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AND THE

A DIALOGUE.

be, there is dignity and power in them. Many meanings

lurk in the depths of your expressive eyes, and on your New Year's-Bay

ample forehead a phrenologist would gaze with rapture; for he would there discover organ towering above organ,

like Pelion heaped on Ossa. Edinburgh Literary Journal.

New-Year's-Day (blushing.) Indeed, indeed, you compliment my personal appearance more than it deserves.

Edin. Lit. Jour. Not a jot; and you will not long New Year's-Day. Ah! my dear Journal, I was sure have mingled in society, before that ingenuous blush at that you would receive me with a smiling face. There the sound of your own praises will cease to mantle on are many persons who look suspiciously on me, and

your cheek. when I offer to shake hands with them, they hold out New-Year's-Day. Pardon me, but I hope not. I am the tips of their forefingers in a way so cold and repul- resolved to avoid, if possible, the contamination arising sive, that they wound my feelings deeply; for I have from the indulgence in the fashionable vices of the day; feelings, however little I may look like it.

and I have thus early visited you, of whom I had often Edis. Lit. Jour. “ The cold in clime are cold in heard even in my seclusion, to request, that in all matters blood;" but we are not so. We were so intimately ac- connected with morals, and the attendant handmaids of quainted with your elder brother, 1830, that we should Virtue --Literature, Science, and the Arts, you will act consider ourselves acting very strangely indeed, were we as my Mentor, my adviser, my guide. I know of no one to refuse to acknowledge any member of his family. | in whose judgment I place greater confidence, or to whose Poor 1830! he was one of the best fellows we ever opinions I shall ever be disposed to listen with greater knew,-passionate, to be sure, and with an immense deference. The nucleus, as you are, that draws towards bump of destructiveness, as witness several dynasties one common centre a host of the most eminent person which he broke up, as a child breaks up its toys; but in that Scotland and England can produce, your society must his domestic and social moods, and with his own friends always be valuable, your conversation always varied and -and we beld one of the first places in his regard-he delightful. was full of gentle feelings, pleasant fancies, and quaint Edin. Lit. Jour. Pleased as we are with the devices.

favourable sentiments you entertain for us, it would New-Year’s-Dax (much affected, and pulling out a be folly to affect to deny, that we certainly enjoy cambric handkerchief.) Your praise of my brother touches opportunities of bringing together as pleasant literary me the more that I never saw him. He went forth into the assemblies as are to be net with anywhere. It was but a world before I remember any thing, and, until his recent short time before your brother's death, on last Christmas death, my relations insisted on my living a very retired Day, that we took occasion to ask a few friends to meet and solitary life. One word of praise fro: you is worth with him, and he declared when he left us, which was a thousand homilies.

not till a very late hour, that he had never enjoyed so admiEdix. LIT. JOUR. We are certainly not much given rable a party before. And no wonder, for among the to flatter; and when we say that we and 1830 enjoyed ladies we had Mrs S, C. Hall, with her warm heart many a delightful day together, you may believe that we and pleasant humour, ever fresh and new; Miss Landon, are sincere. It was at the period when he was in the with her deep feeling and beautiful fancy; the authoresses summer of his life that our friendship was drawn together of the “ Odd Volume,” with their lively and natural by the closest links. Many a time and oft did we spend imaginations; and though last not least, Gertrude, with long hours together among the woods and streams; and her fine genius, every day springing out into riper luxuto some of these hours we look back with emotions that riance ;--then ainong the men, we had the Ettrick can never be altogether obliterated from our heart. It | Shepherd—the only Ettrick Shepherd in the world; is, indeed, melancholy to think that they should have fled Allan Cunningham, one of the most universally esteemed so fast, and that he to whom we were mainly indebted of all the Scottish writers of the day; Tennant, the bard for their enjoyment, should now lie buried in the tomb of of “ Anster Fair,” in his own departments of classical all the Capulets. Peace to his ashes ! It is possible that literature and grotesque Scottish humour unequalled; Sir we may never look upon his like again.

