he saw the very scene which he had be held in the mirror at old Alice's hovel! He looked again at the wall nearest to him. The stone upon which, in the mirror, he had seen his name inscribed, was not there; but the branches of a clematis that had been trained against the wall had left a square space of exactly the size of the tablet of his vision. Nothing was wanting but the name. He gazed at it with horror; a cold sweat stood upon his brow, and a groan burst from his overcharged bosom.

"You are unwell, I fear," said the abbess, who saw the paleness of his face, and felt the trembling of the arm she held.

Her voice recalled Leopold to himself. "I find the night-air chill" he said; "and the length of the march has fatigued me more than usual. With your permission we will return."

The company proceeded back to the convent, and Leopold was able to master his emotion so well that his momentary indisposition was universally believed to have arisen wholly from the cause to which he had attributed it. Having taken some wine, at the entreaty of the abbess, he

retired to his chamber.

In vain he attempted to sleep when he closed his eyes the scene in the cemetery was as vividly before his sight as it had been when he gazed on the real substance. At length, feverish, and worn out with tossing in his bed, he arose, and

went to the window. Upon opening it he found that it commanded a view of that part of the garden which adjoined the burial-ground, where it had been foretold his own grave should be dug. The moon was now nearly sunk, the night-breeze had freshened a little, and, blowing against the tall cypresses, they seemed to beckon him towards the narrow spot which at some period he believed must be his

own.

He gazed at them until, his fancy aiding the impressions he had before received, he became convinced that this was the place destined for his dissolution perhaps this was the very time when that event was to happen.

'As he pondered over the events of his life, and reflected on the bitterness with which they had been tinged since the fatal All-hallows Night, he felt little occasion to regret even if this should be his fate. At this moment the notes of the organ in the chapel of the convent fell upon his ear; and, soon after, the voices of the nuns were heard in celebration of

the funeral office for one of the sisters

who had lately died. Leopold listened: the coincidence was so striking, that for a moment he could have fancied that his

apprehensions had been realized, that he had in truth ceased to exist, and that it was for him that these midnight orisons were sung.

'It was not long, however, that he remained under this delusion. Shaking off, by a violent effort, the thick-coming fancies which crowded upon his brain, he recommended himself to the protection of Heaven; and, resolving that he would no longer vex himself with speculating upon an accident, which, however frightful it had been rendered by circumstances, he could neither prevent nor hasten, he closed the window, and retired again to his bed, where his attempts to sleep were more successful.'

At Berne Leopold falls in love with the beautiful Laura Baldini, is accepted both by the lady and her father, and a day is fixed upon for the celebration of their nuptials. Time has now brought round another but our hero is enjoying the mirth anniversary of All-hallows Night, and gaiety of a ball in company with his Laura. Here, however, in the course of the evening, he is horror-struck at seeing her father in close and earnest conversation with the student whom he had caned at Gottingen. Signor Baldini and his daughter quit the ball-room abruptly, without taking leave of Leopold; and the latter, having no doubt as to the person to whom he is indebted for this slight, fixes a quarrel upon the student, to decide which they meet upon the ramparts at five o'clock the next morning; Leopold having left a note at his lodgings, to be transmitted to Laura, in case this adventure should end fatally. Here our hero, to his amazement, discovers the identity of the student with his old tormentor, Schwartzwald; and the latter, after an unsuccessful attempt to assassinate his opponent, seeks his safety in flight.

Leopold remains in a weak and almost insensible condition for several days. On his recovery he finds that Baldini and his daughter have left Berne, but he is unable to ascertain whither they have gone. At length, after a search of several weeks, he arrives at a convent, in which he is given to understand that Laura has been placed.

'The abbess was a prim, but kind-looking, old lady. She received Leopold with

an air of stately politeness. He looked about the room, and could have fancied that this was not the first time he had been in it. He thought of the nunnery of Santa Croce, but this abbess was not like the principal of that house; besides, he was convinced of this being situated in a different part of the country; and, upon look. ing again, he saw that, although the general plan of the rooms might be the same, that in which he was now sitting was deficient in the severe elegance which characterized the parlour of Santa Croce.

'The religious emblems, which are common to all such establishments, were there-the bad painting of the Madonna, and the crucifix, hung against the walls; but the fresh-filled flower-vases were absent, and every description of even allow, able ornament was rigorously banished.

