was mystery, and, in the darkness which enveloped me, some inevitable evil, if not death itself, lay concealed.

Ippolito overtook me, and delivered up my weapons with looks of sorrow. We proceeded together to the proposed place of meeting. The Count of Marsino was there, attended by another. We saluted each other, and proceeded to a field close at hand, and, reaching a group of acacia and tulip-trees, we halted.

"This is the time for thee to explain thy conduct towards my family, or to die!" exclaimed Marsino. And he drew his sword.

Seeing that I maintained silence, my antagonist started from his tranquil posture, and, expressing victory in every limb, commenced the attack. His activity and courage threw me instantly on my defence, and I long retained the advantage over my opponent. My anger, which had been suddenly roused, subsided as we fought, and left behind it a cool, determined resolution to conquer. More than once I could have pierced my opponent, but resisted the temptation, in order to obtain my triumph only after a hard conflict. I reflected as I fought, still deeming myself opposed to Doom. I cared not for victory until, after sparing his life repeatedly, Marsino should at length sink under the weight of his destiny. With this insane feeling I suddenly sacrificed every advantage, and ceased to fight.

"Marsino," I called out, "thy time is come, and, if thou hast no request to make, or no fond message to thy kindred, prepare thy thoughts to die."

He was deeply offended at my address, and sprang at me with the fierceness of a savage. I beat his sword from his grasp, and made a sign to him with my own to resume his weapon. The feat I had performed was victory, but the struggle was not over. The pride of my adversary was too great; he would not stoop for his sword, but must pursue the contest breast to breast. "It was thus," thought I, "that Orazio demeaned himself. Fate approves the precedent. Does she adopt it to avenge my brother's fall, or to encourage me? This steel slew Orazio, this arm directed the blow; and even thus do I offer up Marsino as another victim!" Saying this, I communicated a fatal impulse to my dagger; the point entered; the Count di Marsino fell, and, drawing his cloak around him, gathered himself unto his fathers.

My prospects were for a moment brightened, but I subdued my triumph in the presence of the dead. I felt regret, indeed, and whispered the sacred word, that "He who sheddeth man's blood, by man shall his blood be shed."

To Ippolito I said, "Depart, my child, and I will return home alone. Leave me to my meditations." And to the friend of the dead my only word was, "Farewell!"

I wandered from the field in sadness: the preservation of my life was no boon to me-I had numbered another with the dead. It no longer seemed to me that I had conquered fate, but rather that I was in the hands of that irresistible power who had betrayed me to the lord of my late companion. What would be thra's emotion when she heard of her husband's death and the name of his destroyer? Yet, what did that signify was there not another name who must hear that I carried at my side a bloody haud? Could I not, for her sake, have remained spotless:

I had seen her image in the caverns before Orazio's death; and now had I committed another crime in the presence of him who, in purity of heart and in face, was another Adora!

"O Marsino!" thought I, "hadst thou been a thinker, instead of an actor, in the events of time; hadst thou anatomised the impulse which hurried thee into this snare of death, an impulse which seemed natural and just, thou hadst seen that mortals may escape with credit and honour that self-immolation into which they are often blindly hurried by passion. But thy heart was of that spongelike texture which can swell only with pride. Was thy blood too pure to irrigate the broad expanse of reason; was there nobility and honour only in the flood of anger? It is true that emotion, while it lasts, seems just and incapable of deceiving; it is true that its instalment gives the soul a sense of power before which all nature seems to quake, and man appears truly punishable. Alas! that it should be too late for thee to learn."

My thoughts next reverting to the Inquisition, brought Thanatos to my mind in colours most diabolical. Could he have pursued his hatred to Milan, and armed Marsino against me? It could be no other. I had inflicted a mortal wound in his vanity, and on my death he sought a cure. For vengeance has medicinal power; it removes the disease of hatred; it repairs the hurts of vanity and pride, where forgiveness has no virtue, and philosophy is unknown.

