Thus Edward found himself alone in the large, mysterious-looking,

haunted room, where his deceased friend had so often reposed--where he

also was expected to see a vision. The awe which the place itself

inspired, combined with the sad and yet tender recollection of the

departed Ferdinand, produced a state of mental excitement which was not

favorable to his night's rest. He had already undressed with the aid of

his servant (whom he had then dismissed), and had been in bed some time,

having extinguished the candles. No sleep visited his eyelids; and the

thought recurred which had so often troubled him, why he had never

received the promised token from Ferdinand, whether his friend's spirit

were among the blest--whether his silence (so to speak) proceeded from

unwillingness or incapacity to communicate with the living. A mingled

train of reflections agitated his mind: his brain grew heated; his

pulse beat faster and faster. The castle clock tolled eleven--half past

eleven. He counted the strokes; and at that moment the moon rose above

the dark margin of the rocks which surrounded the castle, and shed her

full light into Edward's room. Every object stood out in relief from the

darkness. Edward gazed, and thought, and speculated. It seemed to him as

if something moved in the furthest corner of the room. The movement was

evident--it assumed a form--the form of a man, which appeared to

advance, or rather to float forward. Here Edward lost all sense of

surrounding objects, and he found himself once more sitting at the foot

of the monument, in the garden of the academy, where he had contracted

the bond with his friend. As formerly, the moon streamed through the

dark branches of the fir-trees, and shed its cold, pale light on the

cold, white marble of the monument. Then the floating form which had

appeared in the room of the castle became clearer, more substantial,

more earthly-looking; it issued from behind the tombstone, and stood in

the full moonlight. It was Ferdinand, in the uniform of his regiment,

earnest and pale, but with a kind smile on his features.

"Ferdinand, Ferdinand!" cried Edward, overcome by joy and surprise, and

he strove to embrace the well-loved form, but it waved him aside with a

melancholy look.

"Ah! you are dead," continued the speaker; "and why then do I see you

just as you looked when living?"

"Edward," answered the apparition, in a voice that sounded as if it came

from afar, "I am dead, but my spirit has no peace."

"You are not with the blest?" cried Edward, in a voice of terror.

"God is merciful," it replied; "but we are frail and sinful creatures;

inquire no more, but pray for me."

"With all my heart," cried Edward, in a tone of anguish, while he gazed

with affection on the familiar features; "but speak, what can I do for

thee?"

"An unholy tie still binds me to earth. I have sinned. I was cut off in

the midst of my sinful projects. This ring burns." He slipped a small

gold ring from his left hand. "Only when every token of this unholy

compact is destroyed, and when I recover the ring which I exchanged for

this, only then can my spirit be at rest. Oh, Edward, dear Edward, bring

me back my ring!"

"With joy--but where, where am I to seek it?"

"Emily Varnier will give it thee herself; our engagement was contrary to

holy duties, to prior engagements, to earlier vows. God denied his

blessing to the guilty project, and my course was arrested in a fearful

manner. Pray for me, Edward, and bring back the ring, my ring,"

continued the voice, in a mournful tone of appeal.

Then the features of the deceased smiled sadly but tenderly; then all

appeared to float once more before Edward's eyes--the form was lost in

mist, the monument, the fir grove, the moonlight, disappeared: a long,

gloomy, breathless pause followed. Edward lay, half sleeping, half

benumbed, in a confused manner; portions of the dream returned to

him--some images, some sounds--above all, the petition for the

restitution of the ring. But an indescribable power bound his limbs,

closed his eyelids, and silenced his voice; mental consciousness alone

was left him, yet his mind was a prey to terror.

At length these painful sensations subsided--his nerves became more

braced, his breath came more freely, a pleasing languor crept over his

limbs, and he fell into a peaceful sleep. When he awoke it was already

broad daylight; his sleep toward the end of the night had been quiet and

refreshing. He felt strong and well, but as soon as the recollection of

his dream returned, a deep melancholy took possession of him, and he

felt the traces of tears which grief had wrung from him on his

eyelashes. But what had the vision been? A mere dream engendered by the

conversation of the evening, and his affection for Hallberg's memory, or

was it at length the fulfillment of the compact?

There, out of that dark corner, had the form risen up, and moved toward

him. But might it not have been some effect of light and shade produced

by the moonbeams, and the dark branches of a large tree close to the

window, when agitated by the high wind? Perhaps he had seen this, and

then fallen asleep, and all combined had woven itself into a dream. But

the name of Emily Varnier! Edward did not remember ever to have heard

it; certainly it had never been mentioned in Ferdinand's letters. Could

it be the name of his love, of the object of that ardent and unfortunate

passion? Could the vision be one of truth? He was meditating, lost in

thought, when there was a knock at his door, and the servant entered.

Edward rose hastily, and sprang out of bed. As he did so, he heard

something fall with a ringing sound; the servant stooped and picked up a

gold ring, plain gold, like a wedding-ring. Edward shuddered; he

snatched it from the servant's hand, and the color forsook his cheeks as

he read the two words "Emily Varnier" engraved inside the hoop. He stood

there like one thunderstruck, as pale as a corpse, with the proof in his

hand that he had not merely dreamed, but had actually spoken with the

spirit of his friend. A servant of the household came in to ask whether

the lieutenant wished to breakfast in his room, or down stairs with the

family. Edward would willingly have remained alone with the thoughts

that pressed heavily on him, but a secret dread lest his absence should

be remarked, and considered as a proof of fear, after all that had

passed on the subject of the haunted room, determined him to accept the

last proposal. He dressed hastily, and arranged his hair carefully, but

the paleness of his face and the traces of tears in his eyes, were not

to be concealed, and he entered the saloon, where the family were

already assembled at the breakfast-table, with the chaplain and the

doctor.

The baron rose to greet him; one glance at the young officer's face was

sufficient; he pressed his hand in silence, and led him to a place by

the side of the baroness. An animated discussion now began concerning

the weather, which was completely changed; a strong south wind had risen

in the night, so there was now a thaw. The snow was all melted--the

torrents were flowing once more, and the roads impassable.

"How can you possibly reach Blumenberg, to-day?" the baron inquired of

his guest.

"That will be well nigh impossible," said the doctor. "I am just come

from a patient at the next village, and I was nearly an hour performing

the same distance in a carriage that is usually traversed on foot in a

quarter of an hour."

Edward had not given a thought this morning to the shooting-match. Now

that it had occurred to him to remember it, he felt little regret at

being detained from a scene of noisy festivity which, far from being

desirable, appeared to him actually distasteful in his present frame of

mind. Yet he was troubled, by the thought of intruding too long on the

hospitality of his new friends; and he said, in a hesitating manner,

"Yes! but I must try how far---"

"That you shall not do," interrupted the baron. "The road is always bad,

and in a thaw it is really dangerous. It would go against my conscience

to allow you to risk it. Remain with us; we have no shooting-match or

ball to offer you, but--"

"I shall not certainly regret either," cried Edward, eagerly.

"Well, then, remain with us, lieutenant," said the matron, lying her

hand on his arm, with a kind, maternal gesture. "You are heartily

welcome; and the longer you stay with us, the better shall we be

pleased."

The youth bowed, and raised the lady's hand to his lips, and said,

"If you will allow me--if you feel certain that I am not intruding--I

will accept, your kind offer with joy. I never care much for a ball, at

any time, and to-day in particular--" he stopped short, and then added,

"In such bad weather as this, the small amusement--"

"Would be dearly bought," interposed the baron. "Come, I am delighted

you will remain with us."

He shook Edward warmly by the hand.

"You know you are with old friends."

"And, besides," said the doctor, with disinterested solicitude, "it

would be imprudent, for M. de Wensleben does not look very well. Had you

a good night, sir?"

"Very good," replied Edward.

"Without much dreaming?" continued the other, pertinaciously

"Dreaming! oh, nothing wonderful," answered the officer.

"Hem!" said the doctor, shaking his head, portentously. "No one yet--"

"Were I to relate my dream," replied Edward, "you would understand it no

more than I did. Confused images--"

The baroness, who saw the youth's unwillingness to enlarge upon the

subject, here observed,

"That some of the visions had been of no great importance--those which

she had heard related, at least."

The chaplain led the conversation from dreams themselves, to their

origin, on which subject he and the doctor could not agree; and Edward

and his visions were left in peace at last. But when every one had

departed, each to his daily occupation, Edward followed the baron into

his library.

"I answered in that manner," he said, "to get rid of the doctor and his

questioning. To you I will confess the truth. Your room has exercised

its mysterious influence over me."

"Indeed!" said the baron, eagerly.

"I have seen and spoken with my Ferdinand, for the first time since his

death. I will trust to your kindness--your sympathy--not to require of

me a description of this exciting vision. But I have a question to put

to you."

"Which I will answer in all candor, if it be possible."

"Do you know the name of Emily Varnier?"

"Varnier!--certainly not."

"Is there no one in this neighborhood who bears that name?"

"No one; it sounds like a foreign name."

"In the bed in which I slept I found this ring," said Edward, while he

produced it; and the apparition of my friend pronounced that name.

"Wonderful! As I tell you, I know no one so called--this is the first

time I ever heard the name. But it is entirely unaccountable to me, how

the ring should have come into that bed. You see, M. von Wensleben, what

I told you is true. There is something very peculiar about that room;

the moment you entered, I saw that the spell had been working on you

also, but I did not wish to forestall or force your confidence."

"I felt the delicacy, as I do now the kindness, of your intentions.

Those who are as sad as I am can alone tell the value of tenderness and

sympathy."

Edward remained this day and the following at the castle, and felt quite

at home with its worthy inmates. He slept twice in the haunted room. He

went away, and came back often; was always welcomed cordially, and

always quartered in the same apartment. But, in spite of all this, he

had no clew, he had no means of lifting the vail of mystery which hung

round the fate of Ferdinand Hallberg and of Emily Varnier.

PART II.--CONCLUSION.

Several weeks passed away. Edward spared no pains to discover some trace

of the lady in question, but all in vain. No one in the neighborhood

knew the family; and he had already determined, as soon as the spring

began, to ask for leave of absence, and to travel through the country

where Ferdinand had formed his unfortunate attachment, when a

circumstance occurred which coincided strangely with his wishes. His

commanding officer gave him a commission to purchase some horses, which,

to his great consolation, led him exactly into that part of the country

where Ferdinand had been quartered. It was a market-town of some

importance. He was to remain there some time, which suited his plans

exactly; and he made use of every leisure hour to cultivate the

acquaintance of the officers, to inquire into Ferdinand's connections

and acquaintance, to trace the mysterious name if possible, and thus

fulfill a sacred duty. For to him it appeared a sacred duty to execute

the commission of his departed friend--to get possession of the ring,

and to be the means, as he hoped, of giving rest to the troubled spirit

of Ferdinand.

Already, on the evening of the second day, he was sitting in the

coffee-room with burghers of the place and officers of different

regiments. A newly-arrived cornet was inquiring whether the neighborhood

were a pleasant one, of an infantry officer, one of Hallberg's corps.

"For," said he, "I come from charming quarters."

"There is not much to boast of," replied the captain. "There is no good

fellowship, no harmony among the people."

