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Edinburgh Literary Journal.
NEW-YEAR'S-DAY. Ah! my dear JOURNAL, I was sure that you would receive me with a smiling face. There are many persons who look suspiciously on me, and when I offer to shake hands with them, they hold out the tips of their forefingers in a way so cold and repulsive, that they wound my feelings deeply; for I have feelings, however little I may look like it.
NEW-YEAR'S-DAY (much affected, and pulling out a cambric handkerchief.) Your praise of my brother touches me the more that I never saw him. He went forth into the world before I remember any thing, and, until his recent death, my relations insisted on my living a very retired and solitary life. One word of praise from you is worth a thousand homilies.
EDIN. LIT. JOUR. We are certainly not much given to flatter; and when we say that we and 1830 enjoyed many a delightful day together, you may believe that we are sincere. It was at the period when he was in the summer of his life that our friendship was drawn together by the closest links. Many a time and oft did we spend long hours together among the woods and streams; and to some of these hours we look back with emotions that can never be altogether obliterated from our heart. It is, indeed, melancholy to think that they should have fled so fast, and that he to whom we were mainly indebted for their enjoyment, should now lie buried in the tomb of all the Capulets. Peace to his ashes! It is possible that we may never look upon his like again.
NEW-YEAR'S-DAY (wiping his eyes.) It is needless to indulge in unavailing grief. I am a scion of a noble and an ancient house; and the more my predecessors have distinguished themselves, the more does it become me to exert myself also.
EDIN. LIT. JOUR. "The cold in clime are cold in blood;" but we are not so. We were so intimately acquainted with your elder brother, 1830, that we should consider ourselves acting very strangely indeed, were we to refuse to acknowledge any member of his family. Poor 1830! he was one of the best fellows we ever knew, passionate, to be sure, and with an immense bump of destructiveness, as witness several dynasties which he broke up, as a child breaks up its toys; but in his domestic and social moods, and with his own friends -and we held one of the first places in his regard-he was full of gentle feelings, pleasant fancies, and quaint devices.
NEW-YEAR'S-DAY. Pardon me, but I hope not. I am resolved to avoid, if possible, the contamination arising from the indulgence in the fashionable vices of the day; and I have thus early visited you, of whom I had often heard even in my seclusion, to request, that in all matters connected with morals, and the attendant handmaids of Virtue-Literature, Science, and the Arts, you will act as my Mentor, my adviser, my guide. I know of no one in whose judgment I place greater confidence, or to whose opinions I shall ever be disposed to listen with greater deference. The nucleus, as you are, that draws towards one common centre a host of the most eminent person that Scotland and England can produce, your society must always be valuable, your conversation always varied and delightful.
EDIN. LIT. JOUR. You say right; and if, as Lord Chesterfield has remarked, a pleasant countenance be as good as a letter of introduction, we are happy to inform you that yours has prepossessed us in your favour. Though your features have still somewhat of a boyish look, and are not yet quite so fully developed as they will
be, there is dignity and power in them. Many meanings lurk in the depths of your expressive eyes, and on your ample forehead a phrenologist would gaze with rapture; for he would there discover organ towering above organ, like Pelion heaped on Ossa.
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 have mingled in society, before that ingenuous blush at the sound of your own praises will cease to mantle on your cheek.
EDIN. LIT. JOUR. Pleased as we are with the favourable sentiments you entertain for us, it would be folly to affect to deny, that we certainly enjoy opportunities of bringing together as pleasant literary assemblies as are to be met with anywhere. It was but a short time before your brother's death, on last Christmas Day, that we took occasion to ask a few friends to meet with him, and he declared when he left us, which was not till a very late hour, that he had never enjoyed so admirable a party before. And no wonder, for among the ladies we had Mrs S. C. Hall, with her warm heart and pleasant humour, ever fresh and new; Miss Landon, with her deep feeling and beautiful fancy; the authoresses of the "Odd Volume," with their lively and natural imaginations; and though last not least, Gertrude, with her fine genius, every day springing out into riper luxuriance ;-then among the men, we had the Ettrick Shepherd-the only Ettrick Shepherd in the world; Allan Cunningham, one of the most universally esteemed of all the Scottish writers of the day; Tennant, the bard of "Anster Fair," in his own departments of classical literature and grotesque Scottish humour unequalled; Sir John Sinclair, the venerable baronet who has done more for statistics and agriculture-two of the most important subjects to which the intellect can be directed—than all his contemporaries put together; Malcolm, the poet-soldier, he who has dreamt fair dreams upon the tented fields of Spain; Macdonald, the poet-sculptor, who carves out of marble, thoughts that would be but dimly seen through the haze of words; Knowles, with his original and enthusiastic mind; Carne, and Chambers, and S. C. Hall, and Kennedy, and Thomson, and Weir, and Atkinsonall good men and true; we had these, and how could they fail to make the hours fly past on wings of enchantment?
