther, I thought of Juliet, and before light dawns to-morrow I shall have followed their example-I shall be numbered amongst heroines, and my story will be a fit subject for a poet to sing. I fancy I hear the cool water eddying round me, and the noise of the reeds as they shake and bend in the wind; then softly and calmly my breath departs, there is a ringing in my head, a shudder passes over me, and I hear the sounds of the world no more; my heart ceases to pain me, I feel no regret, no longing, no sorrow, no unrest. Oh, let me fly to such a death, it is my best friend. I do not dread it as some do; I see only beauty and peace in the loss of all earthly ties, in the transition to another life. What will that be? They tell me that the stars are worlds. I can believe it, but have the inhabitants had the same history as we? Did their Adam and Eve, their first man and woman, sin, and had they need of a redemption such as ours? Some of those luminous stars may have this sad tale to tell, and these are the falling stars, but others shine forth eternally, and have retained their Eden, a bright and glorious place, whither the souls of the just departed of all the worlds that have sinned will go and be rewarded for their life of suffering by eternal peace in the gardens of Paradise, where Satan cannot enter to harm them more. These happy worlds are the planets; I have always loved them, they are so pure and lustrous. It is there we must hope to meet our friends; there, where the trees and flowers never die, and the lion plays harmlessly with the child, whilst the turtle-dove sits on its broad back conscious of security. Oh, let me fly to such a place; my heart longs to surprise its destiny, and be beforehand with the angel of death. Take care of my uncle and aunt,

watch over them, and if my uncle- -But why should I communicate fears which may be ill-founded? why should I add one more anxiety to the poor sufferers in this world? I will not, for it would be sin to do so. Be kind to my aunt; do not let her weep for Margaret. Tell her that I am happy, and she must look amongst the stars for my home. Sometimes when the air is calm I will float down to earth, and sigh over you all, hoping for the time when you likewise shall be free to come among the spirits."

I closed up the letter and replaced it in my pocket with a sensation of relief. This wild effusion could not be mistaken; there was madness in the mind that could compose and believe such poetic nonsense. I grieved over the poor girl; I grieved over a mind that had gone astray, but it was a relief, to be sure, that madness instigated the last sad act of her short life. The moon that had hitherto illumined my room glided behind a black cloud, the candle had burned down to its socket, and, after a few vain efforts to retain existence, went out, leaving me in total darkness. I felt the thick veil of night press, as it were, upon my forehead; it was a soothing sensation, as if I were being rocked to rest. Melancholy thoughts departed from me; my heavy eyelids closed in sleep. I felt them fall over my eyes and shut out the consciousness that it was night, and then a dreamy, confused sensation passed over me. I started once or twice, agitated by some trivial sound, and then I saw objects as in a camera obscura; they were not real objects, but bright and of an unearthly hue. I was gazing from a mountain upon a far outstretching valley, radiant with golden light. Majestic trees shot out their boughs towards heaven; I fancied almost I could see them grow. The foliage was of brilliant green, and soft as velvet. I saw large enticing fruit growing beneath every leaf; I stretched out my hand to pluck some, but found that, although they appeared to be near enough to do so, they were, in reality, far away. I saw beautiful birds fly into the trees and eat the juicy fruit. All was joyous and happy in this lovely place, but I saw no human being moving amongst the mazy groves of olive and citron. "Where are they?" I wondered, as I lay enjoying the cool scented air. "How comes it they have missed so exquisite a spot? I will come and live here. It would be perfect bliss to bask out one's days upon that emerald grass, to smell the flowers and hear the birds sing." But these thoughts had scarcely passed through my brain when a voice came upon the breeze. It sounded like the mingled tones of birds singing, leaves rustling, and water rippling, and it said, "This is Paradise, from whence man was driven." Then I thought I perceived the angel standing with a flaming sword, forbidding me to enter, and the boughs waved, and the birds sang, whilst a far-off echo repeated the word, "Paradise! Paradise!"

I awoke, but my dream was imprinted vividly upon my mind, and it had been so pleasant that I might have said with Caliban,"

I cried to dream again.