"I will tell you why that is," cried an animated lieutenant; "that is

because there is no house as a point of reunion, where one is sure to

find and make acquaintances, and to be amused, and where each individual

ascertains his own merits by the effect they produce on society at

large."

"Yes, we have had nothing of that kind since the Varniers left us," said

the captain.

"Varniers!" cried Edward, with an eagerness he could ill conceal. "The

name sounds foreign."

"They were not Germans--they were emigrants from the Netherlands, who

had left their country on account of political troubles," replied the

captain.

"Ah, that was a charming house," cried the lieutenant, "cultivation,

refinement, a sufficient competency, the whole style of the

establishment free from ostentation, yet most comfortable; and

Emily--Emily was the soul of the whole house."

"Emily Varnier!" echoed Edward, while his heart beat fast and loud.

"Yes, yes! that was the name of the prettiest, most graceful, most

amiable girl in the world," said the lieutenant.

"You seem bewitched by the fair Emily," observed the cornet.

"I think you would have been too, had you known her;" rejoined the

lieutenant; "she was the jewel of the whole society. Since she went away

there is no bearing their stupid balls and assemblies."

"But you must not forget," the captain resumed once more, "when you

attribute every thing to the charms of the fair girl, that not only she

but the whole family has disappeared, and we have lost that house which

formed, as you say, so charming a point of reunion in our neighborhood."

"Yes, yes; exactly so," said an old gentleman, a civilian, who had been

silent hitherto; "the Varniers' house is a great loss in the country,

where such losses are not so easily replaced as in a large town. First,

the father died, then came the cousin and carried the daughter away."

"And did this cousin marry the young lady?" inquired Edward, in a tone

tremulous with agitation.

"Certainly," answered the old gentleman; "it was a very great match for

her; he bought land to the value of half a million about here."

"And he was an agreeable, handsome man, we must all allow," remarked the

captain.

"But she would never have married him," exclaimed the lieutenant, "if

poor Hallberg had not died."

Edward was breathless, but he did not speak a word.

"She would have been compelled to do so in any case," said the old man;

"the father had destined them for each other from infancy, and people

say he made his daughter take a vow as he lay on his death-bed."

"That sounds terrible," said Edward; "and does not speak much for the

good feeling of the cousin."

"She could not have fulfilled her father's wish," interposed the

lieutenant; "her heart was bound up in Hallberg, and Hallberg's in her.

Few people, perhaps, knew this, for the lovers were prudent and

discreet; I, however, knew it all."

"And why was she not allowed to follow the inclination of her heart?"

asked Edward.

"Because her father had promised her," replied the captain: "you used

just now the word terrible; it is a fitting expression, according to my

version of the matter. It appears that one of the branches of the house

of Varnier had committed an act of injustice toward another, and Emily's

father considered it a point of conscience to make reparation. Only

through the marriage of his daughter with a member of the ill-used

branch could that act be obliterated and made up for, and, therefore, he

pressed the matter sorely."

"Yes, and the headlong passion which Emily inspired her cousin with

abetted his designs."

"Then her cousin loved Emily?" inquired Edward.

"Oh, to desperation," was the reply; "He was a rival to her shadow, who

followed her not more closely than he did. He was jealous of the rose

that she placed on her bosom."

"Then poor Emily is not likely to have a calm life with such a man,"

said Edward.

"Come," interposed the old gentleman, with an authoritative tone, "I

think you, gentlemen, go a little too far. I know D'Effernay; he is an

honest, talented man, very rich, indeed, and generous; he anticipates

his wife in every wish. She has the most brilliant house in the

neighborhood, and lives like a princess."

"And trembles," insisted the lieutenant, "when she hears her husband's

footstep. What good can riches be to her? She would have been happier

with Hallberg."

"I do not know," rejoined the captain, "why you always looked upon that

attachment as something so decided. It never appeared so to me; and you

yourself say that D'Effernay is very jealous, which I believe him to be,

for he is a man of strong passions; and this very circumstance causes me

to doubt the rest of your story. Jealousy has sharp eyes, and D'Effernay

would have discovered a rival in Hallberg, and not proved himself the

friend he always was to our poor comrade."

"That does not follow at all," rejoined the lieutenant, "it only proves

that the lovers were very cautious. So far, however, I agree with you. I

believe that if D'Effernay had suspected any thing of the kind he would

have murdered Hallberg."

A shudder passed through Edward's veins.

"Murdered!" he repeated in a hollow voice; "do you not judge too harshly

of this man when you hint the possibility of such a thing?"

"That does he, indeed," said the old man; "these gentlemen are all angry

with D'Effernay, because he has carried off the prettiest girl in the

country. But I am told he does not intend remaining where he now lives.

He wishes to sell his estates."

"Really," inquired the captain, "and where is he going?"

"I have no idea," replied the other; "but he is selling every thing off.

One manor is already disposed of, and there have been people already in

negotiation for the place where he resides."

The conversation now turned on the value of D'Effernay's property, and

of land in general, &c.

Edward had gained materials enough for reflection; he rose soon, took

leave of the company, and gave himself up, in the solitude of his own

room, to the torrent of thought and feeling which that night's

conversation had let loose. So, then, it was true; Emily Varnier was no

fabulous being! Hallberg had loved her, his love had been returned, but

a cruel destiny had separated them. How wonderfully did all he had heard

explain the dream at the Castle, and how completely did that supply what

had remained doubtful, or had been omitted in the officer's narrative.

Emily Varnier, doubtless, possessed that ring, to gain possession of

which now seemed his bounden duty. He resolved not to delay its

fulfillment a moment, however difficult it might prove, and he only

reflected on the best manner in which he should perform the task

allotted to him. The sale of the property appeared to him a favorable

opening. The fame of his father's wealth made it probable that the son

might wish to be a purchaser of a fine estate, like the one in question.

He spoke openly of such a project, made inquiries of the old gentleman,

and the captain, who seemed to him to know most about the matter; and as

his duties permitted a trip for a week or so, he started immediately,

and arrived on the second day at the place of his destination. He

stopped in the public house in the village to inquire if the estate lay

near, and whether visitors were allowed to see the house and grounds.

Mine host, who doubtless had had his directions, sent a messenger

immediately to the Castle, who returned before long, accompanied by a

chasseur, in a splendid livery, who invited the stranger to the Castle

in the name of M. D'Effernay.

This was exactly what Edward wished, and expected. Escorted by the

chasseur he soon arrived at the Castle, and was shown up a spacious

staircase into a modern, almost, one might say, a

magnificently-furnished room, where the master of the house received

him. It was evening, toward the end of winter, the shades of twilight

had already fallen, and Edward found himself suddenly in a room quite

illuminated with wax candles. D'Effernay stood in the middle of the

saloon, a tall, thin young man. A proud bearing seemed to bespeak a

consciousness of his own merit, or at least of his position. His

features were finely formed, but the traces of stormy passion, or of

internal discontent, had lined them prematurely.

In figure he was very slender, and the deep sunken eye, the gloomy frown

which was fixed between his brows, and the thin lips, had no very

prepossessing expression, and yet there was something imposing in the

whole appearance of the man.

Edward thanked him civilly for his invitation, spoke of his idea of

being a purchaser as a motive for his visit, and gave his own, and his

father's name. D'Effernay seemed pleased with all he said. He had known

Edward's family in the metropolis; he regretted that the late hour would

render it impossible for them to visit the property to-day, and

concluded by pressing the lieutenant to pass the night at the Castle. On

the morrow they would proceed to business, and now he would have the

pleasure of presenting his wife to the visitor. Edward's heart beat

violently--at length then he would see her! Had he loved her himself he

could not have gone to meet her with more agitation. D'Effernay led his

guest through many rooms, which were all as well furnished, and as

brilliantly lighted, as the first he had entered. At length he opened

the door of a small boudoir, where there was no light, save that which

the faint, gray twilight imparted through the windows.

The simple arrangement of this little room, with dark green walls, only

relieved by some engravings and coats of arms, formed a pleasing

contrast to Edward's eyes, after the glaring splendor of the other

apartments. From behind a piano-forte, at which she had been seated in a

recess, rose a tall, slender female form, in a white dress of extreme

simplicity.

"My love," said D'Effernay, "I bring you a welcome guest, Lieutenant

Wensleben, who is willing to purchase the estate."

Emily courtesied; the friendly twilight concealed the shudder that

passed over her whole frame, as she heard the familiar name which

aroused so many recollections.

She bade the stranger welcome, in a low, sweet voice, whose tremulous

accents were not unobserved by Edward; and while the husband made some

further observation, he had leisure to remark, as well as the fading

light would allow, the fair outline of her oval face, the modest grace

of her movements, her pretty nymph-like figure--in fact, all those

charms which seemed familiar to him through the impassioned descriptions

of his friend.

"But what can this fancy be, to sit in the dark?" asked D'Effernay, in

no mild tone; "you know that is a thing I can not bear:" and with these

words, and without waiting his wife's answer, he rang the bell over her

sofa, and ordered lights.

While these were placed on the table, the company sat down by the fire,

and conversation commenced. By the full light Edward could perceive all

Emily's real beauty--her pale, but lovely face, the sad expression of

her large blue eyes, so often concealed by their dark lashes, and then

raised, with a look full of feeling, a sad, pensive, intellectual

expression; and he admired the simplicity of her dress, and of every

object that surrounded her: all appeared to him to bespeak a superior

mind.

They had not sat long, before D'Effernay was called away. One of his

people had something important, something urgent to communicate to him,

which admitted of no delay. A look of fierce anger almost distorted his

features; in an instant his thin lips moved rapidly, and Edward thought

he muttered some curses between his teeth. He left the room, but in so

doing, he cast a glance of mistrust and ill-temper on the handsome

stranger with whom he was compelled to leave his wife alone. Edward

observed it all. All that he had seen to-day--all that he had heard from

his comrades of the man's passionate and suspicious disposition,

convinced him that his stay here would not be long, and that, perhaps, a

second opportunity of speaking alone with Emily might not offer itself.

He determined, therefore, to profit by the present moment: and no sooner

had D'Effernay left the room, than he began to tell Emily she was not so

complete a stranger to him as it might seem; that long before he had had

the pleasure of seeing her--even before he had heard her name--she was

known to him, so to speak, in spirit.

Madame D'Effernay was moved. She was silent for a time, and gazed

fixedly on the ground; then she looked up; the mist of unshed tears

dimmed her blue eyes, and her bosom heaved with the sigh she could not

suppress.

"To me also the name of Wensleben is familiar. There is a link between

our souls. Your friend has often spoken of you to me."

But she could say no more; tears checked her speech.

Edward's eyes were glistening also, and the two companions were silent;

at length he began once more:

"My dear lady," he said, "my time is short, and I have a solemn message

to deliver to you. Will you allow me to do so now?"

"To me?" she asked, in a tone of astonishment.

"From my departed friend," answered Edward, emphatically.

"From Ferdinand? and that now--after--" she shrunk back, as if in

terror.

"Now that he is no longer with us, do you mean? I found the message in

his papers, which have been intrusted to me only lately, since I have

been in the neighborhood. Among them was a token which I was to restore

to you." He produced the ring. Emily seized it wildly, and trembled as

she looked upon it.

"It is indeed my ring," she said at length, "the same which I gave him

when we plighted our troth in secret. You are acquainted with every

thing, I perceive; I shall therefore risk nothing if I speak openly."