Leopold, mastering his agitation as well as he could, approached the abbess, and, telling her his name, said he had come in search of the Signora Laura, who he had reason to believe was now within these walls.

"I assure you," replied the abbess, with a cold and formal manner, "that she is not."

66

I beseech you, madam," said Leopold-while his features expressed the anxiety and pain of his mind-" I beseech you not to trifle with the feelings of one who is already on the very edge of despair. I implore you, by all that you hold most sacred, not to make two persons utterly wretched. This cannot be the end of true religion; and this, perhaps worse than this, must be the consequence of your separating me from Laura. Our passion is mutual; our happiness-our lives-nay, the salvation of one of us-depends upon our being permitted to meet once more."

"My son," replied the abbess, who, apathetic as she was, could not avoid feeling moved by the vehemence of Leopold's manner, it is not any more in my power to unite you than to increase the space which separates you. Pray calm your emotion, and arm yourself with Christian patience to endure those evils which must be the lot of all of us in this world."

"Is she here?" cried Leopold impatiently.

My son, she is not," replied the ab

we can hope to enjoy that true happiness which is in Heaven."

'Leopold would have rushed from the room without listening to any more of the old lady's exhortations, but the desire of learning whither Laura had gone restrained him.

"If you will moderate that transport, which even now shakes your every limb, and will promise to bear like a man that which man is born to suffer, I will tell you whither our dear sister is departed."

Leopold bowed. There was a solemnity in the manner of the old lady's last address to him which shocked him. He had thought that to find the place of Laura's abode was to be happy. Now, for the first time, he began to think that some sinister accident might have happened, more fatal to his hopes than even her flight.

"I do promise," he said, and the blood receded from his cheeks as he gazed almost breathless on the abbess.

"The track of many years had obliterated, I thought, the very scars of former sorrows from my heart," said the abbess, as her eyes streamed with tears; "but the sight of your sufferings makes me feel the old wounds again. My son, the sister Laura has gone to her home-she is dead!"

'Leopold gasped, and looked in stupid astonishment for a moment-then fell at the old lady's feet, as if a thunderbolt had struck him.

'She immediately rang for assistance; the porter, a priest who performed the religious services of the cloister, and sonte of the elder nuns, entered. At first it was thought that Leopold was dead: no pulse could be felt in his veins, no respiration on his lips, and his face was pale and rigid, as if death had already inflicted the last blow of suffering on him. At length, however, the cares of the surrounding persons were successful; he slowly opened his eyes, and, as the recollection of the fatal information he had received recurred to him, a cold shuddering convulsed his frame.

"Tell me, when did she die?" he asked, in a scarcely audible tone.

"Five days ago," replied the abbess; and yesterday she was buried."

Leopold groaned deeply.

"I know," said the abbess, (who thought that if she could get him to listen she might be able to relieve him by diverting his thoughts,) "the whole history of your ill-fated attachment, and I pity you most heartily. But you are not yet aware that we believed you were dead."

'Leopold made no answer, but by his gestures showed that he was attending to the abbess's discourse.

with a faint effort.

The abbess did so immediately; and he recognised the letter which he had written on the morning of his duel, and which he had since sought in vain. He sunk back in despair. "The fiend triumpha!" he said; "it is in vain to contend further. The last blow is now struck."

After a few minutes he recovered again, and, fixing his lustreless eyes upon the abbess, he said, "Lead me, I implore you, to her grave."

The abbess, hoping that the sight of this melancholy spot might, by exciting his tears, assuage that mortal agony which racked his heart, complied with his request. She added some words of consolation, which fell as much unheeded upon the ear of Leopold as if he had already been laid in the grave he sought to

visit.

Santa Croce-that the spot on which he stood was that predestined to be his grave.

'Once he looked round, as if to assure himself-once he gazed on the grave of his Laura, where the flowers strewed by her weeping companions lay yet unwitheredthen turned his eyes to the dark blue sky, and, sinking again upon the shoulder of the priest without speaking a word, and uttering but one long sigh, his spirit fled for ever!'

Such is the close of this sweet and melancholy, but intensely interesting, story. Our extracts have been copious, but are, nevertheless, inadequate to give our readers a just idea of the beauty and power of the connected narrative, which our author has relieved by several happy touches of that dry quiet humour with which these volumes abound.