John Sinclair, the venerable baronet who has done more New-Year's Day (wiping his eyes.) It is needless to for statistics and agriculture—two of the most important indulge in unavailing grief. I am a scion of a noble and subjects to which the intellect can be directed—than all an ancient house; and the more my predecessors have his contemporaries put together; Malcolm, the poet-soldistinguished themselves, the more does it become me to dier, he who has dreamt fair dreams upon the tevted fields exert myself also.

of Spain; Macdonald, the poet-sculptor, who carves out EdIn. Lit. Jour. You say right; and if, as Lord of marble, thoughts that would be but dimly seen through Chesterfield has remarked, a pleasant countenance be as the baze of words; Knowles, with his original and engood as a letter of introduction, we are happy to inform thusiastic mind; Carne, and Chambers, and S. C. Hall, you that yours has prepossessed us in your favour. and Kennedy, and Thomson, and Weir, and AtkinsonThough your features have still somewhat of a boyish all good men and true; we had these, and how could they look, and are not yet quite so fully developed as they will fail to make the hours fly past on widgs of enchantment? New-Year's Day. Would that I too had been with His hair was white, and solemn his embrace; you on Christmas! but my hard fates prevented me. I met his mother, but some heavy woe When shall I ever behold such a party as that which you Had bow'd her stately age-its cause I did not know. have described ! Edin. Lit. Jour. This very day.

The house was silent, and no more the same New-Year's-Day. How! Is it possible !

As it had been in happy seasons fled ; Edin. Lit. Jour. We were determined that on your I saw that change was there, but whence it came first visit to us you should have a specimen of the society I wist not, until solemnly she said, which our dear deceased 1830 loved so much ; and, if “ Dost thou not know our son is with the dead ? we have not formed very erroneous conclusions, you also Like thee he long'd for each famed foreign shore; will become no less attached to it.

Like thee he left his father's house, and sped New-YEAR's-Day. You overwhelm me with joy. Shall To old renowned lands—alas ! no more I be introduced to all the persons you have mentioned ? To bless us with his sight, and his home's light restore !

Edin. Lit. Jour. To many of them, and also to some others, no less interesting, whose presence will give a new “Strange was it-in his vigorous, youthful might, feature to our entertainment to-day, and will show you And in the pleasant land of Italy, that our resources are nearly as inexhaustible as they are A swift decay came o'er him, and his light valuable. We may indeed as well take this opportunity Of life was quench'd in such short space, that we, of telling you, that, in anticipation of your coming, and Though journeying with what anxious haste might be, in consideration of the friendly footing on which we have Saw nought of him but his untimely grave ! always been with the other members of your family, we

He lies beneath a stately cypress tree, have made arrangements by which we shall secure for

Within the sound of the great ocean's wave, you, during the whole period of your existence, a weekly And amid records old of the renown'd and brave. treat of a similar kind to that which you shall this day

“O, desolate the home from which the pride, receive,-similar, yet continually varied, and as far removed as can be from the dulness of monotony.

The joy, and beauty thus have pass'd away! New Year's Day. My gratitude knows no bounds.

And many marvell’d that we should abide

Within its walls, to mournful thoughts a prey ; Much as I was prepared to love you, I find that the

But it was not for us to lightly lay reality far exceeds my expectations. There can be only one such being in the world.

Our sorrow by, as aught of little worth ; Edin. Lit. Jour. There is only one. But our friends

God sent the trial,—and here, day by day, have already assembled ; let us join them.

Within our son's dear home and place of birth, New-Year's Day. Where shall we find them ?

We wait all future change, with loosen'd hold on earth!" Edin. Lit. Jour. Behold! Enter ! The Edinburgh LITERARY Journal points to No.

A LAST LOOK.
19, Waterloo Place ; New-Year's Day eagerly,
but with an expression of reverence, rushes in. The By J. S. Memes, LL.D. Author of the Life of
scene closes.

Canova," 8c.
O ciechi, il tanto affaticar che giova?

Tutti tornate alla gran madre antica,
DOMESTIC SORROW.

E il vostro nome appena si ritrova.
By Mary Howitt.