She wept, and pressed the ring to her lips.

"I see that my friend's memory is dear to you," continued Edward. "You

will forgive the prayer I am about to make to you; my visit to you

concerns his ring."

"How--what is it you wish?" cried Emily, terrified.

"It was _his_ wish," replied Edward. "He evinced an earnest desire to

have this pledge of an unfortunate and unfulfilled engagement restored."

"How is that possible? You did not speak with him before his death; and

this happened so suddenly after, that, to give you the commission--"

"There was no time for it! that is true," answered Edward, with an

inward, shudder, although outwardly he was calm. "Perhaps this wish was

awakened immediately before his death. I found it, as I told you,

expressed in those papers."

"Incomprehensible!" she exclaimed. "Only a short time before his death,

we cherished--deceitful, indeed, they proved, but, oh, what blessed

hopes!--we reckoned on casualties, on what might possibly occur to

assist us. Neither of us could endure to dwell on the idea of

separation; and yet--yet since--Oh, my God!" she cried, overcome by

sorrow, and she hid her face between her hands. Edward was lost in

confused thought. For a time both again were silent; at length Emily

started up--

"Forgive me, M. de Wensleben. What you have related to me, what you have

asked of me, has produced so much excitement, so much agitation, that it

is necessary that I should be alone for a few moments, to recover my

composure."

"I am gone," cried Edward, springing from his chair.

"No! no!" she replied, "you are my guest; remain here. I have a

household duty which calls me away." She laid a stress on these words.

She leant forward, and with a sad, sweet smile, she gave her hand to the

friend of her lost Ferdinand, pressing his gently, and disappeared

through the inner door.

Edward stood stunned, bewildered; then he paced the room with hasty

steps, threw himself on the sofa, and took up one of the books that lay

on the table, rather to have something in his hand, than to read. It

proved to be Young's "Night Thoughts." He looked through it, and was

attracted by many passages, which seemed, in his present frame of mind,

fraught with peculiar meaning; yet his thoughts wandered constantly from

the page to his dead friend. The candles, unheeded both by Emily and

him, burned on with long wicks, giving little light in the silent room,

over which the red glare from the hearth shed a lurid glow. Hurried

footsteps sounded in the ante-room; the door was thrown open. Edward

looked up, and saw D'Effernay staring at him, and round the room, in an

angry, restless manner.

Edward could not but think there was something almost unearthly in those

dark looks and that towering form.

"Where is my wife?" was D'Effernay's first question.

"She is gone to fulfill some household duty," replied the other.

"And leaves you here alone in this miserable darkness? Most

extraordinary!--indeed, most unaccountable!" and, as he spoke, he

approached the table and snuffed the candles, with a movement of

impatience.

"She left me here with old friends," said Edward, with a forced smile.

"I have been reading."

"What, in the dark?" inquired D'Effernay, with a look of distrust. "It

was so dark when I came in, that you could not possibly have

distinguished a letter."

"I read for some time, and then I fell into a train of thought, which is

usually the result of reading Young's "Night Thoughts."

"Young! I can not bear that author. He is so gloomy."

"But you are fortunately so happy, that the lamentations of the lonely

mourner can find no echo in your breast."

"You think so!" said D'Effernay, in a churlish tone, and he pressed his

lips together tightly, as Emily came into the room: he went to meet

her.

"You have been a long time away," was his observation, as he looked into

her eyes, where the trace of tears might easily be detected. "I found

our guest alone."

"M. de Wensleben was good enough to excuse me," she replied, "and then I

thought you would be back immediately."

They sat down to the table; coffee was brought, and the past appeared to

be forgotten.

The conversation at first was broken by constant pauses. Edward saw that

Emily did all she could to play the hostess agreeably, and to pacify her

husband's ill humor.

In this attempt the young man assisted her, and at last they were

successful. D'Effernay became more cheerful; the conversation more

animated; and Edward found that his host could be a very agreeable

member of society when he pleased, combining a good deal of information

with great natural powers. The evening passed away more pleasantly than

it promised at one time; and after an excellent and well-served supper,

the young officer was shown into a comfortable room, fitted up with

every modern luxury; and weary in mind and body, he soon fell asleep. He

dreamed of all that had occupied his waking thoughts--of his friend, and

his friend's history.

But in that species of confusion which often characterizes dreams, he

fancied that he was Ferdinand, or at least, his own individuality seemed

mixed up with that of Hallberg. He felt that he was ill. He lay in an

unknown room, and by his bedside stood a small table, covered with

glasses and phials, containing medicine, as is usual in a sick room.

The door opened, and D'Effernay came in, in his dressing-gown, as if he

had just left his bed: and now in Edward's mind dreams and realities

were mingled together, and he thought that D'Effernay came, perhaps, to

speak with him on the occurrences of the preceding day. But no! he

approached the table on which the medicines stood, looked at the watch,

took up one of the phials and a cup, measured the draught, drop by drop,

then he turned and looked round him stealthily, and then he drew from

his breast a pale blue, coiling serpent, which he threw into the cup,

and held it to the patient's lips, who drank, and instantly felt, a

numbness creep over his frame which ended in death. Edward fancied that

he was dead; he saw the coffin brought, but the terror lest he should be

buried alive, made him start up with a sudden effort, and he opened his

eyes.

The dream had passed away; he sat in his bed safe and well; but it was

long ere he could in any degree recover his composure, or get rid of the

impression which the frightful apparition had made on him. They brought

his breakfast, with a message from the master of the house to inquire

whether he would like to visit the park, farms, &c. He dressed quickly,

and descended to the court, where he found his host in a riding-dress,

by the side of two fine horses, already saddled. D'Effernay greeted the

young man courteously; but Edward felt an inward repugnance as he looked

on that gloomy though handsome countenance, now lighted up by the beams

of the morning sun, yet recalling vividly the dark visions of the night.

D'Effernay was full of attentions to his new friend. They started on

their ride, in spite of some threatening clouds, and began the

inspection of meadows, shrubberies, farms, &c., &c. After a couple of

hours, which were consumed in this manner, it began to rain a few drops,

and at last burst out into a heavy shower. It was soon impossible even

to ride through the woods for the torrents that were pouring down, and

so they returned to the castle.

Edward retired to his room to change his dress, and to write some

letters, he said, but more particularly to avoid Emily, in order not to

excite her husband's jealousy. As the bell rang for dinner he saw her

again, and found to his surprise that the captain, whom he had first

seen in the coffee-room, and who had given him so much information, was

one of the party. He was much pleased, for they had taken a mutual fancy

to each other. The captain was not at quarters the day Edward had left

them, but as soon as he heard where his friend had gone, he put horses

to his carriage and followed him, for he said he also should like to see

these famous estates. D'Effernay seemed in high good humor to-day, Emily

far more silent than yesterday, and taking little part in the

conversation of the men, which turned on political economy. After coffee

she found an opportunity to give Edward (unobserved) a little packet.

The look with which she did so, told plainly what it contained, and the

young man hurried to his room as soon as he fancied he could do so

without remark or comment. The continued rain precluded all idea of

leaving the house any more that day. He unfolded the packet; there were

a couple of sheets, written closely in a woman's fair hand, and

something wrapped carefully in a paper, which he knew to be the ring. It

was the fellow to that which he had given the day before to Emily, only

Ferdinand's name was engraved inside instead of hers. Such were the

contents of the papers:

"Secrecy would be misplaced with the friend of the dead. Therefore will

I speak to you of things which I have never uttered to a human being

until now. Jules D'Effernay is nearly related to me. We knew each other

in the Netherlands, where our estates joined. The boy loved me already

with a love that amounted to passion; this love was my father's greatest

joy, for there was an old and crying injustice which the ancestors of

D'Effernay had suffered from ours, that could alone, he thought, be made

up by the marriage of the only children of the two branches. So we were

destined for each other almost from our cradles; and I was content it

should be so, for Jules's handsome face and decided preference for me

were agreeable to me, although I felt no great affection for him. We

were separated: Jules traveled in France, England, and America, and made

money as a merchant, which profession he had taken up suddenly. My

father, who had a place under government, left his country in

consequence of political troubles, and came into this part of the world,

where some distant relations of my mother's lived. He liked the

neighborhood; he bought land; we lived very happily; I was quite

contented in Jules's absence; I had no yearning of the heart toward him,

yet I thought kindly of him, and troubled myself little about my future.

Then--then I learned to know your friend. Oh, then! I felt, when I

looked upon him, when I listened to him, when we conversed together, I

felt, I acknowledged, that there might be happiness on earth of which I

had hitherto never dreamed. Then I loved for the first time, ardently,

passionately, and was beloved in return. Acquainted with the family

engagements; he did not dare openly to proclaim his love, and I knew I

ought not to foster the feeling; but, alas! how seldom does passion

listen to the voice of reason and of duty. Your friend and I met in

secret; in secret we plighted our troth, and exchanged those rings, and

hoped and believed that by showing a bold front to our destiny we should

subdue it to our will. The commencement was sinful, it has met with a

dire retribution. Jules's letters announced his speedy return. He had

sold every thing in his own country, had given up all his mercantile

affairs, through which he had greatly increased an already considerable

fortune, and now he was about to join us, or rather me, without whom he

could not live. This appeared to me like the demand for payment of a

heavy debt. This debt I owed to Jules, who loved me with all his heart,

who was in possession of my father's promised word and mine also. Yet I

could not give up your friend. In a state of distraction I told him all;

we meditated flight. Yes, I was so far guilty, and I make the confession

in hopes that some portion of my errors may be expiated by repentance.

My father, who had long been in a declining state, suddenly grew worse,

and this delayed and hindered the fulfillment of our designs. Jules

arrived. During the five years he had been away he was much changed in

appearance, and that advantageously. I was struck when I first saw him,

but it was also easy to detect in those handsome features and manly

bearing, a spirit of restlessness and violence which had already shown

itself in him as a boy, and which passing years, with their bitter

experience and strong passions, had greatly developed. The hope that we

had cherished of D'Effernay's possible indifference to me, of the change

which time might have wrought in his attachment, now seemed idle and

absurd. His love was indeed impassioned. He embraced me in a manner that

made me shrink from him, and altogether his deportment toward me was a

strange contrast to the gentle, tender, refined affection of our dear

friend. I trembled whenever Jules entered the room, and all that I had

prepared to say to him, all the plans which I had revolved in my mind

respecting him, vanished in an instant before the power of his presence,

and the almost imperative manner in which he claimed my hand. My

father's illness increased; he was now in a very precarious state,

hopeless indeed. Jules rivaled me in filial attentions to him, that I

can never cease to thank him for; but this illness made my situation

more and more critical, and it accelerated the fulfillment of the

contract. I was to renew my promise to him by the death-bed of my

father. Alas, alas! I fell senseless to the ground when this

announcement was made to me. Jules began to suspect. Already my cold,

embarrassed manner toward him since his return had struck him as

strange. He began to suspect, I repeat, and the effect that this

suspicion had on him, it would be impossible to describe to you. Even

now, after so long a time, now that I am accustomed to his ways, and

more reconciled to my fate by the side of a noble, though somewhat

impetuous man, it makes me tremble to think of those paroxysms, which

the idea that I did not love him called forth. They were fearful; he

nearly sank under them. During two days his life was in danger. At last

the storm passed, my father died; Jules watched over me with the

tenderness of a brother, the solicitude of a parent; for that indeed I

shall ever be grateful. His suspicion once awakened, he gazed round with

penetrating looks to discover the cause of my altered feelings. But your

friend never came to our house; we met in an unfrequented spot, and my

father's illness had interrupted these interviews. Altogether I can not

tell if Jules discovered any thing. A fearful circumstance rendered all

our precautions useless, and cut the knot of our secret connection, to

loose which voluntarily I felt I had no power. A wedding-feast, at a

neighboring castle, assembled all the nobility and gentry, and officers

quartered near, together; my deep mourning was an excuse for my absence.

