My uncle was a warm-hearted and hospitable man, with a leaning towards superstition. A ghost story was his delight, and he would listen to a narrative of goblins and fairies with intense interest. Many a cunning fellow took advantage of this, and often invented tales of people "coming again" (the re-appearance of persons after death is thus termed in Berkshire) for his edification. One fine evening in the spring of the year 17-, my revered relative, and four friends, were sitting within the little bow-window of his house at C-, chatting on various subjects, when my uncle entered upon his favourite theme, and treated his guests with two or three narratives of undoubted authenticity.

First, how Jem, the gardener, had seen a blue light dancing in the chancel window of the old church on the very night that farmer R's eldest son got so drunk at market, that, on his road home, he fell from his horse and broke his neck, to the great grief of his father, but to the inexpressible joy of the whole village. Secondly, how the devil, in the time of his grandfather (!), was wont to dance every night round a huge thistle in the paddock; and, lastly, how the shepherd's son Dick had been almost terrified to death by the appearance of a strange animal, which, after changing itself successively into a calf, a hog, and a goat, finished the hellish pantomime by vanishing in a flame of fire! During these recitals there were plenty of ohs! and ahs! you may be sure; but one of the company, whose organ of credulity was not so fully developed, took the liberty of expressing his total unbelief in such "stuff," as he termed it, and rashly ventured to assert that these tales were invented by old women, who repeated them so often that they at length believed them to be true, and persuaded others to do the same. The unbeliever was a young man, named George N-, who had arrived the preceding day from Oxford, where he had been pursuing his studies. He was of a romantic turn,

and wrote poetry for the magazines; but, though he could have relished a bit of true German diablerie, these village tales only excited his laughter.

My uncle took several rapid whiffs at his pipe, and then attacked the scoffer in right earnest. He shewed that to believe in ghosts was a part of the christian creed; that from time immemorial these supernatural visitants were permitted to warn the good and terrify the wicked, and that, in fact, to be sceptical on such a subject argued a leaning towards Socinianism, and other heresies. The student saw that it was of no use to attempt to controvert the opinion which his host had maintained in such orthodox style, and, before long, was himself an attentive listener to the numerous ghost stories related by the company.

"Ay, ay," said mine uncle, as one of the guests concluded a narrative replete with hobgoblinry-"that's nothing to what we have in this village, on the anniversary of this very night. You must know, gentlemen, that in the time of the civil wars there was a sharp skirmish one night between a party of Royalists and the Parliamentarians, in which the former were great sufferers. It was a severe conflict, though of short duration, and many noble fellows were slain on both sides. The next day a large pit was dug in the church-yard, and about forty Englishmen were tumbled into this rude grave in the land of their fathers without the burial service, for the clergyman had fled from the village. The Royalists, wearing their shirts over their clothes, advanced upon the village in the hope of surprising their enemies, but their approach was discovered; yet so fiercely was the charge made, that the Roundheads were driven out, but not until the attacking party had nearly half their number killed or disabled. Well, gentlemen, this skirmish on every anniversary of that fatal night, is performed by phantoms, who go through the scene of strife with the same energy as the originals. I have heard say, that it is an awful sight, and dangerous to the beholder, to whom it is also a bad omen."

Here the student smiled incredulously. My uncle did not fail to observe it.

"Well, well," he continued, "smile and doubt: I question, though, whether you would have nerve enough to witness this shadowy spectacle, notwithstanding your incredulity."

The student made no reply, because he thought that if he expressed his willing

ness to make the trial, some of the company might be upon the watch to play him a trick; but he inwardly determined to be near the spot at the particular hour; not that he anticipated any such a sight as a combat of spectres, but merely that he might have a good laugh against his host at breakfast the next morning. The church clock had struck eleven before the party broke up, and George N-was conducted to his chamber.

"Good night, George," said his host, smiling, "you will find your bed and a sound sleep, better than sitting on a stile watching the manœuvres of spectre visitants-good night."

George smiled, and closing his chamber door, threw himself on the bed without taking off his clothes, for he found that the ale he had drank had made his head somewhat lighter than his heels. He discovered also, as is the case with some persons, that it had not improved his spirits, and he began, as he afterwards confessed, to feel very old womanish. He lay for a considerable time ruminating on the strange stories he had heard, and had already planned “an Essay on Superstition," to be comprised in a small octavo volume, when the candle which had burnt down into the socket, flashed brightly for a moment and then suddenly went out, leaving the chamber but dimly lighted by the full moon.

Our student, in spite of himself, waxed each moment more nervous: he arose, and throwing up the window, looked into the garden below. It was a lovely night! the dew drops sparkled in the mild rays of the moon, and all nature seemed to slumber. George N-felt his nervousness departing as he looked on the tranquil scene, and he determined to have a stroll in the moonlight. To enjoy this without disturbing the family, he cautiously jumped from the window, which was but a little distance from the ground, into the garden, and alighted on one of the flower beds. Passing through the garden gate he entered the little paddock, in which was a colt and a pet lamb, who, startled at his appearance at that hour of the night, scampered to the farther side, and left the Student to gaze undisturbed upon the scene before him.