It was evening :-such a day-close as sinks to rest on

the bosom of fair Italy. A lonely traveller had gained I saw his home ere it had seen a change,

a summit of the everlasting adamant which girdles this I knew the haunts in which his youth was spent ;

country of the soul—this garden of the world. He had For, o'er the hills, and through the greenwood's range, sojourned for a space amid its intellectual treasures--its I, in my happy childhood, with him went.

all but holy reminiscences; and the steps of his pilgrimAll eyes on him, as on a star, were bent,

age were now homewards to his own loved northern And his glad spirit cast a light around,

land. A few paces even beyond that overhanging rock, For, like a winged joy, his spirit sent

and the scene will shut from his sight for ever. He Gladness to all, and even men renown'd

turned to look again, as men do at what they love, and Sought him, nor friends would meet when he was absent

yet must leave. found.

From his resting-place on an Alpine cliff, Italy lay

far as eye could reach, around and beneath, bathed in the His father show'd the trees that he had set,

splendour of her own indescribable sunset, Deeming his very hand had bless'd the earth; And when at eve the friendly circle met,

“ Lost and obscured in flood of golden light" Kind, genial spirits, round a social hearth,

It was an hour and place wherein might seem exposed Stern age grew warm before his cordial mirth; the whole wealth of Nature's tranquil beauty and magAnd his proud mother, proud she well might be ! nificence. At band was grandeur of the sternest characDid bless the happy hour that gave him birth; ter; but radiance and shade—foliage, form, and hue, and

And his deep love, and wit like lightning free, distance, like hope mid the harsh realities of life, had Tamed proud hearts to his will, clasp'd kind ones modulated into harmony the stupendous elements of the tenderly.

Not a sound, save at intervals, as the breathing

air came gratefully over the sense, the booming of the For foreign travel I had left my home;

secret waterfall, struck faintly on the ear, recalling the And home returning, after three years' space,

remote fountain of some classic stream of yore. A sky With ardent hopes of pleasant days to come,

—such as Claude delights to paint—of intensest sweetest Longing to hear his words and see bis face,

blue overhead, fell upon the distance and midland in a I sought, in eager love, my native place.

shower of amber light. Amid the transparent glow, as I met his father, but his step was slow,

if pencilled in gold, was traced the far-off Apennines ;

nearer, the champaign Lombardy showed, on its purpled * We have much pleasure in adding to the list of our contributors, one of whose genius we have more than once taken occasion to speak

expanse, with the praise due to it. The above beautiful poem was transmitted “ Like lines and hues on ocean's breast at eve," to us by the authoress, with a politeness the more valued that it was nnlooked for and unasked.

city and forest-plain and winding stream ;-nearer still,

scene.

in bolder forms and mellower tones, stood forth monastic a new horizon disclosed new prospects, and thoughts of tower and castled steep, the solemn ruin, the gay villa, home filled his bosom with unutterable things. and the mouldering arch!

Reader! with whatever sentiments thou mayst have Could aught surpass the sublimities of such a scene?- regarded the condition of the traveller, remember that Yes. Its moral interest, as associated with the thoughts such, at this moment, is thine own, in all the sublimities passing in that lonely mind. In every existence—even and pressing interests of thy moral position. These lines in those least varied by change-seasons and events have may haply be perused within a few hours of that dread occurred, to which memory reverts with a solemn feeling point in duration, where time passing into eternity, minof pleasure and regret :-pleasure, that such have once gles its sands with time that is to come. True, each been enjoyed—regret, bitter indeed, that, not improved as instant of our lives bears the same mysterious relation. they might have been, they are passed away in their fresh- The present, however, is a season when the change is ness for ever. Upon like thoughts were the meditations more marked—the transition more solemn. Like the of the traveller. The wish of his boyhood's early enthu- traveller, therefore, on the Alpine height, whence extends siasm—the sobered, but not less ardent, aspiration of ma- one of the widest of terrestrial prospects, thou mayst turer years had been gratified. He had traversed lands seem now more especially to stand on a verge overlooking of glorious achievement; he had been where the great, the receding course of the past, and the dim perspective the good, the wise, the fortunate, had been. He had of the future year. visited the birth-place of much that is noblest-of still Our meditations, too, if we commune honestly with more that is most exquisite in the intellectual history of our own hearts, must, in no small degree, resemble the human kind

thoughts of the traveller. Well must we yet recollect,

with what ardour of good intention we entered upon the “ What charms in genius, and refines in art.”. year now passed away. Time bas fulfilled all its pro

mises to us. Its storied page, rich with the present A rich and ample page bad been unrolled, and was now moral, and ancient experience, has been fairly unrolled; folded up for ever;—had be perused it as he fairly might? opportunities have been afforded us; our prayers for life, Alas! his own heart, which could not deceive, responded health, and the capabilities of knowledge, have been gra

