of human weakness, a smile of caustic humor curled his lip even then. "Wilt thou still worship the destroyer, and surround her image with fantasies the more magnificent, the more evil she has wrought? Thus man doth ever to his tyrants! Approach, then! Madness, as I have noted, has that good efficacy, that it will guard you from contagion-and perchance its own cure may be found in yonder chamber."

He

Ascending another flight of stairs, he threw open a door, and signed to Jervase Helwyse that he should enter. The poor lunatic, it seems probable, had cherished a delusion that his haughty mistress sat in state, unharmed herself by the pestilential influence, which, as by enchantment, she scattered round about her. dreamed, no doubt, that her beauty was not dimmed, but brightened into superhuman splendor. With such anticipations, he stole reverentially to the door at which the physician stood, but paused upon the threshold, gazing fearfully into the gloom of the darkened chamber.

"Where is the Lady Eleanore?" whispered he. "Call her," replied the physician.

66 'Lady Eleanore !-Princess !-Queen of Death!" cried Jervase Helwyse, advancing three steps into the chamber, "She is not here! There on yonder table, I behold the sparkle of a diamond, which once she wore upon her bosom. There"-and he shuddered

"there hangs her mantle, on which a dead woman embroidered a spell of dreadful potency. But where is the Lady Eleanore!"

Something stirred within the silken curtains of a canopied bed; and a low moan was uttered, which, listening intently, Jervase Helwyse began to distinguish as a woman's voice, complaining dolefully of thirst. He fancied, even, that he recognized its tones. "My throat-my throat is scorched," murmured the voice. "A drop of water!”

"What thing art thou?" said the brain-stricken youth, drawing near the bed and tearing asunder its curtains. "Whose voice hast thou stolen for thy murmurs and miserable petitions, as if Lady Eleanore could be conscious of mortal infirmity? Fie! Heap of deceased mortality, why lurkest thou in my lady's chamber?"

"Oh, Jervase Helwyse, "said the voice-and as it spoke, the figure contorted itself, struggling to hide its blasted face-"look not now on the woman you once loved! The curse of Heaven hath striken me, because I would not call man my brother, nor woman sister. I wrapt myself in PRIDE as in a MANTLE, and scorned the sympathies of nature; and therefore has nature made this wretched body the medium of a dreadful sympathy. You are avenged-they are all avenged-for I am Eleanore Rochcliffe!"

The malice of his mental disease, the bitterness lurking at the bottom of his heart, mad as he was, for a blighted and ruined life,

and love that had been paid with cruel scorn, awoke within the breast of Jervase Helwyse. He shook his finger at the wretched girl, and the chamber echoed, the curtains of the bed were shaken, with his outburst of insane merriment.

"Another triumph for the Lady Eleanore!" he cried. "All have been her victims! Who so worthy to be the final victim as herself?" Impelled by some new fantasy of his crazed intellect, he snatched the fatal mantle, and rushed from the chamber and the house. That night, a procession passed, by torch light, through the streets, bearing in the midst, the figure of a woman, enveloped with a richly embroidered mantle; while in advance stalked Jervase Helwyse, waving the red flag of the pestilence. Arriving opposite the Province-House, the mob burned the effigy, and a strong wind came and swept away the ashes. It was said, that, from that very hour, the pestilence abated, as if its sway had some mysterious connection, from the first plague-stroke to the last, with Lady Eleanore's mantle. A remarkable uncertainty broods over that unhappy lady's fate. There is a belief, however, that, in a certain chamber of this mansion, a female form may sometimes be duskily discerned, shrinking into the darkest corner, and muffling her face within an embroidered mantle. Supposing the legend true, can this be other than the once proud Lady Eleanore?

Mine host, and the old loyalist, and I, bestowed no little warmth of applause upon this narrative, in which we had all been deeply interested; for the reader can scarcely conceive how unspeakably the effect of such a tale is heightened, when, as in the present case, we may repose perfect confidence in the veracity of him who tells it. For my own part, knowing how scrupulous is Mr. Tiffany to settle the foundation of his facts, I could not have believed him one whit the more faithfully, had he professed himself an eye-witness of the doings and sufferings of poor lady Eleanore. Some sceptics, it is true, might demand documentary evidence, or even require him to produce the embroidered mantle, forgetting that it was consumed to ashes. But now the old loyalist, whose blood was warmed by the good cheer, began to talk, in his turn, about the traditions of the Province-House, and hinted that he, if it were agreeable, might add a few reminiscences to our legendary stock. Mr. Tiffany, having no cause to dread a rival, immediately besought him to favor us with a specimen; my own entreaties, of course, were urged to the same effect; and our venerable guest, well pleased to find willing auditors, awaited only the return of Mr. Thomas Waite, who had been summoned forth to provide accommodations for seve ral new arrivals. Perchance the public-but be this as its own caprice and ours shall settle the matter-may read the result in another Tale of the Province-House.