At the foot of the small hill on which the village stood, ran a trout stream, which, gleaming brightly in the moonlight, contrasted strongly with the long grass of the meadows through which it ran. On its summit were five venerable elms, of the same age perhaps as the rem

nant of an ancient cross which they shadowed. It had suffered in the civil wars of Charles and his parliament, and its steps had been since defaced by the rustics, who were at one time in the habit of sharpening their knives upon them, a practice which was at length forbidden by my uncle under pain of his displeasure. Behind the elms, wrapped in deep shadow, stood the small church with its square ivy covered tower, and Norman arched door with its zig-zag ornaments. In front was the road, which turned abruptly where the cross stood, and descended with a gentle slope to the stream just mentioned.

George strode along the paddock, and leaning against a stile which fronted the church, fell into a reverie. Imagination conjured up the times when the travel-worn pilgrim knelt before that now ruined cross; when the sculptured doorway of the ancient church was fresh from the chisel of the workman, gladdening the heart and delighting the eye of the pious founder. He thought, too, on the violent scenes of the reformation, and then of the skirmish which in aftertimes had taken place on that very spot, and spite of himself, he felt a thrill through his frame which recalled the nervousness he had not long since contrived to dismiss. Our student was preparing to reason himself out of this fit, when lo! he beheld two dusky figures on horseback turn the corner of the road. The tramp of their horses' feet was lost in the hollow, rushing noise, which sounded in their rear. George felt that they were not of this world, and he would have fallen to the ground from terror, had it not been for the stile upon which he now leaned. The two horsemen were clad in cuirasses and barret caps of unpolished iron, and they held their carabines in their hands, resting the butt-end on their thighs. Another minute, and the troop which they preceded appeared in sight, their armour and accoutrements hidden by their white shirts, just as had been described to the terrified mortal who now beheld them. They halted, as if by concert, and the student heard the jangle of their accoutrements as each figure wriggled himself closer into his saddle. He looked in the opposite direction, and saw a body of pikemen and musketeers suddenly wheel into the road, from under the shadow of an old barn. Instantly the leader of the infantry cried out, with a voice like the blast of a trumpet, "Pikes against cavalry!"

rapidity of lightning, and the long pikes bristled across the road, while each figure grasped in his right hand a stout cut-andthrust sword.* Then followed, in rapid succession,

"Musketeers, blow your matches! Open your pans! Give fire!"

Ere the echo had replied to this command, a broad sheet of flame flashed along the line of musketeers, reaching as far as the steel of the pikes, and the volley pealed like a thunderclap. It was answered by the two trumpeters of the cavaliers, who had moved to the road-side, and now sounded the charge, which was made with the fury of a whirlwind, amidst the smoke of the musketry, that for a moment half-concealed the combatants. The night breeze soon blew aside this veil, and the student could perceive that the ranks of the parliamentarians had been broken, and that, although they were fighting desperately in detached parties, they were falling fast under the heavy swords of the troopers. Several wounded horses were rolling in the dust, and the bodies of the fierce partisans were thickly strewed around. Our student would have fled, but his legs refused to do their office. On a sudden, several of the parliamentarians, who had thrown themselves into a ring and resisted the troopers for some time, made a rush to the stile, as if to escape from their enemies. George again attempted to move, as the fugitives advanced, with wild gestures, their eyes streaming with a supernatural light. He made an effort to speak, and the spell was at once broken; he found that he had been dreaming! He had fallen into a sound sleep immediately after he had thrown himself upon the bed, from which he now awoke trembling in every limb. The morning had dawned, and opening his chamber window, George looked out on the little garden, from which a thou

sand flowers sent up their grateful perfume. The purple-tinged clouds betokened a warm day; but at this early hour he felt himself refreshed, as the cool breeze fanned his pale cheek. At breakfast our student was moody and thoughtful, which his host observed. "Why, George," said he, " you look as pale and spiritless as if you had seen the tussle between the cavaliers and roundheads!"

"I have seen them, sir," replied George, "though in a dream; the sight might have gladdened an antiquary; there were the musketeers with their rests and lighted matches, and the pikemen in their corslets and aprons of maile,' as old Stow calls them, as plainly

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Here the piece of gammon of bacon which my honoured relative had just conveyed to his mouth was well nigh choaking him, as he burst out into a laugh that my Lord Chesterfield would have anathemized.

"I thought as much!" said he, his fat sides shaking in an awful manner; "but if you look so scared after a dream, what might we expect if a ghost were really to cross your path? But come, I will tell you a story that was related to a friend of mine some years since.'

My uncle hereupon began another awful narrative; but this must be recorded at some future time. A. A. A.

TO A WITHERED FLOWER.