While thus troubled in mind, I was struck to the ground by a sharp blow with a stiletto. I felt the hot blood flow down my back, and my senses were dimmed by the cold chill of death: ere long I was deprived of consciousness. When I think of the condition in which I existed, I seem to gain some knowledge by negative means of the state of death. Sleep is a condition which is understood when over, for when consciousness slumbers life proceeds in its office and preserves its impressions-at the waking hour the soul knows that she has slept. So when the sleep of death thus comes and goes, we learn something of the tomb.

I was discovered, and conveyed to an inn in the Forum. The insensibility of my frame continued; my wounds were examined, and deemed mortal, and I was given up for dead. The people were allowed to enter the apartment in the hope that some one might identify the body; crowds came and departed; I was unknown to all. It was about the hour of twilight when I awoke from this apparent sleep of death, feeling as well acquainted with the dull silence of the grave, as in better days I had been with the sweets of slumber. Through my eyelashes I saw a dense crowd round me. I opened my eyes widely; I beheld Thanatos; he was in the act of examining my face! All started back; I pointed out my mortal enemy, and whispered, "He is the murderer!"

My eyes closed again, I heard some one cry,—a miracle; a scuffle ensued. Relapsing, I heard no more.

For days I continued in a state of unconsciousness, except at moments when roused by thirst, and the torture of my wounds. The first person I saw when my eyes met the light again was Ippolito. I smiled on him, and pressed his hand approvingly; his eyes swam in tears of affection and delight to find that at last there were symptoms of recovery, and that in the first moments of returning life I was sensible of his vigilance. During a period of several weeks I lay feeble as a child, and at the

mercy of all mankind. Let the fanatic swear that evil is dominant in the world; let misanthropes denounce their species; but, judging by myself, I would maintain that benevolence is diffused through the earth. It is more equally distributed than riches, for all men share nearly alike, and thence it seldom surprises by its greatness or splendour. But it exists in every dwelling, it dwells in every breast; and though sometimes hoarded instead of being spent; though sometimes put out at usury by the miser of good that its fruits may return, it circulates through empires like the money of the land, and protects the sick and wounded in times of trouble.

This truth I learned on a bed of pain, and to this hour it has never been forgotten. Yes, it pleased the Arbitrator of my lot to notice me in my affliction; to teach me sound doctrines in the hour of sickness, which I remembered when I was sick again. Though, in the candour of my confessions, I relate the vilest acts and the most revolutionary doctrines; though oftentimes the fiendish joy, which in other days I felt in doing wrong, starts into expression, and seems still to linger round the memory of crime, I have changed for the better, and am ever changing!

I called not the shaven priest to my bedside, for I loved not the class which owns not love for woman, and boasts not paternal ties. Nature is dried up in the heart of priests; the glow of affection cherishes not that soil; the tear irrigates it not; the seed-time never comes; there is no harvest; but life is like a river flowing without an ebb through a sandy desert into the cold ocean of eternity. No, I summoned not the priest. When I prayed I addressed my supplication to the Priest who is on high; not in sentences which need translation ere obtruded on the all-harmonious ear, but in thought, which is in itself immortal, and is the language of the Trinity and the hosts of heaven.

Start not at my boldness, but be content to hear. All that I have conceived and done must be recorded; all that can be elicited from the mind, that fountain of all nature's types, must be preserved; for the period will arrive for One to weigh all facts, and all ideas; then will all truth be proved. Not on earth alone, which is so small a portion of the whole! Every star is inhabited, intellect pervades the systems, the mysteries of each world are to be separately solved, and, as the mental powers get larger, and are evolved under novel forms, sympathy is to be extended, and worlds will have to learn the truth of worlds. The earths all have their historians. Time is the recorder of all. To collect truths, to weigh them in scales, to decide their import, to write it on his scintillating brow, that finally the eyes of man may decipher the wondrous inscription-such is the work of Time.

In this vast system I have been, indeed, a mean actor, but it is not in himself that man must glory, but in his relation to the whole.

176

FLORENCE HAMILTON.

BY MISS JULIA ADDISON.

[This Tale, commenced several months ago, has been unavoidably interrupted, but will henceforth be regularly continued until completion.-ED.]

CHAPTER VI.