NEW-YEAR'S-DAY. Would that I too had been with you on Christmas! but my hard fates prevented me. When shall I ever behold such a party as that which you have described!
EDIN. LIT. JOUR. This very day.
NEW-YEAR'S-DAY. How! Is it possible!
EDIN. LIT. JOUR. We were determined that on your first visit to us you should have a specimen of the society which our dear deceased 1830 loved so much; and, if we have not formed very erroneous conclusions, you also will become no less attached to it.
NEW-YEAR'S-DAY. You overwhelm me with joy. Shall I be introduced to all the persons you have mentioned ?
EDIN. LIT. JOUR. To many of them, and also to some others, no less interesting, whose presence will give a new feature to our entertainment to-day, and will show you that our resources are nearly as inexhaustible as they are valuable. We may indeed as well take this opportunity of telling you, that, in anticipation of your coming, and in consideration of the friendly footing on which we have always been with the other members of your family, we have made arrangements by which we shall secure for you, during the whole period of your existence, a weekly treat of a similar kind to that which you shall this day receive, similar, yet continually varied, and as far removed as can be from the dulness of monotony.
NEW-YEAR'S-DAY. My gratitude knows no bounds. Much as I was prepared to love you, I find that the reality far exceeds my expectations. There can be only one such being in the world.
EDIN. LIT. JOUR. There is only one. But our friends have already assembled; let us join them.
NEW-YEAR'S-DAY. Where shall we find them?
The EDINBURGH LITERARY JOURNAL points to No.
By Mary Howitt."
I SAW his home ere it had seen a change,
I knew the haunts in which his youth was spent ; For, o'er the hills, and through the greenwood's range, I, in my happy childhood, with him went. All eyes on him, as on a star, were bent, And his glad spirit cast a light around, For, like a winged joy, his spirit sent Gladness to all, and even men renown'd Sought him, nor friends would meet when he was absent found.
His father show'd the trees that he had set, Deeming his very hand had bless'd the earth; And when at eve the friendly circle met, Kind, genial spirits, round a social hearth, Stern age grew warm before his cordial mirth; And his proud mother, proud she well might be! Did bless the happy hour that gave him birth; And his deep love, and wit like lightning free, Tamed proud hearts to his will, clasp'd kind ones tenderly.
For foreign travel I had left my home;
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 with the praise due to it. The above beautiful poem was transmitted to us by the authoress, with a politeness the more valued that it was nulooked for and unasked.
His hair was white, and solemn his embrace; I met his mother, but some heavy woe Had bow'd her stately age-its cause I did not know.
The house was silent, and no more the same
I saw that change was there, but whence it came
To bless us with his sight, and his home's light restore !
"Strange was it-in his vigorous, youthful might, And in the pleasant land of Italy,
A swift decay came o'er him, and his light Of life was quench'd in such short space, that we, Though journeying with what anxious haste might be, Saw nought of him but his untimely grave! He lies beneath a stately cypress tree, Within the sound of the great ocean's wave, And amid records old of the renown'd and brave.
"O, desolate the home from which the pride,
Our sorrow by, as aught of little worth;
A LAST LOOK.
By J. S. Memes, LL.D. Author of the “Life of Canova," &c.
O ciechi, il tanto affaticar che giova? Tutti tornate alla gran madre antica, E il vostro nome appena si ritrova.
It was evening:—such a day-close as sinks to rest on the bosom of fair Italy. A lonely traveller had gained a summit of the everlasting adamant which girdles this country of the soul-this garden of the world. He had sojourned for a space amid its intellectual treasures-its all but holy reminiscences; and the steps of his pilgrimage were now homewards to his own loved northern land. A few paces even beyond that overhanging rock, and the scene will shut from his sight for ever. He turned to look again, as men do at what they love, and yet must leave.
From his resting-place on an Alpine cliff, Italy lay far as eye could reach, around and beneath, bathed in the splendour of her own indescribable sunset,
"Lost and obscured in flood of golden light."