Jules, though he usually was happiest by my side, could not resist the

invitation, and your friend resolved to go, although he was unwell; he

feared to raise suspicion by remaining away, when I was left at home.

With great difficulty he contrived the first day to make one at a

splendid hunt, the second day he could not leave his bed. A physician,

who was in the house, pronounced his complaint to be violent fever, and

Jules, whose room joined that of the sick man, offered him every little

service and kindness which compassion and good feeling prompted; and I

can not but praise him all the more for it, as who can tell, perhaps,

his suspicion might have taken the right direction? On the morning of

the second day--but let me glance quickly at the terrible time, the

memory of which can never pass from my mind--a fit of apoplexy most

unexpectedly, but gently, ended the noblest life, and separated us

forever! Now you know all. I inclose the ring. I can not write more.

Farewell!"

The conclusion of the letter made a deep impression on Edward. His dream

rose up before his remembrance, the slight indisposition, the sudden

death, the fearful nurse-tender, all arranged themselves in order before

his mind, and an awful whole rose out of all these reflections, a

terrible suspicion which he tried to throw off. But he could not do so,

and when he met the captain and D'Effernay in the evening, and the

latter challenged his visitors to a game of billiards, Edward glanced

from time to time at his host in a scrutinizing manner, and could not

but feel that the restless discontent which was visible in his

countenance, and the unsteady glare of his eyes, which shunned the fixed

look of others, only fitted too well into the shape of the dark thoughts

which were crossing his own mind. Late in the evening, after supper,

they played whist in Emily's boudoir. On the morrow, if the weather

permitted, they were to conclude their inspection of the surrounding

property, and the next day they were to visit the iron foundries, which,

although distant from the castle several miles, formed a very important

item in the rent-roll of the estates. The company separated for the

night. Edward fell asleep; and the same dream, with the same

circumstances, recurred, only with the full consciousness that the sick

man was Ferdinand. Edward felt overpowered, a species of horror took

possession of his mind, as he found himself now in regular Communication

with the beings of the invisible world.

The weather favored D'Effernay's projects. The whole day was passed in

the open air. Emily only appeared at meals, and in the evening when they

played at cards. Both she and Edward avoided, as if by mutual consent,

every word, every look that could awaken the slightest suspicion, or

jealous feeling in D'Effernay's mind. She thanked him in her heart for

this forbearance, but her thoughts were in another world; she took

little heed of what passed around her. Her husband was in an excelled

temper; he played the part of host to perfection and when the two

officers were established comfortably by the fire, in the captain's

room, smoking together, they could not but do justice to his courteous

manners.

"He appears to be a man of general information," remarked Edward.

"He has traveled a great deal, and read a great deal, as I told you when

we first met; he is a remarkable man, but one of uncontrolled passions,

and desperately jealous."

"Yet he appears very attentive to his wife."

"Undoubtedly he is wildly in love with her; yet he makes her unhappy,

and himself too."

"He certainly does not appear happy, there is so much restlessness."

"He can never bear to remain in one place for any length of time

together. He is now going to sell the property he only bought last

year. There is an instability about him; every thing palls on him."

"That is the complaint of many who are rich and well to do in the

world."

"Yes; only not in the same degree. I assure you it has often struck me

that man must have a bad conscience."

"What an idea!" rejoined Edward, with a forced laugh, for the captain's

remark struck him forcibly. "He seems a man of honor."

"Oh, one may be a man of honor, as it is called, and yet have something

quite bad enough to reproach yourself with. But I know nothing about it,

and would not breathe such a thing except to you. His wife, too, looks

so pale and so oppressed."

"But, perhaps, that is her natural complexion and expression."

"Oh, no! no! the year before D'Effernay came from Paris, she was as

fresh as a rose. Many people declare that your poor friend loved her.

The affair was wrapped in mystery, and I never believed the report, for

Hallberg was a steady man, and the whole country knew that Emily had

been engaged a long time."

"Hallberg never mentioned the name in his letters," answered Edward,

with less candor than usual.

"I thought not. Besides D'Effernay was very much attached to him, and

mourned his death."

"Indeed!"

"I assure you the morning that Hallberg was found dead in his bed so

unexpectedly, D'Effernay was like one beside himself."

"Very extraordinary. But as we are on the subject, tell me, I pray you,

all the circumstances of my poor Ferdinand's illness, and awfully sudden

death."

"I can tell you all about it, as well as any one, for I was one of the

guests at that melancholy wedding. Your friend, and I, and many others

were invited. Hallberg had some idea of not going; he was unwell, with

violent headache and giddiness. But we persuaded him, and he consented

to go with us. The first day he felt tolerably well. We hunted in the

open field; we were all on horseback, the day hot. Hallberg felt worse.

The second day he had a great deal of fever; he could not stay up. The

physician (for fortunately there was one in the company) ordered rest,

cooling medicine, neither of which seemed to do him good. The rest of

the men dispersed, to amuse themselves in various ways. Only D'Effernay

remained at home; he was never very fond of large societies, and we

voted that he was discontented and out of humor because his betrothed

bride was not with him. His room was next to the sick man's, to whom he

gave all possible care and attention, for poor Hallberg, besides being

ill, was in despair at giving so much trouble in a strange house.

D'Effernay tried to calm him on this point; he nursed him, amused him

with conversation, mixed his medicines, and, in fact, showed more

kindness and tenderness, than any of us would have given him credit

for. Before I went to bed I visited Hallberg, and found him much better,

and more cheerful; the doctor had promised that he should leave his bed

next day. So I left him and retired with the rest of the world, rather

late, and very tired, to rest. The next morning I was awoke by the fatal

tidings. I did not wait to dress, I ran to his room, it was full of

people."

"And how, how was the death first discovered?" inquired Edward, in

breathless eagerness.

"The servant, who came in to attend on him, thought he was asleep, for

he lay in his usual position, his head upon his hand. He went away and

waited for some time; but hours passed, and he thought he ought to wake

his master to give him his medicine. Then the awful discovery was made.

He must have died peacefully, for his countenance was so calm, his limbs

undisturbed. A fit of apoplexy had terminated his life, but in the most

tranquil manner."

"Incomprehensible," said Edward, with a deep sigh. "Did they take no

measures to restore animation?"

"Certainly; all that could be done was done, bleeding, fomentation,

friction; the physician superintended, but there was no hope, it was all

too late. He must have been dead some hours, for he was already cold and

stiff. If there had been a spark of life in him he would have been

saved. It was all over; I had lost my good lieutenant, and the regiment

one of its finest officers."

He was silent, and appeared lost in thought. Edward, for his part, felt

overwhelmed by terrible suspicions and sad memories. After a long pause

he recovered himself: "and where was D'Effernay?" he inquired.

"D'Effernay," answered the captain, rather surprised at the question;

"oh! he was not in the castle when we made the dreadful discovery: he

had gone out for an early walk, and when he came back late, not before

noon, he learned the truth, and was like one out of his senses. It

seemed so awful to him, because he had been so much, the very day

before, with poor Hallberg."

"Ay," answered Edward, whose suspicions were being more and more

confirmed every moment. "And did he see the corpse? did he go into the

chamber of death?"

"No," replied the captain; "he assured us it was out of his power to do

so; he could not bear the sight; and I believe it. People with such

uncontrolled feelings as this D'Effernay, are incapable of performing

those duties which others think it necessary and incumbent on them to

fulfill."

"And where was Hallberg buried?"

"Not far from the Castle where the mournful event took place. To-morrow,

if we go to the iron foundry, we shall be near the spot."

"I am glad of it," cried Edward, eagerly, while a host of projects rose

up in his mind. "But now, captain, I will not trespass any longer on

your kindness. It is late, and we must be up betimes to-morrow. How far

have we to go?"

"Not less than four leagues, certainly. D'Effernay has arranged that we

shall drive there, and see it all at our leisure: then we shall return

in the evening. Good night, Wensleben."

They separated: Edward hurried to his room; his heart overflowed. Sorrow

on the one hand, horror and even hatred on the other, agitated him by

turns. It was long before he could sleep. For the third time the vision

haunted him; but now it was clearer than before; now he saw plainly the

features of him who lay in bed, and of him who stood beside the

bed--they were those of Hallberg and of D'Effernay.

This third apparition, the exact counterpart of the two former (only

more vivid), all that he had gathered from conversations on the subject,

and the contents of Emily's letter, left scarcely the shadow of a doubt

remaining as to how his friend had left the world.

D'Effernay's jealous and passionate nature seemed to allow of the

possibility of such a crime, and it could scarcely be wondered at, if

Edward regarded him with a feeling akin to hatred. Indeed the desire of

visiting Hallberg's grave, in order to place the ring in the coffin,

could alone reconcile Wensleben to the idea of remaining any longer

beneath the roof of a man whom he now considered the murderer of his

friend. His mind was a prey to conflicting doubts: detestation for the

culprit, and grief for the victim, pointed out one line of conduct,

while the difficulty of proving D'Effernay's guilt, and still more, pity

and consideration for Emily, determined him at length to let the matter

rest, and to leave the murderer, if such he really were, to the

retribution which his own conscience and the justice of God would award

him. He would seek his friend's grave, and then he would separate from

D'Effernay, and never see him more. In the midst of these reflections

the servant came to tell him, that the carriage was ready. A shudder

passed over his frame as D'Effernay greeted him; but he commanded

himself, and they started on their expedition.

Edward spoke but little, and that only when it was necessary, and the

conversation was kept up by his two companions; he had made every

inquiry, before he set out, respecting the place of his friend's

interment, the exact situation of the tomb, the name of the village, and

its distance from the main road. On their way home, he requested that

D'Effernay would give orders to the coachman to make a round of a mile

or two, as far as the village of ----, with whose rector he was

particularly desirous to speak. A momentary cloud gathered on

D'Effernay's brow, yet it seemed no more than his usual expression of

vexation at any delay or hinderance; and he was so anxious to propitiate

his rich visitor, who appeared likely to take the estate off his hands,

that he complied with all possible courtesy. The coachman was directed

to turn down a by-road, and a very bad one it was. The captain stood up

in the carriage and pointed out the village to him, at some distance

off; it lay in a deep ravine at the foot of the mountains.

They arrived in the course of time, and inquired for the clergyman's

house, which, as well as the church, was situated on rising ground. The

three companions alighted from the carriage, which they left at the

bottom of the hill, and walked up together in the direction of the

rectory. Edward knocked at the door and was admitted, while the two

others sat on a bench outside. He had promised to return speedily, but

to D'Effernay's restless spirit, one quarter of an hour appeared

interminable.

