doubts, destroy for ever your happiness with him? and should he not detect it, consider, that by such a confidential communication with Don Miguel, you place yourself in his power, and give him an encouragement still more dangerous than hitherto."

"You object to everything I propose,” replied Donna Maria, angrily; “yet suggest nothing yourself. But the die is cast; I will seek this interview, which shall positively be the last. You look incredulous; but I swear it shall be so, and, for the result, I must leave it to chance."

Donna Lucretzia shook her head disapprovingly, and would have again counselled the wilful Donna Maria against the measure she intended to take; but the proud and spoilt beauty abruptly quitted her presence, and, in a short time after, was on the terrace, where, as she had anticipated, she was quickly joined by Don Miguel.

It happened that the orange-grove, where Don Guzman lay reclined, brooding over his cause for anger, adjoined a pleasure-ground, with which the terrace communicated by flights of steps; near the bottom of the last of which, a fountain cast up its crystal showers towards the azure sky, cooling the sultry air. This spot had been a favourite one with Donna Maria; and often, during the last month, had she frequented it with Don Miguel. To it she now proceeded, accompanied by him, and eagerly watched by her husband, who could plainly see her, and her companion, and who jealously noted the impassioned gestures of Don Miguel. While they still conversed, Don Guzman's son, perceiving them, broke from his attendant, and followed by his favourite dog, the gift of Don Miguel, joined his step-mother, who, fearful of the child's repeating what might be said, bade farewell to her admirer, and ascended to the terrace, leaving Don Miguel behind.

Don Guzman marked, with jealous rage, his bride turn to

bestow a parting glance on Don Miguel, while he, lifting his hat from his brow, stood gazing on her, as if he could not tear himself from the spot. Phrenzied by the sight, the enraged husband only waited until every one, save Don Miguel, had left the pleasure-ground; when, rushing from his place of concealment, he drew his sword, and defied his supposed rival to instant combat. When Don Miguel would have spoken, he reproached him with want of courage; nay, threw his glove in his face, which so enraged the other, that he, too, drew his rapier. They fought desperately, each animated by a burning hatred, until both fell, bathed in blood, and mortally wounded. When discovered, Don Miguel had ceased to live; and his adversary was dying. He was borne to the castle, when Donna Maria, frantic with horror and grief at the terrible consequences of her levity, threw herself at his feet, and implored the pardon his lips could no longer utter. He breathed his last in a few minutes after, his dying eyes fixed on his child. Donna Maria retired to a convent dedicated to our Lady, on Monte Serrado, so celebrated for the piety of its sisterhood, where she passed the remainder of her days, in penitence and prayer; and died at an advanced age, venerated and beloved by all in the convent.

A WORD IN SEASON.

BY CHARLES DICKENS.

THEY have a superstition in the East,
That ALLAH, written on a piece of paper,
Is better unction than can come of priest
Of rolling incense, and of lighted taper:
Holding, that any scrap which bears that name,
In any characters, its front imprest on,
Shall help the finder through the purging flame,
And give his toasted feet a place to rest on.

Accordingly, they make a mighty fuss,

With ev'ry wretched tract and fierce oration,
And hoard the leaves-for they are not, like us,
A highly civilized and thinking nation :
And, always stooping in the miry ways,

To look for matter of this earthy leaven,
They seldom, in their dust-exploring days,
Have any leisure to look up to Heaven.

So have I known a country on the earth,
Where darkness sat upon the living waters,

And brutal ignorance, and toil, and dearth,

Were the hard portion of its sons and daughters: And yet, where they who should have ope'd the door Of charity and light, for all men's finding,

Squabbled for words upon the altar-floor,

And rent The Book, in struggles for the binding.

The gentlest man among these pious Turks,
God's living image ruthlessly defaces;
Their best high-churchman, with no faith in works,
Bowstrings the Virtues in the market-places:
The Christian Pariah, whom both sects curse,

(They curse all other men, and curse each other,) Walks thro' the world, not very much the worse— Does all the good he can, and loves his brother.

THE SALT-MINES OF HALLEIN.

BY J. NISBET, ESQ.

Он, I had dreamt of this, as of a scene

Where fairy bands might in the summer dwell, Where Nereids might forget, in crystal cell, Their ancient caves beneath the ocean green! Yea, I had deem'd, that when the rays serene

Of torch and taper, on the gemm'd walls fell, "Twould shine like palace rais'd by magic spell, Or by the genii deck'd with diamonds sheen.

What do I find? A lone, sepulchral space, Deep in earth's chambers-voiceless, rayless, dark! And on yon dismal pool a shapeless bark,

Where a new Charon seems his way to trace. Thus is it ever! Fancy loves to limn

In sunshine, where Truth finds but twilight dim.