It was an hour and place wherein might seem exposed the whole wealth of Nature's tranquil beauty and magnificence. At hand was grandeur of the sternest character; but radiance and shade-foliage, form, and hue, and distance, like hope mid the harsh realities of life, had modulated into harmony the stupendous elements of the scene. Not a sound, save at intervals, as the breathing air came gratefully over the sense, the booming of the secret waterfall, struck faintly on the ear, recalling the remote fountain of some classic stream of yore. A sky --such as Claude delights to paint—of intensest sweetest blue overhead, fell upon the distance and midland in a shower of amber light. Amid the transparent glow, as if pencilled in gold, was traced the far-off Apennines;nearer, the champaign Lombardy showed, on its purpled
"Like lines and hues on ocean's breast at eve," city and forest-plain and winding stream ;-nearer still,
in bolder forms and mellower tones, stood forth monastic tower and castled steep, the solemn ruin, the gay villa, and the mouldering arch!
Could aught surpass the sublimities of such a scene?Yes. Its moral interest, as associated with the thoughts passing in that lonely mind. In every existence-even in those least varied by change-seasons and events have occurred, to which memory reverts with a solemn feeling of pleasure and regret:-pleasure, that such have once been enjoyed-regret, bitter indeed, that, not improved as they might have been, they are passed away in their freshness for ever. Upon like thoughts were the meditations of the traveller. The wish of his boyhood's early enthusiasm the sobered, but not less ardent, aspiration of maturer years had been gratified. He had traversed lands of glorious achievement; he had been where the great, the good, the wise, the fortunate, had been. He had visited the birth-place of much that is noblest-of still more that is most exquisite in the intellectual history of human kind—
"What charms in genius, and refines in art."
A rich and ample page had been unrolled, and was now folded up for ever;-had he perused it as he fairly might? Alas! his own heart, which could not deceive, responded -No! First, he had neglected to come prepared for the study. He had next found or fancied the characters to be dimmed and difficult. Often had he been seduced by pleasure, often turned, in very recklesness, away from the instruction which it was his duty to have sought, and by which perseverance would have been rewarded. Yet had he seemed to himself busy for the moment; but now a mere nothing bounded his acquirements: how much had he forgotten, how much more never learned! Oh! could he return! But return he could not.
a new horizon disclosed new prospects, and thoughts of home filled his bosom with unutterable things.
Reader! with whatever sentiments thou mayst have regarded the condition of the traveller, remember that such, at this moment, is thine own, in all the sublimities and pressing interests of thy moral position. These lines may haply be perused within a few hours of that dread point in duration, where time passing into eternity, mingles its sands with time that is to come. True, each instant of our lives bears the same mysterious relation. The present, however, is a season when the change is more marked-the transition more solemn. Like the traveller, therefore, on the Alpine height, whence extends one of the widest of terrestrial prospects, thou mayst seem now more especially to stand on a verge overlooking the receding course of the past, and the dim perspective of the future year.
Our meditations, too, if we commune honestly with our own hearts, must, in no small degree, resemble the thoughts of the traveller. Well must we yet recollect, with what ardour of good intention we entered upon the year now passed away. Time has fulfilled all its promises to us. Its storied page, rich with the present moral, and ancient experience, has been fairly unrolled; opportunities have been afforded us; our prayers for life, health, and the capabilities of knowledge, have been graciously heard. Have we profited to the utmost, or even as we might readily have done? Alas! no. The year which, in anticipation, beheld our resolutions so fair, now, in the retrospect, gives back only a sad array of time misspent, exertion misapplied, disappointed hopes, unavailing cares, and empty pleasures. Truly may our course appear to have passed among mouldering things. Our joys, where are they? gone: they perished in the using. Where on our onward way is the goodly fabric of our virtuous actions-our high resolves, our active charities? They are not to be marked, or strew our path with the most unseemly of all decay-the works of good design unfinished or but begun. Vast and vainglorious piles do indeed indicate where we have been, reared to worldly ambition, selfish gratification, or perishable fame. These, unlike the heathen fanes, over whose noble proportions the traveller had mourned, show nothing real, save folly; but, too like those in their perverted use, ours have been dedicated to the service of unclean idols; polluted shrines they are, where we have given praise to the creature, unmindful of the glory of the Creator.