I was weary, for night had advanced many strides since I fell asleep; so, groping my way in the dark, I sought my couch. I did not fear to be tortured by thoughts from dreamland now; I had tasted their sweetest essence, and fancied, if I should dream again, it would be as pleasant as

before; but I was wrong. I slept once more, and this time I was borne in fancy back to the lovely valley. I did not view it from a mountain: I was in it; the trees stretched their branches above me, forming arches over my head, and the gaily-clad birds peeped at me, and flew away chirping and screaming. The spot was as beautiful as when I had viewed it from a distance; but oh, how different it was to what I expected! Snakes lay coiled in the long grass where I had so longed to bask my days away; they hissed and reared their heads, as if to spring upon me as I passed. The deep roar of wild beasts assailed me from every side; I fancied I saw their fierce eyes glaring out of the dark masses of foliage. Then a lovely antelope bounded across my path, and entered the forest on the other side. I saw a savage leopard spring from a branch where it had lain in wait for its prey. The terrified antelope was in its grasp in a moment. I saw it writhe in agony, and thought I might have been in this poor animal's place. Overcome by fear, I hastened on. My only wish now was to escape from this "lovely valley," and I no longer wondered why no human being had sought it for an abode. Would the countless windings of the trees never end? The further I advanced the more impenetrable the thicket seemed; I thought it was closing around me, and that I should be suffocated in the hot air, but lo! on a sudden the whole scene changed. I was standing in a corn-field, which tossed and waved as far as the eye could reach. Near me were two men cutting the corn with sharp sickles. One of the two seemed very angry. He spoke in a loud voice, and made use of his implement with a kind of nervous jerk, as if he were trying to vent his irritation on the corn. His companion uttered a jeering laugh. They both paused from their work, and the angry man darted forward and dealt his comrade a deadly blow with his weapon. The warm blood flowed; the wounded man tottered and fell. I would have gone to his assistance, but I was caught up into the air by some invisible power and borne swiftly away. I flew close to the ground-close to the man whom I had seen working in the field, and who had murdered his companion, but was now escaping from the place with horror marked in every line of his features. On, on I went, always behind him, as if I were his shadow, and sometimes I fancied a black veil enveloped me so that I could not be seen, and sometimes, too, a black arm, transparent as crape, stretched out over my head and rested on the fugitive's shoulder. "Was it a demon that bore me on to track the murderer's course?"

I wondered and trembled as I flew. I felt I was not alone; a cold breath played on my forehead at times, and caused the perspiration to drop from my face, but who or what my companion was I could not divine. We followed the murderer wherever he went; we watched his troubled slumber as he lay beneath some tree, and saw how misery and conscious crime traced each day a deeper furrow on his face. He was faint and weary when he walked; he had wandered far, and avoided the face of man. Not a morsel of food had crossed his lips. I watched his We were now in a town, and notice was in the window, upon

mental agony, and longed to give relief. stood before the door of a small inn. A which were written the words "Murder committed." The wretched man saw it, tottered back with a suppressed groan, and fled from the place.