He turned to the captain and said, in a tone of impatience, "M. de

Wensleben must have a great deal of business with the rector: we have

been here an immense time, and he does not seem inclined to make his

appearance."

"Oh, I dare say he will come soon. The matter can not detain him long."

"What on earth can he have to do here?"

"Perhaps you would call it a mere fancy--the enthusiasm of youth."

"It has a name, I suppose?"

"Certainly, but--"

"Is it sufficiently important, think you, to make us run the risk of

being benighted on such roads as these?"

"Why, it is quite early in the day."

"But we have more than two leagues to go. Why will you not speak? there

can not be any great mystery."

"Well, perhaps not a mystery exactly, but just one of those subjects on

which we are usually reserved with others."

"So! so!" rejoined D'Effernay, with a little sneer. "Some love affair;

some girl or another who pursues him, that he wants to get rid of."

"Nothing of the kind, I can assure you," replied the captain, drily. "It

could scarcely be more innocent. He wishes, in fact, to visit his

friend's grave."

The listener's expression was one of scorn and anger. "It is worth the

trouble, certainly," he exclaimed, with a mocking laugh. "A charming

sentimental pilgrimage, truly; and pray who is this beloved friend, over

whose resting-place he must shed a tear, and plant a forget-me-not? He

told me he had never been in the neighborhood before."

"No more he had; neither did he know where poor Hallberg was buried

until I told him."

"Hallberg!" echoed the other in a tone that startled the captain, and

caused him to turn and look fixedly in the speaker's face. It was deadly

pale, and the captain observed the effort which D'Effernay made to

recover his composure.

"Hallberg!" he repeated again, in a calmer tone, "and was Wensleben a

friend of his?"

"His bosom friend from childhood. They were brought up together at the

academy. Hallberg left it a year earlier than his friend."

"Indeed!" said D'Effernay, scowling as he spoke, and working himself up

into a passion. "And this lieutenant came here on this account, then,

and the purchase of the estates was a mere excuse?"

"I beg your pardon," observed the captain, in a decided tone of voice;

"I have already told you that it was I who informed him of the place

where his friend lies buried."

"That may be, but it was owing to his friendship, to the wish to learn

something further of his fate, that we are indebted for the visit of

this romantic knight-errant."

"That does not appear likely," replied the captain, who thought it

better to avert, if possible, the rising storm of his companion's fury.

"Why should he seek for news of Hallberg here, when he comes from the

place where he was quartered for a long time, and where all his comrades

now are."

"Well, I don't know," cried D'Effernay, whose passion increased every

moment. "Perhaps you have heard what was once gossiped about the

neighborhood, that Hallberg was an admirer of my wife before she

married."

"Oh yes, I have heard that report, but never believed it. Hallberg was a

prudent, steady man, and every one knew that Mademoiselle Varnier's hand

had been promised for some time."

"Yes! yes! but you do not know to what lengths passion and avarice may

lead: for Emily was rich. We must not forget that, when we discuss the

matter; an elopement with the rich heiress would have been a fine thing

for a poor, beggarly lieutenant."

"Shame! shame! M. D'Effernay. How can you slander the character of that

upright young man? If Hallberg were so unhappy as to love Mademoiselle

Varnier--"

"That he did! you may believe me so far. I had reason to know it, and I

did know it."

"We had better change the conversation altogether, as it has taken so

unpleasant a turn. Hallberg is dead; his errors, be they what they may,

lie buried with him. His name stands high with all who knew him. Even

you, M. D'Effernay--you were his friend."

"I his friend? I hated him; I loathed him!" D'Effernay could not

proceed; he foamed at the mouth with rage.

"Compose yourself!" said the captain, rising as he spoke, "you look and

speak like a madman."

"A madman! Who says I am mad? Now I see it all--- the connection of the

whole--the shameful conspiracy."

"Your conduct is perfectly incomprehensible to me," answered the

captain, with perfect coolness. "Did you not attend Hallberg in his last

illness, and give him his medicines with your own hand?"

"I!" stammered D'Effernay. "No! no! no!" he cried, while the captain's

growing suspicions increased every moment, on account of the

perturbation which his companion displayed. "I never gave his

medicines; whoever says that is a liar."

"I say it!" exclaimed the officer, in a loud tone, for his patience was

exhausted. "I say it, because I know that it was so, and I will maintain

that fact against any one at any time. If you choose to contradict the

evidence of my senses, it is you who are a liar!"

"Ha! you shall give me satisfaction for this insult. Depend upon it, I

am not one to be trifled with, as you shall find. You shall retract your

words."

"Never! I am ready to defend every word I have uttered here on this

spot, at this moment, if you please. You have your pistols in the

carriage, you know."

D'Effernay cast a look of hatred on the speaker, and then dashing down

the little hill, to the surprise of the servants, he dragged the pistols

from the sword-case, and was by the captain's side in a moment. But the

loud voices of the disputants had attracted Edward to the spot, and

there he stood on D'Effernay's return; and by his side a venerable old

man, who carried a large bunch of keys in his hand.

"In heaven's name, what has happened?" cried Wensleben.

"What are you about to do?" interposed the rector, in a tone of

authority, though his countenance was expressive of horror. "Are you

going to commit murder on this sacred spot, close to the precincts of

the church?"

"Murder! who speaks of murder?" cried D'Effernay. "Who can prove it?"

and as he spoke, the captain turned a fierce, penetrating look upon him,

beneath which he quailed.

"But, I repeat the question," Edward began once more, "what does all

this mean? I left you a short time ago in friendly conversation. I come

back and find you both armed--both violently agitated--and M.

D'Effernay, at least, speaking incoherently. What do you mean by

'proving it?'--to what do you allude?" At this moment, before any answer

could be made, a man came out of the house with a pick-ax and shovel on

his shoulder, and advancing toward the rector, said respectfully, "I am

quite ready, sir, if you have the key of the church-yard."

It was now the captain's turn to look anxious: "What are you going to

do, you surely don't intend--?" but, as he spoke, the rector interrupted

him.

"This gentleman is very desirous to see the place where his friend lies

buried."

"But these preparations, what do they mean?"

"I will tell you," said Edward, in a voice and tone that betrayed the

deepest emotion, "I have a holy duty to perform. I must cause the coffin

to be opened."

"How, what?" screamed D'Effernay, once again. "Never--I will never

permit such a thing."

"But, sir," the old man spoke, in a tone of calm decision, contrasting

wonderfully with the violence of him whom he addressed, "you have no

possible right to interfere. If this gentleman wishes it, and I accede

to the proposition, no one can prevent us from doing as we would."

"I tell you I will not suffer it," continued D'Effernay, with the same

frightful agitation. "Stir at your peril," he cried, turning sharply

round upon the grave-digger, and holding a pistol to his head; but the

captain pulled his arm away, to the relief of the frightened peasant.

"M. D'Effernay," he said, "your conduct for the last half-hour has been

most unaccountable--most unreasonable."

"Come, come," interposed Edward, "let us say no more on the subject; but

let us be going," he addressed the rector; "we will not detain these

gentlemen much longer."

He made a step toward the church-yard, but D'Effernay clutched his arm,

and, with an impious oath, "you shall not stir," he said; "that grave

shall not be opened."

Edward shook him off, with a look of silent hatred, for now indeed all

his doubts were confirmed.

D'Effernay saw that Wensleben was resolved, and a deadly pallor spread

itself over his features, and a shudder passed visibly over his frame.

"You are going!" he cried, with every gesture and appearance of

insanity. "Go, then;" ... and he pointed the muzzle of the pistol to his

mouth, and before any one could prevent him, he drew the trigger, and

fell back a corpse. The spectators were motionless with surprise and

horror; the captain was the first to recover himself in some degree. He

bent over the body with the faint hope of detecting some sign of life.

The old man turned pale and dizzy with a sense of terror, and he looked

as if he would have swooned, had not Edward led him gently into his

house, while the two others busied themselves with vain attempts to

restore life. The spirit of D'Effernay had gone to its last account!

It was, indeed, an awful moment. Death in its worst shape was before

them, and a terrible duty still remained to be performed.

Edward's cheek was blanched; his eye had a fixed look, yet he moved and

spoke with a species of mechanical action, which had something almost

ghastly in it. Causing the body to be removed into the house, he bade

the captain summon the servants of the deceased and then motioning with

his hand to the awe-struck sexton, he proceeded with him to the

church-yard. A few clods of earth alone were removed ere the captain

stood by his friend's side.

* * * * *

Here we must pause. Perhaps it were better altogether to emulate the

silence that was maintained then and afterward by the two comrades. But

the sexton could not be bribed to entire secrecy, and it was a story he

loved to tell, with details we gladly omit, of how Wensleben solemnly

performed his task--of how no doubt could any longer exist as to the

cause of Hallberg's death. Those who love the horrible must draw on

their own imaginations to supply what we resolutely withhold.

Edward, we believe, never alluded to D'Effernay's death, and all the

awful circumstances attending it, but twice--once, when, with every

necessary detail, he and the captain gave their evidence to the legal

authorities; and once, with as few details as possible, when he had an

interview with the widow of the murderer, the beloved of the victim. The

particulars of this interview he never divulged, for he considered

Emily's grief too sacred to be exposed to the prying eyes of the curious

and the unfeeling. She left the neighborhood immediately, leaving her

worldly affairs in Wensleben's hands, who soon disposed of the property

for her. She returned to her native country, with the resolution of

spending the greater part of her wealth in relieving the distresses of

others, wisely seeking, in the exercise of piety and benevolence, the

only possible alleviation of her own deep and many-sided griefs. For

Edward, he was soon pronounced to have recovered entirely, from the

shock of these terrible events. Of a courageous and energetic

disposition, he pursued the duties of his profession with a firm step,

and hid his mighty sorrow deep in the recesses of his heart. To the

superficial observer, tears, groans, and lamentations are the only

proofs of sorrow; and when they subside, the sorrow is said to have

passed away also. Thus the captive, immured within the walls of his

prison-house, is as one dead to the outward world, though the jailer be

a daily witness to the vitality of affliction.

WORDSWORTH'S POSTHUMOUS POEM.[J]

This is a voice that speaks to us across a gulf of nearly fifty years. A

few months ago Wordsworth was taken from us at the ripe age of

fourscore, yet here we have him addressing the public, as for the first

time, with all the fervor, the unworn freshness, the hopeful confidence

of thirty. We are carried back to the period when Coleridge, Byron,

Scott, Rogers, and Moore were in their youthful prime. We live again in

the stirring days when the poets who divided public attention and

interest with the Fabian struggle in Portugal and Spain, with the wild

and terrible events of the Russian campaign, with the uprising of the

Teutonic nations, and the overthrow of Napoleon, were in a manner but

commencing their cycle of songs. This is to renew, to antedate, the

youth of a majority of the living generation. But only those whose

memory still carries them so far back, can feel within them any reflex

of that eager excitement, with which the news of battles fought and won,

or mail-coach copies of some new work of Scott, or Byron, or the

_Edinburgh Review_, were looked for and received in those already old

days. [J] We need not remind the readers of the _Excursion_, that when

Wordsworth was enabled, by the generous enthusiasm of Raisley Calvert,

to retire with a slender independence to his native mountains, there to

devote himself exclusively to his art, his first step was to review and

record in verse, the origin and progress of his own powers, as far as he

was acquainted with them. This was at once an exercise in versification,

and a test of the kind of poetry for which he was by temperament fitted.

