he is very good-natured and wellbred."

66

Why do you not add, very rich and fashionable?"

"Because riches and fashion have but slight charms for me, as I fancied, Mr Edmonstone, that you must know." "Once, at least, I, too, thought so; but as one is deceived in so many other things, why not in that?"

66

Now you must feel that you are unjust, and I need not answer you."

"Do you consider, Miss Lascelles, to what miserable suspense and agitation our present position exposes me?"

"I do not know why you should complain more than I. Surely my relation to my uncle and aunt is as anxious and unhappy as any thing that you have to suffer. All suspense will be ended if you will agree to let me inform them of what has passed between us, and to abide by their decision. That, you well know, would at once extinguish every hope. What, then, can I say? Often and bitterly have I repented that I ever let you surprise me into an acknowledgment of my feelings. But, as I went so far astray, I must now only insist either that you agree on my confessing the truth, or that you never speak to me again but in the language of a friend -at least, until better times."

"And can you promise me when those will come?"

If

"Surely that must depend upon yourself, or not, at least, on me. your industry in your profession raises your worldly prospects, it may be possible that my relations will listen, not, perhaps, with approbation, but with acquiescence, to our-to your wishes."

And if years pass away in the mean-time, and you continue to frequent such scenes as these, and to meet daily the rich and the noble, is it not possible that at the end of those years I may see you the wife of another?"

The lady's cheek now flushed, and she cast a sudden look at her partner, and then turned slightly away and was silent. A few moments afterwards she said," I am wrong to feel indignant at your question, when I remember the instances I have seen of faithlessness in man and woman. But I will still ask you if you do not, think my willingness to remain in my present painful and almost unworthy position is to go for nothing with you? Is it not

some evidence of stronger feeling than any which your present hasty discontent indicates? I would rather, however, not ask you this, but beg you to say no more to me on the subject. I must bear my lot as I can, and you have in yours the inestimable blessing that you can hope to improve it by your own exertion."

They were now obliged to separate. Miss Lascelles occupied her former seat, and, when asked again to dance by some one else, declined on the plea of fatigue. Arthur looked dissatisfied and unhappy, and walked into another room, out of her sight. But soon after she again saw him one of a group of four or five persons engaged in eager conversation, of whom he appeared to be the most earnest. She watched the play of his fine and intelligent but restless features, and fancied she could hear the words that accompanied the changes of his countenance. Had a deaf physiognomist seen him, he must have at once exclaimed, "That is one of the most eloquent of men!" Image after image, she well knew, by the looks of his companions as well as his own, were gushing and sparkling from him; and she could almost divine the wide and picturesque views of art, and history, and nature, and individual life, which he was suggesting or illustrating. But in his intervals of silence there was a look of sadness and bewilderment about him, and he stood at last, apparently, in reverie and indecision; till, with one mournful glance towards Maria, he passed to the door, as if departing from the house.

In the mean-time a lady, who had been one of those conversing with him, came to Miss Lascelles, and said, "Dear Maria, I do wish you had been with me Mr Edmonstone has been more brilliant than ever. I am sure to-night even you, who admire so few people, must have admired him."

"I thought I admired a great many people. But what was he speaking of?"

"Well, perhaps you do. But, at least, there are so many things which every body else is delighted with that you do not care for. Quite lately, you know, there were the Siamese Twins, and the man who played upon his chin, and the Hungarian Count who improvised the neighings and the words of command, and the trumpets

of a regiment of cavalry all at once. I thought it was quite acknowledged that you are so fastidious."

"And which of these exhibitions was it that Mr Edmonstone's conversation most reminded you of? Was it the chin-thumping, or the neigh

ing, or was it, perhaps, the Siamese Twins?"

"Don't now, Maria," said the lady ; "I am sure you know what I mean. But you are so provoking." And she proceeded to give an account, in her own way, of what Arthur had said.

