tion, or his fervently-expressed gratitude and admiration of myself. A hundred extravagant ways, in the ebullition of his heart, with tears, protestations, and vows, did he take to convey to me his sense of these feelings, and his appreciation as much of the good I had done in saving him from a great crime and a dreadful death, as of my discretion in allowing the whole to be known only to myself. Though fiercely indignant at his unhallowed attempt on not only his own life, but those of Rachel and myself, yet, at such a season, I did not blame him, or make any display of anger-I remained calm and serious, leaving him to his own reflections until I had completely cured him of the effects of the opium, when, by expressing my resolution to remove from him for good, and persisting in it, I brought him to such a state of abject humiliation and entreaty, to an exhibition of helplessness so extreme, and a dread of being deserted so overmastering, that I found the effects upon his constitution more difficult to remove than those of the opium. By this means I got him as completely under my power, as a maniac should be under that of his keeper. After this, I continued to devote myself altogether to the comfort of my friend and patient, and the solacement of his sufferings. I at length succeeded in breaking him of a great part of his unreasonable timidity, and induced him to meet at the cottage several medical and other acquaintances of mine, men of education and discretion, among whom he might enjoy a chastened conviviality, introducing him to them as a resident patient. To this society he became devotedly attached. I also directed his mind to poetry, inducing him to attempt versification, a pursuit or amusement for which his exquisitely-emotional turn of mind admirably fitted him, and I do believe he had a glimpse of pleasure when I showed him one of his pieces, a sweet, wailing little ode, printed in the Gentleman's Magazine. It was surely the smile of an author's joy that lighted his features, and not the usual sad smile of ardent aflection, with which he received any kindness from Rachel or myself.

As soon as he conquered his jealousy-which he speedily did when he found that she, though my wife, continued to love him as much as ever --his attachment to us both increased, almost daily, and he returned to that sweet, gentle melancholy of temper and manner which had so charmed me with him as a friend, before his jealousy had ever been awakened. I also began, from time to time, to introduce him to a little general society, taking care to apologise previously in private for anything odd in his manner, on the ground that he was in ill health. I shall not be blamed for this when I explain that "LEPRA," in modern days, is not infectious, nor did I scruple to allow my children to play freely with him about the rooms, or in the field behind the house. I began shortly to be persuaded that by these measures he was rendered perceptible of a degree of true happiness; for though his paroxysms were still violent and easily excited, yet there were long intervals of quiet pensiveness between, in which the interest of his mind was absorbed in poetry and painting. For I painted a little myself, and he, seeing me mixing colors, &c., began to try the pencil, and a pleasant rivalry commenced between us, in which Rachel was the acutely-discriminating and impartial judge of merit. Alas! many of these pictures now hang around me, when he who painted, and

she, the dear one, who awarded the meed of smiling praise, are in their graves! The subjects he chose were singular: one, for instance, was a picture of dreariness. It was an extended view of a lake, or broad river, running across the canvass, with a sombre wood beyond, and gray, coldlooking hills in the distance-while a bare common formed the foreground. In every part of the painting-the color and appearance of the sky, the gloomy aspect of the wood, the bare, bleak foreground and lead-colored water, whose bent sedges and dock-leaves, and rippled surface, betokened a March wind-in every line of it was indicated dreariness, or rather hopelessness, to the mind, in a manner I never could analyse, though I felt it strongly.

Yes, surely that hitherto joyless being began to feel resignation, and, in loving and being loved by us, the pleasure of one who is not altogether alone on the earth; nor was he now ignorant of the delights of home so dear to others. Oh, how often in these dreary days, when the beauty of a Mediterranean climate is unable to give my spirits elasticity, or its warmth to make the blood more than drag its way through my weary heart, does my mind wander back to those evenings at the cottage with my only friend and my only beloved-to the snug parlor, the pleasant fire, cheerful candle-light, chess-board, and piled-up books-to the open piano and the flute laid along its keys, and to the big family-Bible on the side table, awaiting its time to come into requisition. Nor is it slothful to recall the glass of negus, the cigar or the new number of the review-the little supper of the best delicacies wealth could secure, the tinkling laugh of Rachel, or the touching tones of poor Jaques' voice of sadness. Yes, he was, happy; though his delight was not as that of other men, yet he had an ideal happiness of his own in the affection of us, his friends; in the gambols of our children, in heaping upon us every benefit his wealth could accomplish-in fondly loving us, and knowing that he had constantly in his neighborhood a true, attached, and confidential friend, physician, and guard.