THE dinner was very splendid; good spirits and gaiety seemed to prevail amongst the company: the archers talked over their various feats, and every one seemed inclined to please and be pleased, except Sir Robert Craven, who, as he sat at table surrounded by every luxury, was silent, sullen, and evidently ill at ease.

Florence was next to him, and good-naturedly addressed him several times, but he answered even her abruptly, and seemed to have no wish to

converse.

Florence, disgusted with his unamiable temper and manners, soon ceased to take any notice of him, and in the conversation of Wentworth, who was seated on the other side of her, before long forgot even the presence of the sulky baronet.

In the mean time, Craven's dislike to, and jealousy of, Wentworth increased every moment.

"To see how that fellow takes the lead in the conversation," he soliloquised, "and how every one listens to and admires him! And above all, what business has he to talk so much to Florence? Who is he, I wonder? A haughty upstart, of whom no one knows anything, and who yet bears himself as if he were a lord at least. Then the confounded coolness and self-possession which he maintains on every occasion! It was an unlucky day when he and I first came in contact."

These feelings were not softened by observing that Wentworth's talents and intellectual powers, which were of the highest order, seemed to be fully appreciated by the assembled guests, among whom were many eminent for refined and cultivated taste, and many severally distinguished in science, literature, and art.

When the ladies retired to the drawing-room, they could speak of nothing but Captain Wentworth. All praised him with enthusiasm; all joined in admiration of his handsome person, his brilliant conversation, and fascinating manners, excepting one, who had been the object of his especial attention, and she stood, silent and thoughtful, at some distance from any of the lively groups.

Florence," said Lady Louisa Tufton, advancing towards her, "you are now as perfect a personification of 'Il Penseroso,' as you were a little while since of L'Allegro.' But I cannot allow you to be melancholy amidst

The joyous revel, and gay festive scene,

as Mr. Silverdale says, in his last poem."

Florence smiled, and, as she joined in the sportive conversation going on around her, endeavoured to forget the disagreeable subject which had just before occupied her mind.

This subject was her guardian's earnest wish for her union with Sir

Robert Craven, whom it seemed to her she had never disliked so much as to-night, when he was contrasted with a man so superior to any one she had ever seen before.

"He has told Lady Seagrove that he loves me," she said to herself. "Had he but an amiable temper and estimable character, however disagreeable he might be in other respects, I could-at least I think I could make the sacrifice; but as it is, I feel that I had rather die than consent to a marriage with him."

CHAPTER VII.

Unknown to them, when sensual pleasures cloy,
To fill the languid pause with finer joy;

Unknown those powers that raise the soul to flame,
Catch every nerve, and vibrate through the frame;
Their level life is but a smould❜ring fire.

GOLDSMITH.

SILVERDALE and Pemberton were among the first to join the ladies in the drawing-room. A discussion was being carried on as to the advantages and disadvantages of solitude, and the opinions of the new comers were asked.

"To me," said Pemberton, "there is nothing so horrible as feeling solitary anywhere, or at any time, and I deem it a great misfortune ever to be alone for many hours together."

"What!” exclaimed Silverdale, "when you are surrounded with

with

with

Hedge-row elms, and hillocks green;

Babbling brooks, and silver streaming floods;

Hills and dales, and woods, and lawns, and spires?"

"Charming," said Pemberton. "When I go into the country to ruralise entirely by myself, I am always delighted with solitude for a week or so, but after that I begin to want music, and literature, and society." "Well," rejoined Silverdale, "is there not the music of the spheres ? cannot you find

or

Books in the running brooks,

Hold high converse with the mighty dead?”

"I would rather hear the music of the Italian Opera than that of the spheres," said Pemberton; "and if you give me a good novel, you may keep all the books you can find in the running brooks. As to the mighty dead, they are delightful when one is studious, now and then; but, in general, I own that the converse of the intellectual living pleases me better. I believe that many people rave about the charms of the country, and abuse London, because they think it sounds sentimental and uncommonplace."

"But, Mr. Pemberton," said Lady Louisa Tufton, "you generally pass half the year in the country yourself."

"I do. But pray understand that none of my observations apply to a place like this, where the charms of woods and lawns are combined with delightful society, and which is also in the immediate vicinity of a