In the mean-time, although it was still comparatively early in the evening, Arthur returned to his chamber. When he had shut himself in his small and dismal room, the impression of the scene which he had left still remained with him. The lively and graceful figures danced in fragments along the dim wall, and bright eyes seemed looking at him out of the backs of the books in the dingy bookcase. But it was Maria who came to him the most vividly, and stayed longest. He gazed at the vacant space, and saw there the simple and classical knot of glossy black hair, with its one pale flower which so well became the high smooth forehead. Now, again, he saw the quiet expressive features, in which the eyes and lips appeared so full of intelligent and benignant meaning, which they disdained to exhibit for the admiration of others. The fully formed and thoroughly graceful person, with its long neck and slender hands, were no less present to him, and he felt again, as he had often done before, that independently even of beauty, an elegant and deeply cultivated woman, in a word, a true lady, sums up and represents many ages of the world's mental progress.

Yet of what avail, he thought, are her many lovely and delightful qualities to me? Had I, indeed, the fortune which I want, or the rank which, on any other account, I would not accept, I might hope to gain the consent of her relatives and guardians. But now what must I look to? Years of irksome worthless labour in the dreariest of human studies; and then when life has become empty and unjoyous, and both our hearts are chilled and closed, the remnant of me may, perhaps, be united to all that will then remain of Maria. O for the free and passionate life of nature, and poetry, and love! Meanwhile, I must only now and then approach her like an evil spirit afraid to draw near to some

holy being. Or I must attempt to forget her and myself, in the vain display of talents which, as I am placed, are useless for the true ends of life; and must chew my own disgust at the vanity, which, while I speak, makes me derive pleasure from my own selected words and sparkling fancies, and from the wonder that these excite in others." A door, nearly opposite him, into another room, stood open, and looking up he saw the faint moonlight fall through the window of this farther space. In this dull light it seemed to him that a figure was standing with eyes raised towards the heavens, with tears faintly gleaming on her cheeks, and her hands crossed meekly and plaintively on her bosom. It was still Maria whom he saw; but before a minute had passed the form and features melted softly into those of the dying woman whom he had that morning visited. She, too, grew fainter and fainter, and seemed, as she vanished, mounting in the moonlight towards the sky.

He turned sadly away, and, looking round him, saw on the table a paper which he did not know of. He opened it, and found a bill for a considerable sum which had been long due to a tradesman; a literary undertaking which would have supplied him with the means of discharging the debt had been for weeks neglected, while he dreamt and fretted over his unhappy fate, and now he knew not whither to turn. In order to divert his thoughts he took up an old book of Necromancy which he had been consulting, and read a few pages full of strange transformations and forgotten spells; but nothing he now lighted on interested him till he came to the following passage. "Of a truth, there be many potent and secret arts born of the wits of wise men, more than they have thought good to divulgate through the world, as doubting of the discretion of purblind mortals in exercising such a

right. Of which inference, doubtless, shrewd reasons may be noted in the use, say rather, the most blunt, profane, and quadrupedal abuse of their present small and poor prerogatives, by mankind perpetrated and customary. Thus, I doubt not to affirm, such truths in the main ocean of time lie buried and drowned, or may from thence, by brave and constant divers, hereafter, pearl-wise, be fished up, as would change the whole order and groundplot of men's lives, no less than a great and polite king changes the compass and fashion of the barbarous castles and pavilions in some strange city, by him new invaded and subdued. Thus, by the manner of example, may, perhaps, spells, charms, and amulets, be discovered, if not in the Eastern people now frequent, to turn dust to gold, vinegar to nectar, clay and sordes to orient jewels, if dead and mouldered stumps to make fruits grow divine and unmatchable: what know I? In a word, to make money plentiful as men's modes of spending it; to sheathe lightnings even as we sheathe Toledo-blades, and again draw them to the confusion of the enemies of our lord the king (whom God preserve!); to turn one man into another or into many. And herewith, perhaps, when that seal of Solomon is found again, and worn, where it would best become, on the hand of our dread and bounteous sovereign, to purge gross matter to spirit, and to make of men angels; even so as of grubs and worms come forth butterflies, and of noisome smoke and ashes, the divine and Paradisaical Phoenix is begotten and proceedeth. But may those who attain to such skill of arts ever judiciously and temperately practise and adumbrate their parts and wisdom, even as shall here be done; not openly and popularly declaring, but rather keeping the light of too resplendent truth in due films and veils concealed."