'Lady Arabella Stuart' is another highly interesting tale, founded upon a tragic incident in the history of the reign of James the First. 'Le Mort a tué les Vivans' is, we believe, also founded upon fact; and, together with the Knight and the Disour,' which closes the series, will amply repay the time bestowed upon their perusal.

These tales are connected by descriptions of 'My Grandmother's Guests,' who are the supposed narrators. Here Mr. Slingsby is, if possible, still more successful than in the stories. The whim, and truth, and spirit, with which he has painted his dramatis persona, make them marvellously entertaining. The Village Lawyer-the clever, half-starved, Country Apothecary-the old lady,

My Grandmother,' herself-but, above all, the retired Sea Captain— are each, and all of them, persons of infinite wit-of most excellent fancy. The humour and verisimilitude of the last sketch would induce us to believe that the author was some deboshed fish,' who had spent all his days on the briny element; while, on the other hand, the volumes contain abundant evidence to prove that his life has been passed in Gray's paradise, lolling upon a sofa, and reading eternal new romances.'

VOL. I.-No. 4.

X

A SUNDAY STROLL.

I HAVE been long in the habit of visiting all the little villages, and all the places of city resort or of rural recreation, in the neighbourhood of Ireland's beautiful metropolis. I have passed, at sunset, over the celebrated green of Donnybrook; crossed the winding Dodder; toiled through Windy Harbour; and taken up my abode for the night at Dundrum, for the sake of sleeping beneath the healthy breeze of the mountains, and of enjoying, in the morning, the far-famed luxury of goats' milk. I have wandered to Golden Bridge to drink of the spa; or driven to Dunleary to behold its bustle, its dust, and its rocky nakedness. On the 1st of May I steer to Finglas, to gaze upon the beautiful May-maids. I have been at Leixlip to view the Salmon-leap; I have dined in the ivy cabin at Drumcondra; and, in the blackberry season, I shall always be found lingering in the vicinity of Saggard. In each, and in all, of these places, I have found something to cheer and enliven me-much with which I felt amused. Even in the Phoenix Park, lying, as it does, within the very eye of the city spreading almost within the smell of its smoke-even there I have enjoyed many a pleasing ramble, and witnessed many a scene and many an incident that, for me at least, possessed something of interest.

My last visit to that quarter occurred some years ago. I had passed a restless night, it was late when I arose, and I felt myself wearied and feverish the task of shaving, dressing, and breakfasting, being over, I began to turn my thoughts on the manner in which I should pass the day. There were some long-promised letters to be written, but my head and my hand shrunk from the labour. I felt disposed to read, but no book was near me: the bells of the chapels and the churches were ringing around me, proclaiming to all that it was the morning of the sabbath;-I heard them, but I had no heart for prayer. I ventured out; I reached that haunt of all the idle the Library; but the incessant prattle

of the little politicians who strutted through the room was not to be borne. Driven from this quarter, I had only one more resource-the green fields and the open air. I went slowly up Sackville Street, crossed Blessington Street, and, after passing the Circular Road, found myself at last upon my favourite path in the Park. The day was one of the finest which the season had given us, and the crowds of the metropolis seemed eager to avail themselves of the enjoyment that it afforded: the place was all life-all gaiety and animation. In one direction you beheld a group of sprightly-looking young men engaged in leaping; in another quarter a party appeared throwing a weight or stone; here were the players of foot-ball, and there was a crowd of hurlers: the jaunting-car of the citizen hurried along the beaten road-the chariot or the curricle passed rapidly; while the unfledged horseman risked the safety of his own neck, and endangered the lives of others, by the velocity and irregularity of his movements. As you advanced a new scene presented itself: where the rich green slope arose, and the hawthorns grew thick, there rested the happy swain, with the girl of his heart sitting by him; others were strolling on in pairs, carelessly plucking the blossoms that overshadowed them, or chatting on matters that might, without difficulty, be guessed at. The picture, altogether, was a striking, and indeed a pleasing, one. The fineness of the day, the associations of the season itself (it was spring), the rich greenness of the trees, the variety of blossoms, the singing of the little birds that fluttered around me, the Sunday neatness of the girls and of their companions, the quiet pleasure that seemed to beam from every countenance-all this gratified, nay, subdued me. I melted into the spirit of the scene, and, for once, felt happy.

By this time I had reached the Spa, one of the sweetest resting-places that a wanderer ever selected. I found the little cottage crowded with visitors, and groups of idlers stood around the fountain. An ill-con