them to purer gold than ever came from the mine? Would it not be better worth while to stay at home and learn that art than to spend years in gathering yellow-sand, and find, perhaps, at last, that it is worthless? Children, indeed, hoard counters as if they were coin. But men too often throw away the true coin as if they were counters.'

Several of the company had now gathered round the little group. Sir

Charles was pleased that so celebrated a man as Walsingham spoke so freely and earnestly in his house. Remembering that his reading was much admired, he now came to him and asked him if he would read. Walsingham, whom Maria's presence seemed to have lured onward, and unfolded, looked at her, caught her eye, which sparkled at the proposal, and, taking down a volume from the bookcase, read the following narrative.

"When I was in Italy some years ago, I knew a young Englishman who was in the habit of seeking places to reside in, little frequented by his countrymen. He was a lover of solitude and study, and addicted to reverie; and much of his life was a gentle and shimmering dream that glided to the music of romantic traditions. At the time I must now refer to, he had selected as his abode one of the deserted palaces of the Venetian nobility on the banks of the Brenta. But he had no acquaintance with the owners to interrupt his solitude, for he had hired it from the steward to whom their affairs were entrusted. It had attracted his fancy, though it was much out of order, from having a gallery of pictures, chiefly portraits, still remaining, and in good preservation. There was also a large neglected garden with a terrace along the river, and in its shady overgrown walks the Englishman sat or wandered for many hours of the day. But he also spent much time in the picturegallery, conversing with the grave old senators, saturating his mind with the colours of Tintoretto, and Paolo Veronese, and contemplating like a modern Paris the goddesses of Titian's pencil. But there was one picture which gradually won his very heart. It was a portrait by Giorgione of a young Venetian lady; and the old servant of the house called her La Celestina. She had the full and luxurious Venetian form; but, unlike any of the other female portraits, there was a profusion of rather light brown hair flowing down her back, as one sees in some of the early Italian pic tures of the Virgin, and the sunny stream fell from a wreath of bay leaves. Her dress was of dark green

silk. An antique bust of an old man was represented on a table before her, and her right hand and raised forefinger seemed to indicate that both she and the spectator on whom her divine eyes were fixed, must listen to some expected oracle from the marble lips.

She might have served as a lovely symbol of the fresh present world listening to the fixed and Sibylline past. Her eyes were large and dark, but not lustrous; they seemed rather heavy, with an inward thoughtful melancholy, as if there were something in her situation or character more solemn than her years or circumstances could have led us to expect. There was, however, no tradition of her story, except that she was a daughter of the family, which still possessed the palace and the picture, and that she had died in early life.

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"Before this figure the young Englishman would remain for an hour or two at a time, endeavouring to shape out for himself some distinct view of her being and story. This was idle work, as it led him to no definite and lasting creation, but it occupied him for the time as well as any thing else that he was likely to have done. and by his fancy so gained upon him that he had the chamber next to that part of the gallery where the picture was, arranged as his bedroom, that so he might be near his incorporeal mistress even during the hours of sleep. One night, soon after this change had been made, while he was lying in bed and musing of Celestina, he thought he heard a noise in the gallery consecrated to her, low voices, and a light step. He felt, I believe, nay cherished, some dash of superstitious fear in his character, and he did not rise to examine into the matter.

The next night was that of the full moon, and again he heard the same sound; and again for the third time on the night following. Then it ceased, and for some days he was in much perplexity. The gallery by day-light presented no appearance of change. He brooded over the remembrance, whether founded in fact or imagination, till it struck him that, perhaps, there was a connexion between the sounds and the age of the moon when they were heard, and that, if so, they might possibly return at the next corresponding period. He grew thin and nervous with anxiety, and resolved at all hazards to endeavour to clear up the secret. The night before the full moon came, and with it the sounds-the light whispers murmured and sang along the high walls and ceilings, and the steps flitted like fairies from end to end of the galleries. But even now he could not resolve to part with the tremulous pleasure of the mystery. The following night, that of the full moon, he felt worn-out, fretted, and desperate. Again the sounds were heard, the doors opened and closed, the steps throbbed in his heart, the indistinguishable words flew on, till he caught, in a low but clear tone, the name of Celestina. He seized a sword and stepped silently to a door near him which opened into the gallery, and was in deep shadow. Unclosing it slowly, he looked down the long room, and there opposite the place of the well-known picture, stood, in the bright moonlight, Celestina herself upon the floor. The right hand was raised like that on the canvass, as if to listen, and the eyes were looking earnestly into the depth of gloom which hid the Englishman. He let fall his sword, let go the door, which closed before him, and when he had again courage to open it the gallery was empty, and the still clear light fell only on a vacant surface.