But although, for these latter years, along with the habitual agony of mind one so visited as he was could not help feeling, he experienced intervals of the most refined and exquisite happiness (I know it from his own assurance,) yet was his mind still so prayed upon, and so shaken had it formerly been-so decayed, too, was the poor disorganized machine it animated—that I perceived him, week by week, and day by day, slowly but surely declining to the natural rest from all his sufferings.

When he had lived under my charge as nearly as possible about seven years, he declined so far as to be unable to leave his bedroom. It is impossible to impress on paper the depth of feeling with which he now spoke to me, as I sat continually ministering by his bedside, or the acuteness of sorrow with which I saw the flame as it were of his expiring candle, sinking into the socket. Our conversations were most affecting, both in the matter and the manner; for he talked of his own life of shame and sorrow, his expulsion by his brother, and the kindness and brotherly love he had met with from me and mine; and now he was about, at the call of nature, to leave me whom he loved of all things or creatures most, and from whom alone he had received good, and to leave me for ever, really forever, for he was of the sect of the Sadducees, who believe in neither angel nor

spirit, nor in the immortality of the soul. You may be sure I combatted, as far as my powers went, this error, alleging his own case as an example. "If there be no future for you," said I," and your life has been one of the greatest and most constant anguish, and that to all appearance unmerited by you, where is divine justice?" And this sentence contains the moral of my narrative.

Nevertheless, he was deaf to all my arguments, his constant reply being, "I must abide by the ancient faith of my people." It was harrowing to me to hear one who had been so awfully afflicted leaving life in such a creed; but infinitely more cutting was it to listen to the clinging words of affection for its darling objects, while it was being dragged away as it were heartstring by heartstring, and believed that they, the dear ones were being lost for ever.

Whilst on his death-bed he had frequent interviews with Rachel-indeed, as often as I could so arrange matters as to make it convenient-for she never in her life knew or suspected his secret, and I was the only being that nursed him or ministered to him in any way. With the pathos

of these interviews, and the hopeless language of the sufferer, despairing, even in those circumstances in which hope is most needed, she was deeply stricken, and its effect upon her was evident after many days.

Thus declining, at length he died, and his spirit, as it took flight, left the words "dear friend" on his lips.

His body I tended for the grave with my own hands, and he was buried in the vault I had purchased on the death of Mr. Hermann. A large slab of stone, without name or date, covered him, and for epitaph I made the following line, which was engraved upon it:—

66 HIC DORMIT TANDEM, CUI MORS FUIT UNA VOLUPTAS."

Meaning, "Here sleeps one, at last, whose single pleasure was death." I may state that the property I inherited from him by bequeathal formed, and now forms, for me, an ample independence.

Since then I have never seen a person repining, or felt myself inclined to repine, under the light trials of ordinary life, but I think of that poor young man, guilty of no crime, yet denied all pleasures, and cursed with an inconceivable misery, nor cheered under it by even a ray of hope for the future.

THE first scene of our story is laid in a chamber in a large old house in the quietest street of an ancient, populous, and wealthy city. This street has a singularly retired, even deserted look. The pavement is unmarked by footsteps, and looks clean and bleached-unsoiled since the last rain. About the kerbstones spring up tufts of long grass of a vivid green, which also rise abundantly from between the white rounded blocks of the causeway. One end opens through an iron railing, by a wide gate, usually kept unlocked, upon the large public park, whilst the other is shut out by а similar fence and gate, with a porter's lodge attached, from a crowded and busy thoroughfare, one of the chief streets of the city.

The houses are all large, heavy, sombre, old-fashioned edifices, with gardens in the rear. They were formerly inhabited by the chief merchants and professional men, but these have migrated now to quite the other end of the town. Their tenants have become the two and three hundred a-year people-retired tradesmen, merchants who have failed and live on the wreck of their fortunes, ministers of limited dissenting congregations, and the like, and many professional lodging-house-keepers, who make a comfortable business, as the peaceful, and secluded aspect of the place, with the fresh breezes from the park and country beyond, as well as its immediate vicinity to the principal marts of traffic, render it a desirable residence for the numerous unsettled individuals who abound in a mercantile community.