The result was a determination to compose a philosophical poem,

containing views of man, of nature, and of society. This ambitious

conception has been doomed to share the fate of so many other colossal

undertakings. Of the three parts of his _Recluse_, thus planned, only

the second (the _Excursion_, published in 1814) has been completed. Of

the other two there exists only the first book of the first, and the

plan of the third. The _Recluse_ will remain in fragmentary greatness, a

poetical Cathedral of Cologne.

Matters standing thus, it has not been without a melancholy sense of the

uncertainty of human projects, and of the contrast between the sanguine

enterprise and its silent evaporation (so often the "history of an

individual mind"), that we have perused this _Prelude_ which no

completed strain was destined to follow. Yet in the poem itself there is

nothing to inspire depression. It is animated throughout with the

hopeful confidence in the poet's own powers, so natural to the time of

life at which it was composed; it evinces a power and soar of

imagination unsurpassed in any of his writings; and its images and

incidents have a freshness and distinctness which they not seldom lost,

when they came to be elaborated, as many of them were, in his minor

poems of a later date.

The _Prelude_, as the title page indicates, is a poetical autobiography,

commencing with the earliest reminiscences of the author, and continued

to the time at which it was composed. We are told that it was begun in

1799 and completed in 1805. It consists of fourteen books. Two are

devoted to the infancy and schooltime of the poet; four to the period of

his University life; two to a brief residence in London, immediately

subsequent to his leaving Cambridge, and a retrospect of the progress

his mind had then made; and three to a residence in France, chiefly in

the Loire, but partly in Paris, during the stormy period of Louis the

Sixteenth's flight and capture, and the fierce contest between the

Girondins and Robespierre. Five books are then occupied with an analysis

of the internal struggle occasioned by the contradictory influences of

rural and secluded nature in boyhood, and of society when the young man

first mingles with the world. The surcease of the strife is recorded in

the fourteenth book, entitled "Conclusion."

The poem is addressed to Coleridge; and, apart from its poetical merits,

is interesting as at once a counterpart and supplement to that author's

philosophical and beautiful criticism of the _Lyrical Ballads_ in his

_Biographia Literaria_. It completes the explanation, there given, of

the peculiar constitution of Wordsworth's mind, and of his poetical

theory. It confirms and justifies our opinion that that theory was

essentially partial and erroneous; but at the same time, it establishes

the fact that Wordsworth was a true and a great poet in despite of his

theory.

The great defect of Wordsworth, in our judgment, was want of sympathy

with, and knowledge of men. From his birth till his entry at college, he

lived in a region where he met with none whose minds might awaken his

sympathies, and where life was altogether uneventful. On the other hand,

that region abounded with the inert, striking, and most impressive

objects of natural scenery. The elementary grandeur and beauty of

external nature came thus to fill up his mind to the exclusion of human

interests. To such a result his individual constitution powerfully

contributed. The sensuous element was singularly deficient in his

nature. He never seems to have passed through that erotic period out of

which some poets have never emerged. A soaring, speculative imagination,

and an impetuous, resistless self-will, were his distinguishing

characteristics. From first to last he concentrated himself within

himself; brooding over his own fancies and imaginations to the

comparative disregard of the incidents and impressions which suggested

them; and was little susceptible of ideas originating in other minds. We

behold the result. He lives alone in a world of mountains, streams, and

atmospheric phenomena, dealing with moral abstractions, and rarely

encountered by even shadowy spectres of beings outwardly resembling

himself. There is measureless grandeur and power in his moral

speculations. There is intense reality in his pictures of external

nature. But though his human characters are presented with great skill

of metaphysical analysis, they have rarely life or animation. He is

always the prominent, often the exclusive, object of his own song.

Upon a mind so constituted, with its psychological peculiarities so

cherished and confirmed, the fortunes and fates of others, and the

stirring events of his time, made vivid but very transient impressions.

The conversation and writings of contemporaries trained among books, and

with the faculty of speech more fully developed than that of thought,

seemed colorless and empty to one with whom natural objects and

grandeurs were always present in such overpowering force. Excluded by

his social position from taking an active part in the public events of

the day, and repelled by the emptiness of the then fashionable

literature, he turned to private and humble life as possessing at least

a reality. But he thus withheld himself from the contemplation of those

great mental excitements which only great public struggles can awaken.

He contracted a habit of exaggerating the importance of every-day

incidents and emotions. He accustomed himself to see in men and in

social relations only what he was predetermined to see there, and to

impute to them a value and importance derived mainly from his own

self-will. Even his natural good taste contributed to confirm him in his

error. The two prevailing schools of literature in England, at that

time, were the trashy and mouthing writers who adopted the sounding

language of Johnson and Darwin, unenlivened by the vigorous thought of

either; and the "dead-sea apes" of that inflated, sentimental,

revolutionary style which Diderot had unconsciously originated, and

Kotzebue carried beyond the verge of caricature. The right feeling and

manly thought of Wordsworth were disgusted by these shallow

word-mongers, and he flew to the other extreme. Under the

influences--repulsive and attractive--we have thus attempted to

indicate, he adopted the theory that as much of grandeur and profound

emotion was to be found in mere domestic incidents and feelings, as on

the more conspicuous stage of public life; and that a bald and naked

simplicity of language was the perfection of style. Singularly enough,

he was confirmed in these notions by the very writer of the day whose

own natural genius, more than any of his contemporaries, impelled, him

to riot in great, wild, supernatural conceptions; and to give utterance

to them in gorgeous language. Coleridge was perhaps the only

contemporary from whom Wordsworth ever took an opinion; and that he did

so from him, is mainly attributable to the fact that Coleridge did

little more than reproduce to him his own notions, sometimes rectified

by a subtler logic, but always rendered more attractive by new and

dazzling illustrations.

Fortunately it is out of the power of the most perverse theory to spoil

the true poet. The poems of Wordsworth must continue to charm and

elevate mankind, in defiance of his crotchets, just as Luther, Henri

Quatre, and other living impersonations of poetry do, despite all quaint

peculiarities of the attire, the customs, or the opinions of their

respective ages, with which they were embued. The spirit of truth and

poetry redeems, ennobles, hallows, every external form in which it may

be lodged. We may "pshaw" and "pooh" at _Harry Gill_ and the _Idiot

Boy_; but the deep and tremulous tenderness of sentiment, the

strong-winged flight of fancy, the excelling and unvarying purity, which

pervade all the writings of Wordsworth, and the exquisite melody of his

lyrical poems, must ever continue to attract and purify the mind. The

very excesses into which his one-sided theory betrayed him, acted as a

useful counter-agent to the prevailing bad taste of his time.

The _Prelude_ may take a permanent place as one of the most perfect of

Wordsworth's compositions. It has much of the fearless felicity of

youth; and its imagery has the sharp and vivid outline of ideas fresh

from the brain. The subject--the development of his own great

powers--raises him above that willful dallying with trivialities which

repels us in some of his other works. And there is real vitality in the

theme, both from our anxiety to know the course of such a mind, and from

the effect of an absorbing interest in himself excluding that languor

which sometimes seized him in his efforts to impart or attribute

interest to themes possessing little or none in themselves. Its mere

narrative, though often very homely, and dealing in too many words, is

often characterized also by elevated imagination, and always by

eloquence. The bustle of London life, the prosaic uncouthness of its

exterior, the earnest heart that beats beneath it, the details even of

its commonest amusements, from Bartholomew Fair to Sadler's Wells, are

portrayed with simple force and delicate discrimination; and for the

most part skillfully contrasted with the rural life of the poet's native

home. There are some truthful and powerful sketches of French character

and life, in the early revolutionary era. But above all, as might have

been anticipated, Wordsworth's heart revels in the elementary beauty and

grandeur of his mountain theme; while his own simple history is traced

with minute fidelity and is full of unflagging interest.--_London

Examiner._

FOOTNOTES:

[J] _The Prelude, or Growth of a Poet's Mind; an Autobiographical Poem_.

By William Wordsworth. London. Moxon. New York, Appleton & Co.

[From the North British Review.]

THE LITERARY PROFESSION--AUTHORS AND PUBLISHERS.

It is a common complaint that the publishers make large fortunes and

leave the authors to starve--that they are, in fact, a kind of moral

vampire, sucking the best blood of genius, and destroying others to

support themselves. A great deal of very unhealthy, one-sided cant has

been written upon this subject. Doubtless, there is much to be said on

both sides. That publishers look at a manuscript very much as a

corn-dealer looks at sample of wheat, with an eye to its selling

qualities, is not to be denied. If books are not written only to be

sold, they are printed only to be sold. Publishers must pay their

printers and their paper-merchants; and they can not compel the public

to purchase their printed paper. When benevolent printers shall be found

eager to print gratuitously works of unsalable genius, and benevolent

paper-merchants to supply paper for the same, publishers may afford to

think less of a manuscript as an article of sale--may reject with less

freedom unlikely manuscripts, and haggle less savagely about the price

of likely ones. An obvious common-place this, and said a thousand times

before, but not yet recognized by the world of writers at large.

Publishing is a trade, and, like all other trades, undertaken with the

one object of making money by it. The profits are not ordinarily large;

they are, indeed, very uncertain--so uncertain that a large proportion

of those who embark in the publishing business some time or other find

their way into the Gazette. When a publishing firm is ruined by printing

unsalable books, authors seldom or never have any sympathy with a

member of it. They have, on the other hand, an idea that he is justly

punished for his offenses; and so perhaps he is, but not in the sense

understood by the majority of those who contemplate his downfall as a

retributive dispensation. The fact is, that reckless publishing is more

injurious to the literary profession than any thing in the world beside.

The cautious publisher is the author's best friend. If a house publish

at their own risk a number of works which they can not sell, they must

either go into the Gazette at last, or make large sums of money by works

which they _can_ sell. When a publisher loses money by a work, an injury

is inflicted upon the literary profession. The more money he can make by

publishing, the more he can afford to pay for authorship. It is often

said that the authors of successful works are inadequately rewarded in

proportion to their success; that publishers make their thousands, while

authors only make their hundreds. But it is forgotten that the profits

of the one successful work are often only a set-off to the losses

incurred by the publication of half a dozen unsuccessful ones. If a

publisher purchase a manuscript for £500, and the work prove to be a

"palpable hit" worth £5000, it may seem hard that the publisher does not

share his gains more equitably with the author. With regard to this it

is to be said, in the first place, that he very frequently _does_. There

is hardly a publisher in London, however "grasping" he may be, who has

not, time after time, paid to authors sums of money not "in the bond."

But if the fact were not as we have stated it, we can hardly admit that

publishers are under any kind of obligation to exceed the strict terms

of their contracts. If a publisher gives £500 for a copyright,

expecting to sweep the same amount into his own coffers, but instead of

making that sum, loses it by the speculation, he does not ask the author

to refund--nor does the author offer to do it. The money is in all

probability spent long before the result of the venture is ascertained;

and the author would be greatly surprised and greatly indignant, if it

were hinted to him, even in the most delicate way, that the publisher

having lost money by his book, would be obliged to him if he would make

good a portion of the deficit by sending a check upon his bankers.