When he had twice read this singular and grotesque passage, he opened his window and looked out. The stars were visible in the small spot of sky which came within his survey, and there was still a faint light from the moon. The night was calm, and he descended from his room and walked about the court. Here his former thoughts returned and mixed themselves in a fantastic combination with the strange magical images which he

had been engaged by. Why, he mus ed, as he raised his head and looked above the old round tower of the Temple Church-why should that which we so much desire be placed beyond our reach? Is our nature then an endless contradiction? If I so long to be able to change my lot, why has not the system of things that gave me this longing, also given me the power to gratify it? And then, not himself believing the fancy he indulged in, he began to paint the destiny that he would select if he possessed the power of choice. At last he asked himself the fatal question,-If I could thus change myself and all about me, should I not lose Maria's love, which is given to me, and not to any such figure as I might wish to assume. But then the demon answered,-Ay, but if I could also change so as to forget her, how should I suffer? Is it not plain that my removal would be to her the chief of blessings, as relieving her from the heavy perplexity in which she to-night complained she is involved?

He

This suggestion had too strong a hold upon his weakness. But at this moment, his reflections were broken by an unexpected sound. It seemed to him that he heard a faint sad note from the organ in the neighbouring church. He listened, and it sounded again, sadder, but more distinct. walked round to the door, but now heard nothing, and after a minute or two of delay, was about to depart, when the note sounded for the third time. The deep, low arch, with its pillar work and Gothic sculpture, was close at hand. He pushed the door; it opened at his touch, and as he made a step forward into the dim and empty space, slipped from his hand, and closed behind him. At this moment, the clock struck twelve. The building is now used only as a vestibule to the larger church beyond, but is in itself a most curious and venerable monument, and contains the tombs of several knights clad in armour, and with their legs crossed. There was now no sound audible but his own footsteps as he walked across the wide area, and again turned. While he paced the pave ment, his former confused and wavering thoughts pursued him still. At last, he exclaimed, half aloud, "If so much of pain and self-reproach clings inseparably to this miserable identity of mine, why cannot I cast it off,

and migrate into some new form of being?"

"You can!" answered a low clear voice, apparently close at hand.

Arthur was brave by temperament, and his imagination had familiarised him with innumerable kinds of danger. But he now staggered two or three paces back, and looking round, saw, not four yards from him, a human figure. It was an old man in a long dress, the form of which was not distinctly visible, while, in the twilight, his white head and venerable features stood out like those of a saint in some early German picture. So have the more ancient artists often represented Joseph, the husband of Mary.

"Would you"-he said, in a sweet but melancholy voice-" in truth, accept the offer of exchanging, at your own pleasure, your own personal existence for that of other men?"

After a moment's pause, he answered boldly, "Yes."

"I can bestow the power, but only upon these conditions. You will be able to assume a new part in life only once in every week. For the one hour after midnight on each Saturday, that is, for the first hour of the new week, you will remember all that you have been, and whatever characters you may have chosen for yourself. At the end of the hour, you may make a new choice, but if then deferred, it will be again a week before the opportunity will recur anew. You will also be incapable of revealing to any one the power with which you are gifted. And if you once resume your present being, you will never again be able to cast it off. If, on these terms, you agree to my proposal, take this ring, and wear it on the forefinger of your right hand. It bears the head of the famous Appollonius of Tyana. If you breathe upon it at the appointed hour, you will immediately become any person whom you may desire to be of those already existing in the age you live in, and who in this age are alone possible."

Arthur hesitated, and said, "Before I assent to your offer, tell me whether you yourself would think me wise to do so."

"Young man, were I to choose again, my only choice would be to fill the situation where nature brought me forth, and where God, therefore,

VOL. XLIV. NO. CCLXXVII.

doubtless designed me to work. If you accept my ring, it must be used this night, or it will vanish from your hand. If not, return to your dwelling, and devote yourself to the duties which your present state imposes on you."

Arthur remembered his desolate chamber, the hopeless manuscript, and unpaid bills, and the melancholy image of Maria, whom, for years, he could not hope to make his own. He held out his hand, received the ring, and placed it on his finger.

The night was now so much obscured, that he could hardly see the figure of the old man. But he heard the words," Remember, that if the present hour passes before you have made your choice, you will lose for ever the privilege you have obtained."

It now became altogether dark, and Arthur felt that he was alone. He remained in mournful perplexity overpowered by the strangeness of the

event.