- No! First, he had neglected to come prepared for the ciously heard. Have we profited to the utmost, or even study. He had next found or fancied the characters to as we might readily have done? Alas! no. The year be dimmed and difficult. Often had he been seduced by which, in anticipation, beheld our resolutions so fair, now, pleasure, often turned, in very recklesness, away from the in the retrospect, gives back only a sad array of time misinstruction which it was his duty to have sought, and by spent, exertion misapplied, disappointed hopes, unavailing which perseverance would have been rewarded. Yet had cares, and empty pleasures. Truly may our course aphe seemed to himself busy for the moment; but now a pear to have passed among moulderi things. Our joys, mere nothing bounded his acquirements : how much had where are they? gone : they perished in the using. Where he forgotten, how much more never learned! Oh! could on our onward way is the goodly fabric of our virtuous he return ! But return be could not.

actions-our high resolves, our active charities? They We willingly escape from self-condemnation. A change are not to be marked, or strew our path with the most comes over the spirit of his meditations. Had not the unseemly of all decay—the works of good design unfitraveller been disappointed ? Wbat had he seen ? A laud nished or but begun. Vast and vainglorious piles do of tombs, of names—of perishing memorials of things that indeed indicate where we have been, reared to worldly had perished. The mighty and the wise may have been ambition, selfish gratification, or perishable fame. These, there, but slavery, and ignorance, and degeneracy dwell unlike the heathen fanes, over whose noble proportions where the Roman once ruled, and the haunts of ancient the traveller had mourned, show nothing real, save folly ; wisdom are doubtful or pollated. The proportioned co- but, too like those in their perverted use, ours have been lumn lies defaced, or has been filched from its station by dedicated to the service of unclean idols; polluted shrines ignoble cupidity, though guarding the memory of the hero they are, where we have given praise to the creature, -patriot—sage. Each glorious structure which taste and unmindful of the glory of the Creator. science reared, which nations dedicated, has become an Shall we then arraign the prospects and opportunities unseemly wreck—the tomb, not only of its own beauty, of our pilgrimage, or despair of improvement ? God forbut of genius also-burying the breathing marble, and bid. The retrospect of the past will convince us, that the speaking frieze. If bright forms and pure scenes if we have not reaped, it is because we have failed to aphave met his view, they are tied forever, and their part- preciate our advantages. This truth firmly established ing light casts but more dismal shadows over the solitudes —and where can a doubt find place ?—will both direct of memory

and cheer us in the work of improvement. Salutary But another change has been wrought in the medita- reflection on former errors, a last look not only to each tions of the traveller. A holier flow bas purified the year, but to each day, or each hour, will strengthen course of feeling. The scarcely audible tones of the ves- our judgment, and purify our practice for the future. per bell, rising from these grey towers far below, have From the very ruins of our past lives we shall thus erect smote upon his ear, not in reproach, but to recall the the fair memorial of a virtuous fame. Thus had the trawarm sensibilities of the present, linked with the undes- veller noted in the land of his journeying, that oft near cried interests of futurity. A truer tone chastened bis the heathen fane had arisen the Christian temple, exmusings. Much, indeed, he still found had been neglect-tracting its noblest ornaments from the fallen mass, and ed on his part, and much had disappointed his awakened giving to primeval holiness of purpose the fruits of that expectations and his ignorant hopes. But much, like- genius which Heaven had bestowed, and man debased. wise, had been learned; and though he had beheld only vestiges of ages past, the footsteps of ancient virtue and ancient wisdom had impressed these remains with a

A LOVE SONG. hallowed character. Like the broken fragments of the vase in which has been stored some precious and abiding

By John Malcolm. perfume, the monuments of past perfection, and remi- The days of Mayhood, how bright and charming, niscences of moral greatness, had sent forth into his heart In sweet remembrance of long ago, and understanding a sacred influence ;-he now found it And still the dream of my spirit warming had been good for him to have been there. Subdued and From far away, with their summer glow; calm, the traveller arose to journey forward, ere the sha- When, all entrancing to early bosoms, dows of night should involve his mountain-path. Soon A seraph beauty did woman wear ;

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TALE,

SHAKSPEARE.