Out amid trees we wandered, birds were singing overhead, the murderer cast himself upon the damp grass, by a deep river which ran through the wood. I heard the rush of water, and saw the pebbles far beneath through its transparent waves. How cool it looked! The man rolled down the bank and drank; then a kind of frenzy seemed to seize him ; he shouted in a wild manner, raised his arms towards the sky, and leaped into the rapid stream. Down he went: I saw him disappear, then rise again, but lo! it was not the man I had followed; it was Margaret, and in her death-agony she seemed to upbraid me. Then the water closed over her, rushing and whirling on. I stretched out my arms to save her, but a mocking voice cried, "See, see what you have done! Margaret loved you, Margaret is dead! And why ?" "Why? why?" I exclaimed. My brain whirled, and a hideous form stood before me flapping its long black wings. I saw its face gleaming as it were from a lurid light, and, extending one of its long arms, it said, "I am the Demon of Suicide. See, see what you have done!" "I did not kill her!" I exclaimed, aloud; "I did not! I did not !" "I have borne you with me on my errandsha! ha!" cried the fiend; "you have seen what I can do. I rid men of their earthly burden-ha! ha!" His hoarse laugh awoke me; I sat upright on my bed, and heard myself exclaim, "I did not do it!" What a horrible vision I had been suffering under! I trembled with the agitation it had caused me, and leaping from my couch I walked several times round the room, repeatedly telling myself I had but dreamt. Yes, thank God! it was only a dream. But do not night visions sometimes portend evil, or, like the Elector Frederick of Saxony's dream of the monk of Wittemberg's wonderful pen, might not this dream have an allegorical meaning which should hereafter appear? I am not generally a believer in the superstitious, but there are times when we can believe anything, and when I was sufficiently composed to return to my bed, I tortured myself with the different meanings this dream might have. "Had I not felt myself cast out from happiness? Had not the beautiful become terrible to me? Was tragedy to mark every page of my history, or what could it mean?" I repeat now, as I sit writing at my desk in a quiet room, "What could it mean?" That question is still unanswered, and the more I ponder on it the clearer I perceive that it was not the forerunner of evil events to come, but the repetition of what had been. May I never have cause to think otherwise, and may I learn to disconnect Margaret from this vision of her end! It was not so she died. Alas! though doubtless innocent of the intention to perpetrate a crime, she did commit suicide. She died by her own hand, and for love. Poor misguided Margaret!

THE WAR.

THE long-apprehended moment has at length arrived: a sharp thunder-clap has issued from the dark cloud that has hung so portentously over Europe for the last four months-the terrific precursor of a tornado which will hurtle over our heads and carry desolation and destruction far and wide. No human power can now aught avail to prevent the conflagration: the Emperor Napoleon has gained the opportunity he has so patiently awaited-Austria is the aggressor, and he hopes thus to justify his conduct in the eyes of his co-regnants. But before the first blow is struck, we may be permitted to take a glance at the situation, and analyse the several steps which have produced this fearful appeal to arms.

At the outset, the question appeared simple enough. Louis Napoleon felt desirous of regulating the intricate arrangement of Italian affairs, and proposed, in unison with the great powers, and more especially with Austria, by timely concessions to prevent the coming revolution, which, however, no one but himself considered so imminent. Very naturally, on such delicate ground he soon came into collision with Austria on ancillary questions, and was forced to shift his position, as he saw that a difficulty which had taxed all the energies of the greatest statesmen since 1831 was beyond his strength. He was obliged to agree with an impartial writer on the subject, that Austrian interference in Central Italy has been rendered indispensable by dangers emanating from the great nucleus of disorder existing in the Papal territory. To quote the author's own words:

*

The arrival of the Tedeschi, according to Farini, in the legations has, ere now, been welcomed by the population as a protection against more intolerable evils. So long as it is thought necessary by the Catholic powers to uphold the supreme pontiff in his present isolated and unnatural position, the presence of foreign bayonets in Central Italy can hardly be dispensed with. While Rome is in the possession of a French garrison it does not seem unreasonable that Austria should occupy Bologna. In the mean time, the interests of three million people are sacrificed: Italy is kept in a perpetual ferment, and Austria not only acquires an evil name, but her independence and dignity are impaired by the critical state of her Cisalpine affairs.

Roman reform being impossible, and there being no prospect that Pio Nono would repeat his follies of 1847, the Emperor of the French naturally turned his attention to the favourite scheme of the national partyan Italian confederation. Here, again, Austria stood in the way: she exerted extreme influence throughout the peninsula, and there was no prospect of such a Utopia unless she were removed from Italy by fair means or foul. Hence, Louis Napoleon ventilated his celebrated theory as to the nullity of treaties, which made all the potentates of Europe tremble for their thrones, and gave his cause a blow from which it can never recover. It was evident that Louis Napoleon was following too closely in the footsteps of his great uncle, and Germany began arming in self-defence, while the Teutonic peoples suddenly remembered that the

* A History of Modern Italy. By R. Heber Wrightson. London: Bentley.