We willingly escape from self-condemnation. A change comes over the spirit of his meditations. Had not the traveller been disappointed? What had he seen? A land of tombs, of names of perishing memorials of things that had perished. The mighty and the wise may have been there, but slavery, and ignorance, and degeneracy dwell where the Roman once ruled, and the haunts of ancient wisdom are doubtful or polluted. The proportioned column lies defaced, or has been filched from its station by ignoble cupidity, though guarding the memory of the hero -patriot-sage. Each glorious structure which taste and 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 fled forever, and their part-preciate our advantages. This truth firmly established ing light casts but more dismal shadows over the solitudes of memory.
and where can a doubt find place?-will both direct 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 has 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 his 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 hallowed character. Like the broken fragments of the vase in which has been stored some precious and abiding perfume, the monuments of past perfection, and reminiscences of moral greatness, had sent forth into his heart and understanding a sacred influence ;-he now found it had been good for him to have been there. Subdued and calm, the traveller arose to journey forward, ere the shado ws of night should involve his mountain-path. Soon
A LOVE SONG.
By John Malcolm.
THE days of Mayhood, how bright and charming,
From far away, with their summer glow;
And of her lips, oh! the balmy blossoms!— The bliss was almost too much to bear!
And, then, how dear was each stolen meetingLife's angel-visits, so brief, but blest;
At her approach when the heart was beating
As it would burst from the swelling breast. But, oh! what set the young frame a-glowing Would now be felt only faint and cold, And not because we are wiser growing, Alas! the heart is but waxing old.
Then bloom'd each fresh and each vernal feeling, Unchill'd-unblighted by shade and shower, And sprung the rose-tinted blush, revealing
The heart's spring-glow in its passion flower. And that first love, from which life doth borrow The after hues of its joy or painOh! I would live o'er its years of sorrow, To dream away my sweet youth again!
THE DEAD DAUGHTER.
By Henry G. Bell.
What may this mean,
So horridly to shake our disposition
With thoughts beyond the reaches of our soul? SHAKSPEARE. THE building was a solitary one, and had a cold and forbidding aspect. Its tenant, Adolphus Walstein, was a man whom few liked: not that they charged him with any crime, but he was of an unsocial temperament; and ever since he came to the neighbourhood, thinly inhabited as it was, he had contracted no friendship, formed no acquaintance. He seemed fond of wandering among the mountains; and his house stood far up in one of the wild valleys formed by the Rhætian Alps, which intersect Bohemia.
He was married, and his wife had once been beautiful. She even yet bore the traces of that beauty, though somewhat faded. She must have been of high birth too, for her features and gait were patrician. She spoke little; but you could not look on her and fancy that her silence was for lack of thought.
They had one only child-a daughter-a pale but beautiful girl. She was very young-not yet in her teens-but the natural mirth of childhood characterised her not. It seemed as if the gloom that had settled round her parents had affected her too; it seemed as if she had felt the full weight of their misfortunes, almost before she could have known what misfortune was. She smiled sometimes, but very faintly; yet it was a lovely smile, more lovely that it was melancholy. She was not strong; there was in her limbs none of the glowing vigour of health. She cared not for sporting in the fresh breeze on the hill-side. If ever she gathered wildflowers, it was only to bring them home, to lay them in her mother's lap, and wreathe them into withered garlands.
Much did they love that gentle child: they had nothing else in the wide world to love, save an old domestic, and a huge Hungarian dog. Yet it was evident Paulina could not live; at least her life was a thing of uncertainty-of breathless hope and fear. She was tall beyond her years; but she was fragile as the stalk of the whitecrowned lilly. She was very like her mother; though there was at times a shade upon her brow that reminded you strongly of the darker countenance of her father. It was said, that when he took his gun, and went out all day in search of the red-deer,far up among the rocky heights, be would forget his purpose for hours, and seating himself upon some Alpine promontory, would gaze upon his lonely house in the valley below, till the sun went down in the
stormy west; and as evening drew on, and a single light faintly glimmered from one of the windows of his mansion, he has brushed a hot tear from his eye, and started into recollection. It was dark ere he came home, and the winds howled drearily. In their sitting-rooma room but barely furnished-he found his wife plying her needle beside the lamp, and at a little distance the dying flame of the wood fire threw its ghastly flickerings on the pale face of his daughter. He stood at the door, and leant upon his gun in silence. They knew his mood, and were silent also. His eye was fixed upon his daughter; she would have fascinated yours too. It was no common countenance. Not that any individual feature could have been singled out as peculiar, but the general expression was such as, once seen, haunted the memory for ever. Perhaps it was the black eye-blacker than the ebon hair-contrasted with the deadly paleness of her white-rose cheek. It was deep sunk, too, under her brow. But it is needless to form conjectures: none knew in 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 general thrillingly cold, yet at times it was feverishly hot. Her mother had borne many a child, but all died in early infancy. Yet her father's fondest wish was to see a son rising by his side into manhood; nor did he despair of having the wish gratified. It was said his dying commands would have given that son much to do.