"The consequence to him of this event was a severe illness, and a friend and fellow-countryman was sent for from Venice to attend his sick-bed. This visitor gradually obtained an outline of the facts from the sufferer, and then applied to the old Italian servant in order to arrive at a reasonable explanation. But he stoutly denied all knowledge of any thing that

could throw light upon the matter. Next day the friend found upon his table a slip of paper, on which was written in a beautiful female hand, a request that he would present himself in the easternmost arbour of the garden at the hour of the siesta. He of course did so, and found there a lady in a dark dress, and closely veiled. She said, in fine Italian, that she had begged to see him, in order to repair, if possible, the mischief which had been accidentally done. 'My father,' she continued, the owner of this palace, is of a proud but impoverished Venetian family. His son is an officer in an Austrian Regiment, which has been stationed for some years in Hungary; and I am the old man's only companion. He is, perhaps, a little peculiar and eccentric in his habits and character, and all his strongest feelings are directed towards the memory of his ancestors whose abode is now occupied by your friend. Nothing but necessity would have induced him to let it to a stranger, and to reside in the small house in the neighbourhood which we now inhabit. He still perpetually recurs to the traditional stories of his family's former greatness; and it is a favourite point of belief with him that his daughter closely resembles the Celestina whose picture is in the gallery, and whose name she bears. Owing to this fancy, he is never satisfied unless he sees her dressed in imitation of the idolized portrait. But, as he no longer inhabits the house, and does not choose to present himself to its occupier in a light which he considers so unworthy, he could gratify his love for the pictures only by visiting them at night, at a time when the moon affords a light by which, imperfect as it is, his ancestors appear to him distinct and beautiful beings. Nor could he be long contented with this solitary pleasure, but insisted that I should accompany him. We have more than once entered through a door from the gardens, and it was on the last of these occasions that I thought I heard a noise, and while I listened, the door at the end of the gallery was opened, and then violently closed again. On this alarm we immediately escaped as we had entered, and the strange consequences to your friend have been to me a source of much regret. We heard of his

illness from our old servant Antonio, the only person who knew of our nightly visits. To convince you that this is the whole secret, I have put on the dress I then wore, and you shall judge for yourself of my resemblance to the picture.'

"So saying, she threw aside her veil and mantle, and surprised the stranger with the view of her noble eyes, and of her youthful Italian beauty, clothed in the dress of rich green silk, which closely imitated that of the painted Celestina. Her hearer was amused by the mistake, and delighted by her explanation. He ventured to ask the lady, that when his sick friend should be a little recovered, she would complete her kindness by enabling him to judge for himself of the beautiful resemblance which had so misled him. She said, that she would willingly do so, and only regretted that, from her father's turn of character, it would be almost impossible to make him assent to any meeting with the present occupier of his ancient palace. She, therefore, said that it must be again a private interview, and might take place at the same spot on the third day following. Her new acquaintance was compelled to return to Venice, and so could not carry on the adventure in his own person. But the account which he gave to his friend soon restored the patient to strength and cheerfulness. Immediately after his companion's departure he had the green and shady arbour prepared for the expected meeting. A collation

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of choice fruits, sweetmeats, and wine were set out in silver vessels on a marble table. The ghost-seer, dressed according to his own fancy in the garb of a Venetian cavalier of the old time, waited for his guest, who did not fail him. He thought her far more beautiful than the picture. They sat side by side, with the glowing feelings of southern and imaginative youth. She sang for him and played on a guitar which he had taken care to place at hand; and he felt himself gifted with undreamt-of happiness. They met again more than once, and walked together along the gallery, where he could at leisure compare her with Giorgione's Celestina, and give his own the deliberate preference. he was at last dismayed by hearing from her, that she was designed by her father for a conventual life, in order to preserve the remnant of his fortune exclusively for his son. The Englishman's decision was soon taken. He, too, was of noble birth, and had wealth enough to make fortune in his wife unimportant. He gained the father's consent to their marriage, and she is now the mistress of an old English country-house. She looks on the portraits by Vandyke on its walls with as much pleasure as she ever derived from those of Titian, for she now tries to find in them a likeness to more than one young face that often rests upon her knee. Of this new generation, the eldest and the loveliest is called, like herself, Celestina."

When Walsingham had ended, and replaced the book, Miss Harcourt took it down again and found that it was a work by Mr Jeremy Bentham. She turned the volume over in the most helpless bewilderment, and then showed it to Maria and to Hastings. But the poet turned from the group and said, carelessly, "Those only find who know where to look."

On the evening of a following day, when the clear night had overspread a sky still warm with sunset, and glimmered on a rill before the windows, several of the guests passed from the drawing-room to the terrace, and among these was Maria. She soon

left her companions, and wandered down a flight of steps in the quiet and dusky garden. She stood alone leaning against a large marble urn, and looked at the water as it glanced past her on a level with the turf, and but a few inches from her foot.

How beautiful, she thought, is every drop as it flits through the light, and how swiftly does it pass to utter darkness! Fleeting gleams in a world of obscurity-such are life's best joys for those whose life is richest for all devoid of Christian faith,

She looked up at the sky and sighed. Sir Charles, who was not far off, though she did not know of his pre

sence, thought he had never seen her so beautiful. She reminded him of one of his own statues of a nymph. He came and stood beside her and said, "The sky promises fine weather for to-morrow, I trust."

