Then love has much superstition in its composition; often Cunnington thought he was justly punished for having been untrue to Alice Lemington, untrue to himself, faithless to the vow which he had made to earn fame, and be crowned with the reward of her hand.

Poor Cunnington! he felt how true it is

""Tis the cause makes all,

Degrades or hallows courage in its fall;"

he felt that love, which sometimes stirs on the warrior to the noblest deeds-sometimes influences the politician's career—can sometimes degrade and weaken man's intellects, until he becomes a slave-led captive at Love's will.

Some evil spirit, querulous with love, seemed to rule Cunnington's destiny; it led him on until the world before him seemed most temptingly fair, and then it plunged

him into a sepulchre of despair, hewn out so as to fit exactly the victim for whom it seemed to be in readiness. But Cunnington, like many young men besides, forgot that if he took wild leaps he could not always expect to alight safely at the desired point. The chamois will sometimes mislead the bold mountain hunter, and he who fondly hoped to descend to the tomb gray-haired and furrowed-he who set off gaily in the mountain path, his voice all mellow, his eye all bright, may, ere the sun has sunken to rest, have disappeared also, a victim to his vaunted courage or nimbleness.

Sea-sick, fretful, dull as he was, Cunnington had at times moments of reasonable reflection, and after indulging in them, it is only justice to him to say, that he strenuously endeavoured to banish the image of Anna di Lucia. But the Italian beauty

was not merely a pretty girl, she was one of those poetically, gracefully fascinating women, who defy, as it were, the power of forgetfulness; in many histories we read of such women-they are not seen in everyday life-but Cunnington had met with grace, talent, wit, beauty, and youth, all united, and he found he could not forget.

In many a midnight dream that commanding form, that majestic expression, that lofty brow, upon which genius was stamped, appeared to smile bitterly, sadly upon him who could not drive away the beauteous image; and, in waking, Cunnington imagined that the soft, clear, musical voice was speaking in subdued accents of deeply-seated unhappiness. Yes, Anna di Lucia, though too proud to be a coquette, was, unconsciously, a most dangerous companion; too wilful to weigh the strength of her own words, not vain enough to

believe in all the power of her fascinating beauty, the most unimportant subject was magnified by her grace; and as the lowly beauty dropped pearls each time she spoke, so Anna di Lucia stunned the imagination whenever she allowed herself to be conversational.

How often Cunnington drew from his breast that miniature, the shadow of her he loved! Mute semblance of features we

have loved to contemplate-blest art of painting, feeding memory, and fostering nurse of love!

Ah! there is sometimes a more hallowed reminiscence as we contemplate features which the sublime art of painting has immortalized; as we gaze on the portrait of parents, riven from this our world, the beatified spirits above seem to smile so gently upon us, guiding us, as it were, through the trials of this wilderness world,

and the immortalized souls beaming through the expressively canvassed lineaments, are beacons to show us the light of the world

to come.

One very fine afternoon Cunnington stood upon the deck; the waters seemed living streams, so quickly, so buoyantly they circled and parted as the vessel onward ploughed the deep; the sun played fantastically on the bosom of the waves, and gay birds touched the water, laved in the smooth ocean, then flew far, far away.

Presently a form, wrapped in a windingsheet, borne by men, and preceded by the captain, were beside Cunnington; and not "dust to dust!" but dust to the cold sepulchral sea, as with a mighty plunge the corpse was consigned to the deep! Oh, the memory of that plunge-that last plunge, which says, "eternity!"

Quickly Cunnington buried in his bosom