Paulina was now thirteen; but the canker was busy within, and even her mother saw at last that she, too, was to be taken from her. It was a stern dispensation; the only child of her heart,-the only one whom her sleepless care had been able to fence in from the grasp of the spoiler, her meditation and her dream for thirteen years, the one only sad sunbeam whose watery and uncertain ray lighted up their solitude. But evil had followed them as a doom, nor was that doom yet completed.
She died upon an autumn evening. She had been growing weaker for many a day, and they saw it, but spoke not of it. Nor did she; it seemed almost a pain for her to speak; and when she did, it was in a low soft tone, inaudible almost to all but the ear of affection. Yet was the mind within her busy with all the restless activity of feverish reverie. She had strange day-dreams; and life and the distant world often flashed upon her in far more than the brightness of reality. Often, too, all faded away; and though her eyes were still open, darkness fell around her, and she dwelt among the mysteries and immaterial shapes of some shadowy realm. It would be fearful to know all that passed in the depth of that lonely girl's spirit. It was an autumn evening-sunny, but not beautiful,-silent, but not serene. She had walked to the brook that came down the mountains, and which formed a pool and babbling cascade not a stonecast from the door. Perhaps she grew suddenly faint; for her mother, who stood at the window, saw her coming more hastily than usual across the field. She went to meet her; she was within arm's-length, when her daughter gave a faint moan, and, falling forward, twined her cold arms round her mother's neck, and looked up into her face with a look of agony. It was only for a moment; her dark eye became fixed-it grew white with the whiteness of death, and the mother carried her child's body into its desolate home.
If her father wept-it was at night when there was no eye to see. The Hungarian dog howled over the dead body of its young mistress, and the old domestic sat by the unkindled hearth, and wept as for her own firstborn; but the father loaded his gun, as was his wont, and went away among the mountains.
The priests came, and the coffin, and a few of the simple peasants. She was carried forth from her chamber, and her father followed. The procession winded down the valley. The tinkling of the holy bell mingled
sadly with the funeral chant. At last the little train disappeared; for the churchyard was among the hills, some miles distant. The mother was left alone.
fell upon her knees, and lifted up her eyes and her clasped hands to her God, and prayed-fervently prayed, from the depths of her soul-that he might never curse her with another child. The prayer was almost impious; but she was frantic in her deep despair, and we dare not judge her.
A year has passed away, and that lonely house is still❘ in the Bohemian valley, and its friendless inmates haunt it still. Walstein's wife bears him another child, and hope almost beats again in his bosom, as he asks, with somewhat of a father's pride, if he has now a son. the child was a daughter, and his hopes were left unfulfilled. They christened the infant Paulina; and many a long day and dreary night did its mother hang over its cradle, and shed tears of bitterness, as she thought of her who lay unconscious in the churchyard away among the bills. The babe grew, but not in the rosiness of health. Yet it seldom suffered from acute pain; and when it wept, it was with a kind of suppressed grief, that seemed almost unnatural to one so young. It was long ere it could walk; when at last it did, it was without any previous effort.
Time passed on without change and without incident. Paulina was ten years old. Often had Philippa, with maternal fondness, pointed out to her husband the resemblance which she alleged existed between their surviving child and her whom they had laid in the grave. stein, as he listened to his wife, fixed his dark penetrating eye upon his daughter, and spoke not. The resemblance was, indeed, a striking one,—it was almost supernatural. She was the same tall pale girl, with black, deep, sunk eyes, and long dark ebon hair. Her arms and hands were precisely of the same mould, and they had the same thrilling coldness in their touch. Her manners, too, her disposition, the sound of her voice, her motions, her habits, and, above all, her expression of countenance-that characteristic and indescribable expression-were the very same. Her mother loved to dwell upon this resemblance; but her father, though he gazed and gazed upon her, yet ever and anon started, and walked with hasty strides across the room, and some times, even at night, rushed out into the darkness, as one oppressed with wild and fearful fancies.