But he still felt the ring up

on his finger, and knew that he was not dreaming. The moments flew on and on, and the quarter had struck twice since he received the ring, so that but a few minutes of the hour now remained.

At last he began to consider that he must needs, at all events, compose his mind, and come to some determination. But when he endeavoured to decide what he should do, what character he should choose to assume, a thousand images seemed floating confusedly before him, and none of them distinct enough to secure his preference. He fancied that all the shapes he had ever seen flowing along the neighbouring streets of the city were now with him in the old church. But he could bring no one more vividly before his eyes than another. At length, a single figure separated itself from the crowd, he knew not how or why. He regarded it with a mingled feeling of envy and dislike. But, at this moment, he heard the preparatory jarring of the clock, and feeling spell-bound to use the ring, he raised his hand towards his face. The onyx head glowed with a spark of fire in the darkness, and while he breathed on it, and pronounced to himself, in a tremulous whisper, the name of Sir Charles Harcourt, the sound of the clock thrilled away. At the same instant, Arthur Edmonstone ceased to be conscious of existence. 2 U

He

Sir Charles Harcourt was a man arrived at about half the term of threescore years and ten, but appeared rather younger than his age. was of middle size, and pleasing appearance, with features more regular than expressive, and an air of much ease and politeness. Taste and refinement had been the business of his life. His large fortune had been chiefly employed in the enjoyment and accumulation of elegant luxuries. His house was admirably arranged and beautifully furnished. His pictures and other works of art always costly and striking, if not always of the deepest significance. The regularity and completeness of his whole establishment and existence were noted even among the British aristocracy. His parties were the highest models of good-breeding and cultivated relaxation, combined with splendour. In the manner of the host, with a perpetual self-consciousness that gave something of coldness and reserve, there was also an unfailing self-command, and earnest though smooth concern for others, which even if regarded as acting, such as from its unvarying consistency it could hardly be, was in its kind most attractive. It was not the elevated, the humane, not even the beautiful which he unceasingly aimed at realizing; but as much of all these as might be necessary to render him the most popular, admired, and flattered leader of English society. Every one felt in his company as if in a well-proportioned and lighted gallery, surrounded with graceful and harmonious objects. They were only the few to whom it occurred that there could be any thing wanting in order to render the gallery a home.

On the next day but one after that on which he had met Miss Lascelles at the ball, he left London for his country seat, where he had invited a party of friends to join himself and his sister, and Maria among them. Beechurst was a stately Elizabethan house, wanting, indeed, the majesty of a Greek temple, and the religion of a Gothic cathedral, and the massive grimness of a feudal castle; but having what befits a house, family re

collections, spaciousness, convenience, dignity, picturesqueness, and the look of a peaceful and beloved abode for man. It was surrounded by a large park, of broken surface, and noble timber, traversed by a swift and sparkling stream. There was beauty in its long avenues of elm and horsechestnut, in its woods of oak and knolls of beeches, in the smooth expanses of verdure, and the colouring of the elevations adorned with fern, and paleflowered broom, and golden-tinted furze. There were swans upon the river, and antlered herds beneath the foliage. About the house were terraces with flights of stairs, and fountains with quaint figures, and a profusion of the rarest and most pleasing flowers. And a large old-fashioned garden, which ran along one side of the building, contained, among many other full-grown trees, cypresses, cedars, and plane trees of great age, and beds of rich bloom surrounding bronze or marble statues, and divided by walks of velvet green. Within the

house were great galleries, halls, and chambers, gorgeous with antique furniture, to which had been added whatever of graceful and commodious modern art devises, and containing a large collection of pictures.

In the evening of the day on which Sir Charles arrived at Beechurst, several of his guests also reached it. They were persons of very different kinds. The most remarkable of them were Walsingham, an exquisite rather than a very popular poet, and Hastings, a traveller, who had visited almost every part of the world. With these were two or three artists and men of letters, as many young men of rank and fortune, and a few ladies, friends, or whom she chose to call so, of Miss Harcourt, Sir Charles's sister. Among these was numbered Maria Lascelles, who came under the care of her aunt, Mrs Nugent. mother had been sister to Mr Nugent. Mrs Nugent was a cousin of Sir Charles Harcourt. The Mount, at which the Nugents lived, was at the distance of but a few miles from Beechurst.

Her

Maria looked with a good deal of