We repeat, then, that a publisher who loses money by one man's books,

must make it by another's, or go into the Gazette. There are publishers

who trade entirely upon this principle, which, indeed, is a kind of

literary gambling. They publish a dozen works, we will suppose, of which

six produce an absolute loss; four just cover-their expenses; and the

other two realize a profit. The publisher, especially if he be his own

printer, may find this answer in the end; it may at least just keep him

out of the Bankruptcy Court, and supply his family with bread. But the

system can not be a really advantageous one either to publishers or

authors. To the latter, indeed, it is destruction. No inconsiderable

portion of the books published every year entail a heavy loss on author

or publisher, or on both--and the amount of this loss may be set down,

in most instances, as so much taken from the gross profits of the

literary profession. If Mr. Bungay lose a hundred pounds by the poems of

the Hon. Percy Popjoy, he has a hundred pounds less to give to Mr.

Arthur Pendennis for his novel. Instead of protesting against the

over-caution of publishers, literary men, if they really knew their own

interests, would protest against their want of caution. Authors have a

direct interest in the prosperity of publishers. The misfortune of

authorship is not that publishers make so much money, but that they make

so little. If Paternoster Row were wealthier than it is, there would be

better cheer in Grub-street.

It is very true that publishers, like other men, make mistakes; and that

sometimes a really good and salable work is rejected. Many instances of

this might readily be adduced--instances of works, whose value has been

subsequently proved by extensive popularity, having been rejected by one

or more experienced member of the publishing craft. But their judgment

is on the whole remarkably correct. They determine with surprising

accuracy the market value of the greater number of works that are

offered to them. It is not supposed that in the majority of cases, the

publisher himself decides the question upon the strength of his own

judgment. He has his minister, or ministers of state, to decide these

knotty questions for him. A great deal has been written at different

times, about the baneful influence of this middleman, or "reader"--but

we can see no more justice in the complaint than if it were raised

against the system which places a middleman or minister between the

sovereign and his people. To complain of the incapacity of the publisher

himself, and to object to his obtaining the critical services of a more

competent party, were clearly an inconsistency and an injustice. If the

publisher himself be not capable of deciding upon the literary merits or

salable properties of the works laid before him, the best thing that he

can do is to secure the assistance of some one who _is_. Hence the

office of the "reader." It is well known that in some large publishing

houses there is a resident "reader" attached to the establishment;

others are believed to lay the manuscripts offered to them for

publication before some critic of established reputation out-of-doors;

while more than one eminent publisher might be named who has trusted

solely to his own judgment, and rarely found that judgment at fault. In

either of these cases there is no reason to assume the incompetency of

the judge. Besides, as we have said, the question to be solved by the

publisher or reader, is not a purely literary question. It is mainly

indeed a commercial question; and the merits of the work are often

freely acknowledged while the venture is politely declined.

Much more might be said of the relations between publishers and authors,

but we are compelled to economize our space. The truth, indeed, as

regards the latter, is simply this: It is not so much that authors do

not know how to make money, as that they do not know how to spend it.

The same income that enables a clergyman, a lawyer, a medical

practitioner, a government functionary, or any other member of the

middle classes earning his livelihood by professional labor, to support

himself and his family in comfort and respectability, will seldom keep a

literary man out of debt and difficulty--seldom provide him with a

comfortable well-ordered home, creditable to himself and his profession.

It is ten to one that he lives untidily; that every thing about him is

in confusion, that the amenities of domestic life are absent from his

establishment; that he is altogether in a state of elaborate and costly

disorder, such as we are bound to say is the characteristic of no other

kind of professional life. He seldom has a settled home--a fixed

position. He appears to be constantly on the move. He seldom lives, for

any length of time, in the same place; and is rarely at home when you

call upon him. It would be instructive to obtain a return of the number

of professional writers who retain pews in church, and are to be found

there with their families on Sundays. There is something altogether

fitful, irregular, spasmodic in their way of life. And so it is with

their expenditure. They do not live like other men, and they do not

spend like other men. At one time, you would think, from their lavish

style of living, that they were worth three thousand a year; and at

another, from the privations that they undergo, and the difficulty they

find in meeting small claims upon them, that they were not worth fifty.

There is generally, indeed, large expenditure abroad, and painful

stinting at home. The "res angusta _domi_" is almost always there; but

away from his home, your literary man is often a prince and a

millionaire. Or, if he be a man of domestic habits, if he spends little

on tavern suppers, little on wine, little on cab hire, the probability

is, that he is still impulsive and improvident, still little capable of

self-denial; that he will buy a costly picture when his house-rent is

unpaid; that he will give his wife a guitar when she wants a gown; and

buy his children a rocking-horse when they are without stockings. His

house and family are altogether in an inelegant state of elegant

disorder; and with really a comfortable income, if properly managed, he

is eternally in debt.

Now all this may appear very strange, but it is not wholly

unaccountable. In the _first_ place, it may be assumed, as we have

already hinted, that no small proportion of those who adopt literature

as a profession have enlisted in the army of authors because they have

lacked the necessary amount of patience and perseverance--the systematic

orderly habits--the industry and the self-denial by which alone it is

possible to attain success in other paths of professional life. With

talent enough to succeed in any, they have not had sufficient method to

succeed in any. They have been trained perhaps for the bar, but wanted

assiduity to master the dry details of the law, and patience to sustain

them throughout a long round of briefless circuits. They have devoted

themselves to the study of physic, and recoiled from or broken down

under examination; or wanted the hopeful sanguine temperament which

enables a man to content himself with small beginnings, and to make his

way by a gradually widening circle to a large round of remunerative

practice. They have been intended for the Church, and drawn back in

dismay at the thought of its restraints and responsibilities; or have

entered the army, and have forsaken with impatience and disgust the slow

road to superior command.

In any case, it may be assumed that the original profession has been

deserted for that of authorship, mainly because the aspirant has been

wanting in those orderly methodical habits, and that patience and

submissiveness of temperament which secure success in those departments

of professional labor which are only to be overcome by progressive

degrees. In a word, it may be often said of the man of letters, that he

is not wanting in order because he is an author, but he is an author

because he is wanting in order. He is capable of occasional paroxysms of

industry; his spasms of energy are often great and triumphant. Where

results are to be obtained _per saltum_ he is equal to any thing and is

not easily to be frightened back. He has courage enough to carry a

fortress by assault, but he has not system enough to make his way by

regular approaches. He is weary of the work before he has traced out the

first parallel. In this very history of the rise of professional

authorship, we may often see the causes of its fall. The calamities of

authors are often assignable to the very circumstances that made them

authors. Wherefore is it that in many cases authors are disorderly and

improvident? simply because it is their nature to be so--because in any

other path of life they would be equally disorderly and improvident. The

want of system is not to be attributed to their profession. The evil

which we deplore arises in the first instance only from an inability to

master an inherent defect.

But it must be admitted that there are many predisposing circumstances

in the environments of literary life--that many of the causes which

aggravate, if they do not originate the malady, are incidental to the

profession itself. The absolute requirements of literary labor not

unfrequently compel an irregular distribution of time and with it

irregular social and moral habits. It would be cruel to impute that as a

fault to the literary laborer which is in reality his misfortune. We who

lay our work once every quarter before the public, and they who once a

year, or less frequently, present themselves with their comely octavo

volumes of fiction or biography--history or science--to the reading

world, may dine at home every day with their children, ring the bell at

ten o'clock for family prayers, rise early and retire early every day,

and with but few deviations throughout the year, regularly toil through,

with more or less of the afflatus upon them, their apportioned hours of

literary labor; but a large proportion of the literary practitioners of

the age are connected, in some capacity or other, with the newspaper

press; they are the slaves of time, not its masters; and must bend

themselves to circumstances, however repugnant to the will. Late hours

are unfortunately a condition of press life. The sub-editors, the

summary writers, the reporters; the musical and theatrical critics, and

many of the leading-article writers are compelled to keep late hours.

Their work is not done till past--in many cases till _long_

past--midnight; and it can not be done at home. It is a very unhappy

condition of literary life that it so often compels night-work.

Night-work of this kind seems to demand a resource to stimulants; and

the exigencies of time and place compel a man to betake himself to the

most convenient tavern. Much that we read in the morning papers,

wondering at the rapidity with which important intelligence or

interesting criticism is laid before us, is written, after midnight, at

some contiguous tavern, or in the close atmosphere of a reporter's room,

which compels a subsequent resort to some house of nocturnal

entertainment. If, weary with work and rejoicing in the thought of its

accomplishment, the literary laborer, in the society perhaps of two or

three of his brethren, betakes himself to a convenient supper house, and

there spends on a single meal, what would keep himself and his family in

comfort throughout the next day, perhaps it is hardly just to judge him

too severely; at all events, it is right that we should regard the

suffering, and weigh the temptation. What to us, in many cases, "seems

vice may be but woe." It is hard to keep to this night-work and to live

an orderly life. If a man from choice, not from necessity, turns night

into day, and day into night (we have known literary men who have

willfully done so), we have very little pity for him. The shattered

nerves--the disorderly home--the neglected business--the accounts unkept

and the bills unpaid, which are the necessary results of nights of

excitement and days of languor, are then to be regarded as the

consequences not of the misfortunes, but the faults of the sufferer. It

is a wretched way of life any how.

Literary men are sad spendthrifts, not only of their money, but of

themselves. At an age when other men are in the possession of vigorous

faculties of mind and strength of body, they are often used-up,

enfeebled, and only capable of effort under the influence of strong

stimulants. If a man has the distribution of his own time--if his

literary avocations are of that nature that they can be followed at

home--if they demand only continuous effort, there is no reason why the

waste of vital energy should be greater in his case than in that of the

follower of any other learned profession. A man soon discovers to what

extent he can safely and profitably tax his powers. To do well in the

world he must economize himself no less than his money. Rest is often a

good investment. A writer at one time is competent to do twice as much

and twice as well as at another; and if his leisure be well employed,

the few hours of labor will be more productive than the many, at the

time; and the faculty of labor will remain with him twice as long. Rest

and recreation, fresh air and bodily exercise, are essential to an

author, and he will do well never to neglect them. But there are

professional writers who can not regulate their hours of labor, and

whose condition of life it is to toil at irregular times and in an

irregular manner. It is difficult, we know, for them to abstain from

using themselves up prematurely. Repeated paroxysms of fever wear down

the strongest frames; and many a literary man is compelled to live a

life of fever, between excitement and exhaustion of the mind. We would

counsel all public writers to think well of the best means of

economizing themselves--the best means of spending their time off duty.

Rest and recreation, properly applied, will do much to counteract the

destroying influences of spasmodic labor at unseasonable hours, and to

ward off premature decay. But if they apply excitement of one kind to

repair the ravages of excitement of another kind, they must be content

to live a life of nervous irritability, and to grow old before their

time.

THE BROTHERS CHEERYBLE.