They had few of the comforts, and none of the luxuries of life, in that Bohemian valley. Philippa had carefully laid aside all the clothes that belonged to her dead daughter; and now that the last child of her age was growing up, and was so like her that was gone, she loved to dress her sometimes in her sister's dress; and the pale child wore the clothes, and talked of the lost Paulina, almost as if she had known her.
One night her mother plied her needle beside her lamp, and at a little distance her daughter, in a simple white dress, which had once been another's, sat musing over the red embers of a dying fire. A thunder storm was gathering, and the rain was already falling heavily. Walstein entered; his eye rested on his daughter, and he almost shrieked; but he recovered himself, and with a quivering lip sat down in a distant corner of the room. His Hungarian dog was with him; it seemed to have caught the direction of his master's eye, and as its own rested keenly on Paulina, the animal uttered a low growl. It was strange that the dog never seemed to love the child. It is probable that she was hardly aware of her father's entrance, for she appeared absorbed in her own thoughts. As the blue and flickering flame fell upon her face, she smiled faintly.
"O God! it is! it is!" cried Walstein, and fell senseless on the floor.
His wife and daughter hurried to his assistance, and he recovered; but he pointed to Paulina, and said falteringly, “Philippa!-send her to bed." With a quiet
step, his daughter moved across the room; at the door, she was about to kiss her mother, but Walstein thundered out, " Forbear!" and rising, closed the door with trembling violence. Philippa had often seen her husband in his wilder moods, but seldom thus strangely agitated; yet, had she known the conviction that had arisen in his mind, she would have ceased to wonder.
He had watched long and narrowly, and now he was unable to conceal longer from himself the fearful truth. It was not in her wan beauty alone that she resembled her sister-it was not merely in the external developement of her form;-he knew, he felt, that the second Paulina, born after her sister's death, was the same Paulina as she whom he had laid in the grave. There was horror in the idea, yet could it not be resisted. But even now he breathed it not to his wife, and silently they passed to their chamber. The secret of his soul, however, which he would never have told her by day and awake, the wretched Philippa gathered from him in his unconscious mutterings in the dead watches of the night. When the thought came upon her, it fell upon her heart like a weight of lead. Her maternal affection struggled with it, and with the thousand proofs that came crowding of themselves into her memory, to strengthen and to rivet it, and the struggle almost overturned her reason.
The Paulina, in whom her heart was wrapped up twelve years ago, had frequently dreams of a mysterious meaning, which she used to repeat to her mother when no one else was by. A few days after the occurrences of the evening to which we have alluded, the living child, who had come in the place of the dead, told Philippa she had dreamt a dream. She recited it, and Philippa shuddered to hear an exact repetition of one she well remembered listening to long ago, and which she had ever since locked up in her own bosom. Even in sleep, it seemed that, by some awful mystery, Paulina was living over again. Time still passed on, and the pale child shot up into a girl. She was thirteen; though a stranger would have thought her some years older. It was manifest that she, too, was dying. (There was a dismal doubt haunted her father's mind whether she had ever lived.) She never spoke of her deceased sister; indeed, she seldom spoke at all; but when they asked if she were well, she shook her head, and stretched an arm towards the churchyard.
To that churchyard her father went one moonlight night. It was a wild fancy, yet he resolved to open his daughter's grave, and look once more upon her mouldering remains. He had a reason for his curiosity, which he scarcely dared own even to himself. He told the sexton of his purpose; and, though the old man guessed not his object, he took his spade and his pickaxe, and speedily commenced his task. It was an uncertain night. The wind came in gusts, and sometimes died away into strange silence. The dim moonlight fell upon the white tomb-stones, and the shadows of the passing clouds glided over them like spirits. The sexton pursued his work, and had already dug deep. Walstein stood by his
"I have not come to the coffin yet," said the old man, in a tone bordering upon wonder; "yet I could tell the very spot blindfold in which I put it with these bands thirteen years ago."
"Dig on, for the love of Heaven!" said Walstein, and his heart began to beat audibly. There was a short pause.
"My digging is of no use," said the sexton. past the place where I laid the coffin; and may the Holy Virgin protect me, for there is not a vestige either of it or the body left."
Walstein groaned convulsively, and leapt into the grave, but in vain; the sexton had reported truly. He had just stept up again into the moonlight, when a cold hand was laid upon his shoulder. He started, and turning round, saw that his daughter stood beside him.