LOVE'S DOMINION.

THE infant world beneath the sun's warm gaze, Was lovely, as a seraph's song of praise; The verdant branches of the shadowy trees, Bent down in grateful homage to the breeze, Alluring fruits hung ripening in the air, And fragrant flowers, blushed in beauty there; Through the green earth, the sparkling rivers rolled To the broad sea, where billows tipped with gold Bounded in gladness to the mountain's side, And faintly murmured. as in foam they died.

Man, guileless man, his fair dominions trod,
Master of all, and image his God,

Thought sat upon his brow, and from his eye,
Gleamed the bright fires of immortality;
In unrobed beauty ever by his side,
Glowed the soft graces of his lovely bride,
She who was deemed by Heav'nly wisdom meet,
To crown his joy, and make the world complete.

But soon the tempter came, with thoughts of ill
Plotting foul treason with deceptive skill,
The prize he sought, in triumph dark was won,
And Sin exulted, as the deed was done.
Then Evil cursed the earth, and in her train
Stalked War, and Famine, Pestilence, and Pain,
Great was her baneful sway, but not supreme,
For Love was there, to hallow and redeem,
To bless the wanderer in lif's devious maze,
And fill his grateful heart with songs of praise.
And as successive years have come, and
gone,
And Time still speeds his restless chariot on,
That faithful friend, bids man from gloom arise,
Cheers his sad soul, and points him to the skies.

When the first-born, with its appealing cry,

Wakes a new chord in human sympathy,
How the fond mother clasps it to her breast,
That safest haven of infantile rest!

What smiles of pure emotion light her face,
As oft inclining with unconscious grace,
She feasts her eyes, with fond, untiring gaze,
On this the firstling of the flock !—what praise,
From the heart's living altar freely given,
Is upward borne on angel wings to Heaven,
Oh! with what earnest and beseeching tone
Her prayer is breathed before Creation's throne
That the dear pledge of love may live to know,
Each joy that this world's treas'ry can bestow,
And when no more in mortal vesture drest,
Wing his bright way, to realms forever blest.
Whatever ties there be our thoughts can scan,
Which bind the mortal to his fellow-man,
Whate'er the time, condition, or the place,
There is no feeling known to Adam's race,
No earthly tie, the human heart can move,
Exceeds in tenderness a mother's love.

But yearns the mother towards her darling boy, Her hope, her pride, her comfort, and her joy, Does she so oft in solemn hour of night, Watch his soft breathings by the taper's light, Reluctant still to sink 'neath slumbers charm, Lest her beloved should haply come to harm. Fancying awhile, some dread, and distant day, When thronging evils shall beset his way, And as maternal weakness swells her fears, Trying in vain, to check the rush of tears, Pours she from out affection's sacred urn, This gushing flow of love without return? Ah no! these feelings in her bosom stored, Find in her offspring's love a rich reward; When in the morn he lifts his bird-like voice, Her answ'ring smile, bids his young heart rejoice, And as she clasps him with a pure embrace, Her glowing kisses greet his joyous face; He looks to her with hope, and trust, and pride, Alike his friend, his counsellor, and guide, She leads his footsteps in the path of truth, And moulds aright the pliancy of youth, Heart leaps to heart, soul answers unto soul, Mother and child delight in love's control.

The scene, the boy, is changed! the marcn of time
Has led him on to youth's luxuriant prime
The hot blood courses through his healthful frame
And his heart burns,-but with a novel flame.

Fast by that stream whose playful wavelets dance, Beneath the young moon's mild, and tender glance, Where the wind whispers to the quiet grove, That youth reveals the story of his love; Never did moon on fairer features beam,

Ne'er was reflected in the rural stream,

More sylph-like form than that his arm enwreathes,
While he with trembling voice his passion breathes;
There all unnerved by love, and hope, and fear,
She lends a willing, though a timid ear,

And smiles, and tears, and blushes, will reveal,
That which she cannot speak-or yet conceal!

The bird of music as in twilight dim,
He sings reposing Nature's vesper hymn,
Boasts not of tones so thrilling, or so sweet,
As lovers' vows, poured forth at maiden's feet;
Ay! could we hear the music of the sky,
When stars swell out the choral harmony,

With which they sing forth from the realms of light,
All hail! thou virgin queen of love and night,
That song celestial, soon the ear would tire,
Compared with words that flow from hearts of fire.

Our youthful loves! who does not on the track
Of by gone years, with wistful eye look back,
Upon the sunny time, when one dear theme,
Filled up each waking hour, each mystic dream,
When passion, taste, and sentiment combined,
To tinge with golden hues, the trustful mind.
Love comes in other shapes, new forms she wears,
Though still the same, in various garb appears ;
When the gay visions of our youth depart,
Connubial love, supremely rules the heart,
Uniting kindred spirits firm, and fast,
True through all scenes, and faithful to the last.

So when the rainbow colors, one by one, Fade from the place, where momently they shone,