"Oh, does it? It is very lovely. I do not know why it is that the present is never more beautiful than during a fine summer night, yet it always makes us think rather of the past and the future. The past, too, seems so long and various, and the future, only one great moment."

"Well, Miss Lascelles, for my part I never was more inclined to enjoy the present, and take advantage of it. I have not so often the pleasure of seeing you at Beechurst as to be able now to think of any thing else."

"Such a scene as this, I should imagine, could want no additions to make it perfectly delightful."

"Oh! I could fancy it permanently embellished in a very high degree." "Indeed? I confess it does not occur to me what is wanting."

"Ah, Miss Lascelles, it is I who feel it, but it is to you that I must look for a remedy."

"To me, Sir Charles Harcourt? What can you mean?"

"Need I explain myself further?" and he endeavoured to take her by the hand; "I hoped you had long perceived how entirely my happiness depends on you.”

She drew her hand away, and said, with perfect composure," I assure you the thought is quite new to me, and one that gives me no pleasure. I trust you will soon find some one both much worthier of your regard, and more capable of repaying it as it deserves." So saying she walked towards the terrace.

"Still allow me to hope that my future endeavours to merit your approbation need not be in vain. I only venture to ask, my dear Miss Lascelles, that I may not be compelled to regard your present language as unchangeable."

She turned round, and there was a

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pale light from the sky upon her face while she answered," Believe me, I would not trifle with any one's feelings, however little chance there may be of giving serious pain. I assure you that no length of time can so far alter my mind as to make me a suitable object of your attentions."

The manner was still more decisive than the words, and he at once replied,

"I can then only express my regret that I have troubled you on the subject, and beg that what has passed between us may not be unnecessarily told to others."

So highly cultivated was the lover's indifference, that on their return to the drawing-room it was impossible to suppose he had been conversing of any thing more important than the flowers or the weather. Maria was a little more disturbed than he, and somewhat paler than usual. She took up a book of engravings, and looked for five minutes at the title-page, which happened to be turned upside down. She thought how different had been the manner and the words, the bursting broken language and faltering tone of Arthur, and then the triumphant tearful delight when he had won from her an avowal of her affection. Her steady and earnest eyes and motionless attitude had a strange look in the midst of the gay and shifting party. Walsingham saw her from a distance, and looked at first surprised. He then glanced aside, with a very slight expression of sarcasm on his lip, at Sir Charles Harcourt, who was seated at ecarté with a lady. His gaze returned swiftly to Maria, and his whole aspect appeared strengthened and enlarged by the presence of a high and beautiful image. In a few moments she resumed her self-possession, and smiled while she thought of the formal and elaborate manner of her wooer, of the look, the language, and the man, all so far removed from whatever she could imagine of love. She was soon asked to sing, and chose the following song, which Walsingham had that morning written down for her :

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Sir Charles Harcourt's dressingroom was fitted up with effeminate luxury and magnificence. He was seated in it alone at night with a mu seum of toys, trinkets, and furniture about him, and in the midst of several lights, reflected by large mirrors. A headache had led him to retire earlier than usual, and the splendid clock upon the chimney-piece, of which the gilt statuary represented Narcissus at the fountain, now struck twelve. The baronet turned pale, and closed his eyes. He opened them again and looked up, trembling as if he had expected to see a gigantic hand and dagger raised above him. It was the hour of the charm. In that moment he remembered both all the story of the last week, and all the previous life of Sir Charles Harcourt, and at the same time felt and knew again that till seven days before he had been Arthur Edmonstone. As a man stands at the junction of two converging vistas, and with a turn of the eye can look down one or other, although they widen to miles apart, and sees the one travel over hill and dale, and end on the summit of a rugged mountain, while the other, between clipped elms, stretches out of sight along a smooth green meadow, so he could now look back upon two lives as if both of them had been his own. He could not know these two existences as he now did, without comparing them. While he remembered all that Arthur Edmonstone had been, his active and

many-sided life, the bright colours of feeling and imagination, and the range of talent and knowledge that then were his, it seemed, on turning to the state in which he now found himself, that all was shrunk and withered. The outward clothing and attributes, indeed, were splendid, but he discovered within his breast only mean faculties and vulgar aims, and chiefly the wish to be admired as a patron and a gentleman, without any enjoyment of the realities which, for him, were only convenient fictions. He reflected, also, on the strange scene which had taken place that evening with Maria, and her cold polite contempt, and he shivered at the thought, while he saw the form of Sir Charles Harcourt reflected in the four large mirrors. For a moment it occurred to him that he would be Arthur again. But he looked at his ring, and remembered the old man's warning, that if once he returned to his original being, his privilege would be for ever forfeited. He thought of a score of different characters, each of which, in some respects, he should like to assume. But everything connected with his own station in life now seemed to him hollow and barren, and smitten with the curse of Sir Charles Harcourt's self-contempt. A freer, simpler, humbler existence alone seemed really desirable. The stern moral superiority of Maria, and the thought of an unattainable union with her, drove him as far as possible away in a different direction. At the