And of her lips, oh! the balmy blossoms

stormy west; and as evening drew on, and a single The bliss was almost too much to bear !

light faintly glimmered from one of the windows of his

mansion, he has brushed a hot tear from his eye, and And, then, how dear was each stolen meeting

started into recollection. It was dark ere he came home, Life's angel-visits, so brief, but blest;

and the winds howled drearily. In their sitting-roomAt her approach when the heart was beating

a room but barely furnished—he found his wife plying As it would burst from the swelling breast.

her needle beside the lamp, and at a little distance the But, oh! wbat set the young frame a-glowing

dying flame of the wood fire threw its ghastly flickerWould now be felt only faint and cold,

ings on the pale face of his daughter. He stood at the And not because we are wiser growing,

door, and leant upon his gun in silence. They knew his Alas! the heart is but waxing old.

mood, and were silent also. His eye was fixed upon his

daughter ; she would have fascinated yours too. It was Then bloom'd each fresh and each vernal feeling, no common countenance. Not that any individual feature

Unchill'd--unblighted by shade and shower, could have been singled out as peculiar, but the general And sprung tbe rose-tinted blush, revealing

expression was such as, once seen, haunted the memory The heart's spring-glow in its passion flower. for ever. Perhaps it was the black eye-blacker than And that first love, from which life doth borrow the ebon hair-contrasted with the deadly paleness of her The after hues of its joy or pain—

white-rose cheek. It was deep sunk, too, under her brow. Oh! I would live o'er its years of sorrow,

But it is needless to form conjectures : none knew in To dream away my sweet youth again!

what that expression originated—there was a mystery in it. She had a long thin arm, and tapering fingers, and a

hand crossed by many a blue vein. Its touch was in THE DEAD DAUGHTER,

general thrillingly cold, yet at times it was feverishly hot. Her mother had borne many a child, but all died in early

infancy. Yet ber father's fondest wish was to see a son By Henry G. Bell.

rising by his side into manhood ; por did be despair of What may this mean,

having the wish gratified. It was said his dying comSo horridly to shake our disposition

mands would have given that son much to do. With thoughts beyond the reaches of our soul?

Paulina was now thirteen ; but the canker was busy

within, and even ber mother saw at last that she, too, The building was a solitary one, and had a cold and was to be taken from her. It was a stern dispensation ; forbidding aspect. Its tenant, Adolphus Walstein, was a the only child of her heart,—the only one whom her man whom few liked: not that they charged him with any sleepless care had been able to fence in from the grasp of crime, but he was of an unsocial temperament; and ever the spoiler,—her meditation and her dream for thirteen since he came to the neighbourhood, thinly inhabited as years,--the one only sad sunbeam whose watery and it was, he had contracted no friendship, formed no ac- uncertain ray lighted up their solitude. But evil had quaintance. He seemed fond of wandering among the followed them as a doom, nor was that doom yet commountains; and his house stood far up in one of the pleted. wild valleys formed by the Rhætian Alps, which inter- She died upon an autumn evening. She had been sect Bohemia.

growing weaker for many a day, and they saw it, but He was married, and his wife had once been beautiful. spoke not of it. Nor did she ; it seemed almost a pain She even yet bore the traces of that beauty, though some- for her to speak; and when she did, it was in a low soft what faded. She must have been of high birth too, for tone, inaudible almost to all but the ear of affection. her features and gait were patrician. She spoke little ; Yet was the mind within her busy with all the restless but you could not look on her and fancy that her silence activity of feverish reverie. She bad strange day-dreams; was for lack of thought.

and life and the distant world often flashed upon her in They had one only child-a daughter—a pale but far more than the brightness of reality. Often, too, all beautiful girl. She was very young—not yet in her faded away; and though her eyes were still open, darkteens--but the natural mirth of childhood characterised ness fell around her, and she dwelt among the mysteries her not. It seemed as if the gloom that had settled and immaterial shapes of some shadowy realm. It would round her parents had affected her too; it seemed as if be fearful to know all that passed in the depth of that she had felt the full weight of their misfortunes, almost lonely girl's spirit. It was an autumn evening-sunny, before she could have known what misfortune was. She but not beautiful,silent, but not serene. She had smiled sometimes, but very faintly; yet it was a lovely walked to the brook that came down the mountains, and smile,-more lovely that it was melancholy,