William and Charles Grant were the sons of a farmer in Inverness-shire,

whom a sudden flood stript of every thing, even to the very soil which

he tilled. The farmer and his son William made their way southward,

until they arrived in the neighborhood of Bury, in Lancashire, and there

found employment in a print work, in which William served his

apprenticeship. It is said that, when they reached the spot near which

they ultimately settled, and arrived at the crown of the hill near

Walmesley, they were in doubt as to what course was best next to be

pursued. The surrounding country lay disclosed before them, the river

Irwell making its circuitous way through the valley. What was to be done

to induce their decision as to the route they were to take to their

future home? A stick was put up, and where it fell, in that direction

would they betake themselves. And thus their decision was made, and they

betook themselves toward the village of Ramsbotham, not far distant. In

this place, these men pitched their tent, and in the course of many long

years of industry, enterprise, and benevolence, they accumulated nearly

a million sterling of money; earning, meanwhile, the good-will of

thousands, the gratitude of many, and the respect of all who knew them.

They afterward erected, on the top of the hill overlooking Walmesley, a

lofty tower, in commemoration of the fortunate choice they had made, and

not improbably as a kind of public thank-offering for the signal

prosperity they had reaped. Cotton mills, and print works, were built by

them of great extent, employing an immense number of hands; and they

erected churches, founded schools, and gave a new life to the district.

Their well-directed diligence made the valley teem with industry,

activity, health, joy, and opulence; they never forgot the class from

which they themselves had sprung, that of working-men, whose hands had

mainly contributed to their aggrandizement, and, therefore, they spared

no expense in the moral, intellectual, and physical interests of their

work-people.

A brief anecdote or two will serve to show what manner of men these

Grants were, and that Dickens, in his Brothers Cheeryble, has been

guilty of no exaggeration. Many years ago, a warehouseman published an

exceedingly scurrilous pamphlet against the firm of Grant Brothers,

holding up the elder partner to ridicule as "Billy Button." William was

informed by some "kind friend," of the existence and nature of the

pamphlet, and his observation was, that the man would live to repent of

its publication. "Oh!" said the libeler, when informed of this remark,

"he thinks that some time or other I shall be in his debt, but I will

take good care of that." It happens, however, that the man in business

does not always know who shall be his creditor. It turned out that the

libeler shortly became bankrupt, and the brothers held an acceptance of

his, which had been indorsed by the drawer who had also become bankrupt.

The wantonly libeled men had now an opportunity of revenging themselves

upon the libeler, for he could not obtain his certificate without their

signature, and without that he could not again commence business. But it

seemed to the bankrupt to be a hopeless case to expect that, they would

give their signature--they whom he had so wantonly held up to public

ridicule. The claims of a wife and children, however, at last forced him

to make the application. He presented himself at the counting-house

door, and found that "Billy Button" was in. He entered, and William

Grant, who was alone, rather sternly bid him, "shut the door, sir!" The

libeler trembled before the libeled. He told his tale, and produced his

certificate, which was instantly clutched by the injured merchant. "You

wrote a pamphlet against us once," exclaimed Mr. Grant. The supplicant

expected to see his parchment thrown into the fire; instead of which,

Mr. Grant took a pen, and writing something on the document, handed it

back to the supplicant, who expected to find "rogue,

scoundrel, libeler," instead of which, there was written only the

signature of the firm, completing the bankrupt's certificate. "We make

it a rule," said Mr. Grant, "never to refuse signing the certificate of

an honest tradesman, and we have never heard that you were any thing

else." The tears started into the poor man's eyes. "Ah!" continued Mr.

Grant, "my saying was true, I said you would live to repent writing

that pamphlet, I did not mean it as a threat, I only meant that some day

you would know us better, and repent that you had tried to injure us; I

see you repent it now." "I do, I do," said the grateful man, "I do,

indeed, bitterly repent it." "Well, well, my dear fellow, you know us

now. How do you get on? What are you going to do?" The poor man stated

that he had friends who could assist him when his certificate was

obtained. "But how are you off in the mean time?" and the answer was

that, having given up every farthing to his creditors, he had been

compelled to stint his family of even the common necessaries of life,

that he might be enabled to pay the cost of his certificate. "My dear

fellow, this will never do, your wife and family must not suffer; be

kind enough to take this ten-pound note to your wife from me--there,

there, my dear fellow--nay, don't cry--it will all be well with you yet;

keep up your spirits, set to work like a man, and you will raise your

head among us yet." The overpowered man endeavored in vain to express

his thanks--the swelling in his throat forbade words; he put his hand to

his face, and went out of the door crying like a child.

In company with a gentleman who had written and lectured much on the

advantages of early religious, moral, and intellectual training, Mr

Grant asked--"Well, how do you go on in establishing schools for

infants?" The reply was, "Very encouragingly indeed; wherever I have

gone, I have succeeded either in inducing good people to establish them,

or in procuring better support to those that are already established.

But I must give over my labors, for, what with printing bills,

coach-fare, and other expenses, every lecture I deliver in any

neighboring town, costs me a sovereign, and I can not afford to ride my

hobby such a rate." He said, "You must not give over your labors; God

has blessed them with success; He has blessed you with talents, and me

with wealth, if you give your time, I ought to give my money. You must

oblige me by taking this twenty-pound note, and spending it in promoting

the education of the poor." The twenty-pound note was taken, and so

spent; and probably a thousand children are now enjoying the benefit of

the impulse that was thus given to a mode of instruction as delightful

as it was useful.

Mr. Grant was waited on by two gentlemen, who were raising a

subscription for the widow of a respectable, man, who, some years before

his death, had been unfortunate in business. "We lost £200 by him," said

Mr. Grant; "and how do you expect I should subscribe, for his widow?"

"Because," answered one of them, "what you have lost by the husband does

not alter the widow's claim on your benevolence." "Neither it shall,"

said he, "here are five pounds, and if you can not make up the sum you

want for her, come to me, and I'll give you more."

Many other anecdotes, equally characteristic of the kind nature of

William Grant, could be added. For fifteen years did he and his brother

Charles ride into Manchester on market days, seated side-by-side,

looking of all things like a pair of brothers, happy in themselves, and

in each other. William died a few years ago, and was followed to the

grave by many blessings. The firm still survives, and supports its

former character. Long may the merchant princes of England continue to

furnish such beautiful specimens of humanity as the now famous Brothers

Cheeryble!--_Chambers' Edinburgh Journal_.

[From the North British Review.]

WRITING FOR PERIODICALS.

Lord Lyndhurst once said, at a public dinner, with reference to the

numberless marvels of the press, that it might seem a very easy thing to

write a leading article, but that he would recommend any one with strong

convictions on that point, only to _try_. We confidently appeal to the

experience of all the conductors of the leading journals of Great

Britain, from the quarterly reviews to the daily journals, convinced

that they will all tell the same unvarying tale of the utter

incompetency of thousands of very clever people to write articles,

review books, &c. They will all have the same experiences to relate of

the marvelous failures of men of genius and learning--the crude cumbrous

state in which they have sent their so-called articles for

publication--the labor it has taken to mould their fine thoughts and

valuable erudition into comely shape--the utter impossibility of doing

it at all. As Mr. Carlyle has written of the needle-women of England, it

is the saddest thing of all, that there should be sempstresses few or

none, but "botchers" in such abundance, capable only of "a distracted

puckering and botching--not sewing--only a fallacious hope of it--a fond

imagination of the mind;" so of literary labor is it the saddest thing

of all, that there should be so many botchers in the world, and so few

skilled article-writers--so little article-writing, and so much

"distracted puckering and botching." There may be nothing in this

article-writing, when once we know how to do it, as there is nothing in

balancing a ladder on one's chin, or jumping through a hoop, or

swallowing a sword. All we say is, if people think it easy, let them

try, and abide by the result. The amateur articles of very clever people

are generally what an amateur effort at coat-making would be. It may

seem a very easy thing to make a coat; but very expert

craftsmen--craftsmen that can produce more difficult and elaborate

pieces of workmanship, fail utterly when they come to a coat. The only

reason why they can not make a coat is, that they are not tailors. Now

there are many very able and learned men, who can compass greater

efforts of human intellect than the production of a newspaper article,

but who can not write a newspaper at all, because they we not

newspaper-writers, or criticise a book with decent effect, because they

are not critics. Article-writing comes "by art not chance." The efforts

of chance writers, if they be men of genius and learning, are things to

break one's heart over.

It is not enough to think and to know. It requires the faculty of

utterance, and a peculiar kind of utterance. Certain things are to be

said in a certain manner; and your amateur article-writer is sure to say

them in any manner but the right. Perhaps of all styles of writing there

is none in which excellency is so rarely attained as that of

newspaper-writing. A readable leading article may not be a work of the

loftiest order, or demand for its execution the highest attributes of

genius; but, whatever it may be, the power of accomplishing it with

success is not shared by "thousands of clever fellows." Thousands of

clever fellows, fortified by Mr. Thackeray's opinion, may think that

they could write the articles which they read in the morning journals;

but let them take pen and paper and _try_.

We think it only fair that professional authors should have the credit

of being able to do what other people can not. They do not claim to

themselves a monoply of talent. They do not think themselves capable of

conducting a case in a court of law, as cleverly as a queen's counsel,

or of getting a sick man through the typhus fever as skillfully as a

practiced physician. But it is hard that they should not receive credit

for being able to write better articles than either the one or the

other; or, perhaps it is more to the purpose to say, than the briefless

lawyers and patientless medical students who are glad to earn a guinea

by their pens. Men are not born article-writers any more than they are

born doctors of law, or doctors of physic; as the ludicrous failures,

which are every day thrown into the rubbish-baskets of all our newspaper

offices, demonstrate past all contradiction. Incompetency is manifested

in a variety of ways, but an irrepressible tendency to fine writing is

associated with the greater number of them. Give a clever young medical

student a book about aural or dental surgery to review, and the chances

are ten to one that the criticism will be little else than a high-flown

grandiloquent treatise on the wonders of the creation. A regular

"literary hack" will do the thing much better.

If there be any set of men--we can not call it a _class_, for it is

drawn from all classes--who might be supposed to possess' a certain

capacity for periodical writing, it is the fraternity of members of

Parliament. They are in the habit of selecting given subjects for

consideration--of collecting facts and illustrations--of arranging

arguments--and of expressing themselves after a manner. They are for the

most part men of education, of a practical turn of mind, well acquainted

with passing events, and, in many instances, in possession just of that

kind of available talent which is invaluable to periodical writers. But

very few of them can write an article, either for a newspaper or a

review, without inflicting immense trouble upon the editor. Sometimes

the matter it contains will be worth the pains bestowed upon it; but it

very often happens that it is _not_. It is one thing to make a

speech--another to write an article. But the speech often, no less than

the article, requires editorial supervision. The reporter is the

speaker's editor, and a very efficient one too. In a large number of

cases, the speaker owes more to the reporter than he would willingly

acknowledge. The speech as spoken would often be unreadable, but that

the reporter finishes the unfinished sentences, and supplies meanings

which are rather suggested than expressed. It would be easy to name

members who are capable of writing admirable articles; but many of them

owe their position in the House to some antecedent connection with the

press, or have become, in some manner regularly "connected with the

press;" and have acquired, by long practice, the capacity of

article-writing. But take any half-dozen members indiscriminately out of

the House, and set them down to write articles on any subject which they

may have just heard debated, and see how grotesque will be their

efforts? They may be very "clever fellows," but that they can write

articles as well as men whose profession it is to write them, we take

upon ourselves emphatically to deny.

ANECDOTE OF LORD CLIVE.