The principal chamber in one of these houses-that nearest the park— is our immediate scene. It is a large and lofty-ceiled apartment, with heavy cornices and elaborate ornamental plaster-work. The wall on one whole side is taken up by book-shelves, from as high as the arm can reach down to the floor, crowded with volumes, nearly all of them in richlygilded bindings of deep green, dark red, or purple leather. A second side is hung with pictures-one, a plate of Lawrence's portrait of John Kemble in the character of Hamlet; another, of Mrs. Siddons as Lady Macbeth ; the third, a full-length portrait of Lord Byron. Beneath, there runs a line of small drawings of scenery, minutely and very beautifully executed in colors. The opposite wall presents a large fire-place, of massive black marble. A heavily cut fender protects the rug, but in place of grate you observe a curious arrangement of bricks, and plates and bars of iron : this is a small chemical furnace, constructed under the direction of the tenant of the place. On the mantle-shelf stand a number of specimens of minerals, a small brass model of a marine steam-engine, and a globular crystal cover, containing some rare and beautiful preserved birds-tiny things, of lustrous and many-tinted plumage-the treasures of the African and Amercan woods. The carpet, which has a yielding feel to the feet, as if there

were another beneath it, is littered with books of an equal richness of exterior with those on the shelves, along with newspapers, numbers of works in course of publication, and of scientific and literary periodicals, among which the vivid colors of dear old blue-and-yellow are conspicuous. Large sheets of paper, probably maps or plans, lie here and there among them, rolled up and bound with silken tape. A pair of globes stand hard by, and in a corner a large cylindrical electric machine. One or two busts are placed about the room, and on a small table between the two windows stands a beautiful bronze figure of Niobe and her child, with a silver-keyed flute of ebony beside it, and a champagne-glass, containing in water a few pretty little early wild flowers, the produce of last evening's botanizing ramble.

There are two tables-one close to a window; on it are some drawing materials of the costliest description, and a large portfolio of brown morocco, profusely gilded, and ornamented with pieces of leather of the brightest colors, inlaid into the dark boards. Another table is drawn close to the sparkling fire. It bears a number of books huddled together, to support in a sloping position two large folios, open. One is a huge, ancient, mustily-sinelling volume, with thick dark boards and bright red edges-a Leyden edition of Plato, nearly two centuries old, and evidently from the library of the university; the other, gilt-edged and moroccobound, is a Greek lexicon. Two smaller volumes are Xenophon's "Memorabilia Nephela." Close to these is placed a writing-stand of some rare purple wood inlaid with gold, and in a watch-stand of similar materials beside it lies a valuable repeater, with a thick heavy black ribbon attached. Various scientific utensils meet the eye everywhere around. Here lies an electric discharger, with a handle of agate; there a number of retorts and Berlin basins and tubes; yonder you see a microscope, and near it a delicate pair of scales under a glass case. A superb library-chair of dark mahogany, with a deep-red leather covering, cushioned, and contrived, by metallic springs and pivots, to meet and yield to every motion of the frame, stands between the table and fire-place, and in it is seated the inhabitant of this curiously-furnished apartment.

He is a young man, about nineteen years of age, very slight, and wearing a peculiarity of aspect, like that produced by dissipation, but in him arising from causes very widely different. His features are not at all regular, would rather appear positively harsh and disagreeable, were it not for the dreamy expression of vivid but fitful fancy, of careless intelligence, aimless talent, that animates them. Indeed, they do appear forbidding to a mere commonplace observer, and the knowledge of this was one of the great causes that induced upon Mr. Basil May, the individual in question, his remarkable points of character. His slippered feet rest on a footstool by the fender; a waistcoat and trousers of plain black cloth form his attire; and his coat-for he has got into a habit of throwing it off to study-is laid upon a sofa; while a fine young cat, of a light grey color, striped with black, like a small tiger, and wearing a leather collar, gilded uniformly with the binding of the volumes that meet the eye everywhere around, nestles in its folds, purring away in drowsy satisfaction.

The heavy curtains are pinned back altogether from the windows, to