She was

which formed a pool and babbling cascade not a stonenot strong; there was in her limbs none of the glowing cast from the door. Perhaps she grew suddenly faint; vigour of health. She cared not for sporting in the for her mother, who stood at the window, saw her fresh breeze on the hill-side. If ever she gathered wild-coming more hastily than usual across the field. She flowers, it was only to bring them home, to lay them in went to meet her; she was within arm's-length, when her her mother's lap, and wreathe them into withered gar- daughter gave a faint moan, and, falling forward, lands.

twined ber cold arms round her mother's neck, and looked Much did they love that gentle child: they had nothing up into her face with a look of agony. It was only for else in the wide world to love, save an old domestic, and a moment ; her dark eye became fixed—it grew white a huge Hungarian dog. Yet it was evident Paulina with the whiteness of death, and the mother carried her could not live; at least her life was a thing of uncer- child's body into its desolate home. tainty-of breathless hope and fear. She was tall beyond If her father wept-it was at night when there was her years; but she was fragile as the stalk of the white

no eye to see. The Hungarian dog bowled over the crowned lilly. She was very like her mother; though dead body of its young mistress, and the old domestic sat there was at times a shade upon her brow that reminded by the unkindled hearth, and wept as for her own firstyou strongly of the darker countenance of her father. It born; but the father loaded his gun, as was his wont, was said, that when he took his gun, and went out all day and went away among the mountains. in search of the red-deer, far up among the rocky heights, he The priests came, and the coffin, and a few of the would forget his purpose for hours, and seating himself simple peasants. She was carried forth from her chamupon some Alpine promontory, would gaze upon his lonely ber, and her father followed. The procession winded house in the valley below, till the sun went down in the down the valley. The tinkling of the holy bell mingled sadly with the funeral chant. At last the little train | step, his daughter moved across the room ; at the door, disappeared ; for the churchyard was among the hills, she was about to kiss her mother, but Walstein thunsome miles distant. The mother was left alone. She dered out, “ Forbear !" and rising, closed the door with fell upon her knees, and lifted up her eyes and her clasped trembling violence. Philippa had often seen her husband hands to ber God, and prayed—fervently prayed, from the in his wilder moods, but seldom thus strangely agitated; depths of her soul that he might never curse her with yet, had she known the conviction that had arisen in his another child. The prayer was almost impious; but she mind, she would have ceased to wonder. was frantic in her deep despair, and we dare not judge He had watched long and narrowly, and now he was ber.

unable to conceal longer from himself the fearful truth. A year has passed away, and that lonely house is still It was not in her wan beauty alone that she resembled in the Bohemian valley, and its friendless inmates haunt her sister-it was not merely in the external developeit still. Walstein's wife bears him another child, and ment of her form ;-he knew, he felt, that the second hope almost beats again in his bosom, as he asks, with | Paulina, born after her sister's death, was the same Pausomewhat of a father's pride, if he has now a son. But lina as she whom he had laid in the grave. There was horthe child was a daughter, and his hopes were left unful- ror in the idea, yet could it not be resisted. But even filled. They christened the infant Paulina ; and many now he breathed it not to his wife, and silently they a long day and dreary night did its mother hang over its passed to their chamber. The secret of his soul, however, cradle, and shed tears of bitterness, as she thought of her which he would never bave told her by day and awake, who lay unconscious in the churchyard away among the the wretched Philippa gathered from him in his unconhills. The babe grew, but not in the rosiness of health. scious mutterings in the dead watches of the night. Yet it seldom suffered from acute pain ; and when it when the thought came upon her, it fell upon her heart wept, it was with a kind of suppressed grief, that seemed like a weight of lead. Her maternal affection struggled almost unnatural to one so young. It was long ere it with it, and with the thousand proofs that came crowdcould walk; when at last it did, it was without any pre- ing of themselves into her memory, to strengthen and vious effort.

to rivet it, and the struggle almost overturned her reason. Time passed on without change and without incident. The Paulina, in whom her heart was wrapped up Paulina was ten years old. Often had Philippa, with twelve years ago, had frequently dreams of a mysterious maternal fondness, pointed out to her husband the resem- meaning, which she used to repeat to her mother when blance which she alleged existed between their surviving no one else was by. A few days after the occurrences child and her whom they had laid in the grave. Wal- of the evening to which we have alluded, the living child, stein, as he listened to his wife, fixed his dark penetrating who had come in the place of the dead, told Philippa she eye upon his daughter, and spoke not. The resemblance had dreamt a dream. She recited it, and Philippa shudwas, indeed, a striking one,—it was alo st supernatural. dered to hear an exact repetition of one she well rememShe was the same tall pale girl, with black, deep, sunk eyes, bered listening to long ago, and which she had ever since and long dark ebon hair. Her arms and hands were pre- locked up in her own bosom. Even in sleep, it seemed cisely of the same mould, and they had the same thrillo that, by some awful mystery, Paulina was living over ing coldness in their touch. Her manners, too, her dis again. position, the sound of her voice, her motions, her habits, Time still passed on, and the pale child shot up into a and, above all, her expression of countenance—that cha- girl. She was thirteen; though a stranger would have racteristic and indescribable expression—were the very thought her some years older. It was manifest that she, same. Her mother loved to dwell upon this resemblance; too, was dying. (There was a dismal doubt haunted her but her father, though he gazed and gazed upon her, yet father's mind whether she had ever lived.)

She never ever and anon started, and walked with hasty strides spoke of her deceased sister ; indeed, she seldom spoke across the room, and some times, even at night, rushed out at all; but when they asked if she were well, she shook into the darkness, as one oppressed with wild and fearful her head, and stretched an arm towards the churchyard. fancies.

To that churchyard her father went one moonlight They had few of the comforts, and none of the luxuries night. It was a wild fancy, yet he resolved to open his of life, in that Bohemian valley. Philippa had carefully daughter's grave, and look once more upon her moulderlaid aside all the clothes that belonged to her dead daugh- | ing remains. He had a reason for his curiosity, which ter; and now that the last child of her age was growing he scarcely dared own even to bimself. He told the sexton up, and was so like her that was gone, she loved to dress of his purpose; and, though the old man guessed not her sometimes in her sister's dress; and the pale child his object, he took his spade and his pickaxe, and speedily wore the clothes, and talked of the lost Paulina, almost commenced his task. It was an uncertain night. The as if she had known her.

wind came in gusts, and sometimes died away into One night her mother plied her needle beside her strange silence. The dim moonlight fell upon the white lamp, and at a little distance her daughter, in a simple tomb-stones, and the shadows of the passing clouds white dress, which had once been another's, sat musing glided over them like spirits. The sexton pursued his over the red embers of a dying fire. A thunder storm work, and had already dug deep. Walstein stood by his was gathering, and the rain was already falling heavily. side. Walstein entered; his eye rested on his daughter, and he “ I have not come to the coffin yet," said the old man, almost shrieked ; but he recovered himself, and with a in a tone bordering upon wonder ; " yet I could tell the quivering lip sat down in a distant corner of the room. very spot blindfold in which I put it with these hands His Hungarian dog was with him; it seemed to have thirteen years ago." caught the direction of his master's eye, and as its own Dig on, for the love of Heaven !” said Walstein, and rested keenly on Paulina, the animal uttered a low growl. his heart began to beat audibly. There was a short It was strange that the dog never seemed to love the pause. child. It is probable that she was hardly aware of her “ My digging is of no use," said the sexton. father's entrance, for she appeared absorbed in her own past the place where I laid the collin; and may the Holy thoughts. As the blue and Hickering flame fell upon her Virgin protect me, for there is not a vestige either of it or face, she smiled faintly.

the body left." “ O God! it is ! it is !" cried Walstein, and fell sense- Walstein groaned convulsively, and leapt into the less on the floor.

grave, but in vain ; the sexton had reported truly. He His wife and daughter hurried to his assistance, and had just stept up again into the moonlight, when a cold he recovered; but he pointed to Paulina, and said fal- hand was laid upon his shoulder. He started, and turnteringly, “ Philippa !-- send her to bed.” With a quiet ing round, saw that his daughter stood beside him.

" I am

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