Ses vives couleurs s'effacent, elle languit elle se dessèche, et sa belle tête se penche ne pouvant plus se soutenir.-Fenelon." LAST tenant of the lonely reef,

Thy bloom is gone-thy beauty wasted; Yet oft upon thy silken leaf

Ambrosial dew the bee has tasted. How sweetly rose thy tender stem, Fanned by the fostering sighs of even; Till blew the breeze, and leaf and gem Lay mould'ring 'neath a wintry heaven. Yet thou 'lt revive when genial Spring Begems the lawn with rosy finger; Again the bee with wearied wing

Upon thy honeyed leaf shall linger. But ah! when shall that Spring arrive, A deathless bloom around her throwing?

Ah, Laura! when wilt thou revive,

In renovated beauty glowing? Like that sweet floweret's was thy bloom, That bloom, alas! how short it lasted! The untimely cypress wreathes thy tomb; And hope and joy with thee are blasted. HESPER.

THE BROKEN MINIATURE. FOUNDED ON FACTS.

Two young officers belonging to the same regiment aspired to the hand of the same young lady. We will conceal their real

names under those of Albert and Horace. Two youths more noble never saw the untarnished colours of their country wave over their heads, or took more undaunted hearts into the field, or purer forms, or a more polished address, into the drawing-room.

Yet was there a marked difference in their characters, and each wore his virtues so becomingly, and one of them at least concealed his vices so becomingly also, that the maiden, who saw them both, was puzzled where to give the preference; and stood, as it were, between two flowers of very opposite colours and perfumes, and yet each of equal beauty.

Horace, who was the superior officer, was more commanding in his figure than, but not so beautiful in his features as, Albert. Horace was the more vivacious, but Albert spoke with more eloquence upon all subjects. If Horace made the more agreeable companion, Albert made the better friend. Horace did not claim the praise of being sentimental, nor Albert the fame of being jovial. Horace laughed the most with less wit, and Albert was the most witty with less laughHorace was the more nobly born, yet Albert had the better fortune; the mind that could acquire, and the circumspection that could preserve one.

ter.

Whom of the two did Matilda prefer? Yes, she had a secret, an undefined preference; yet did her inclinations walk so sisterly hand in hand with her duties, that her spotless mind could not divide them from each other. She talked the more of Horace, yet thought the more of Albert. As yet, neither of the asSir pirants had declared themselves. Oliver, Matilda's father, soon put the matter at rest. He had his private and family reasons for wishing Horace to be the favoured lover; but, as he by no means wished to lose to himself and to his daughter the valued friendship of a man of probity and of honour, he took a delicate method of letting Albert understand that every thing that he possessed, his grounds, his house, and all that belodged to them, were at his service. He excepted only his daughter.

When the two soldiers called, and they were in the habit of making their visits together, Sir Oliver had always some improvement to shew Albert, some dog for

him to admire, or some horse for him to try; and even in wet weather, there was never wanting a manuscript for him to decipher, so that he was sure to take him out of the room, or out of the house, and leave Horace alone with his daughter, uttering some disparaging remark in a jocular tone, to the effect that Horace was fit only to dance attendance upon the ladies.

Albert understood all this, and submitted. He did not strive to violate the rites of hospitality, to seduce the affections of the daughter, and outrage the feelings of the father. He was not one of those who would enter the temple of beauty, and under pretence of worshipping at the shrine, destroy it. A com mon-place lover might have done so, but Albert had no common-place mind. But did he not suffer? O! that he suffered, and suffered acutely, his altered looks, his heroic silence, and at times his forced gaiety, too plainly testified.

He kept his flame in the inmost recesses of his heart, like a lamp in a sepulchre, and which lighted up the ruins of his happiness alone.

To his daughter Sir Oliver spoke more explicitly. Her affections had not been engaged; and the slight preference that she began to feel stealing into her heart for Albert, had its nature changed at once. When she found that he could not approach her as a lover, she found to spring up for him in her bosom a regard as sisterly, and as ardent, as if the same cradle had rocked them both. She felt, and her father knew, that Albert's was a character that must be loved, if not as a husband, as a brother.

The only point upon which Matilda differed from her father, was, as to the degree of encouragement that ought to be given to Horace.

"Let us, my dear father," she would entreatingly say, "be free, at least for one year. Let us, for that period, stand committed by no engagement: we are both young, myself extremely so. A peasant maiden would lay a longer probation upon her swain. Do but ask Albert if I am not in the right?"

The appeal that she made to Albert, which ought to have assured her father of the purity of her sentiments, frightened him into a suspicion of a lurking affection having crept into her bosom.

Affairs were at this crisis when Napoleon returned from Elba, and burst like the demon of war, from a thunder cloud, upon the plains of France; and all the warlike and the valorous arose and walled

The

her in with their veteran breasts. returned hero lifted up his red right hand, and the united force of France rushed with him to battle.

The regiment of our rivals was ordered to Belgium. After many entreaties from her father, Matilda at length consented to sit for her miniature to an eminent artist; but upon the express stipulation, when it should be given to Horace, that they were still to hold themselves free. The miniature was finished, the resemblance excellent, and the exultation and rapture of Horace complete. He looked upon the possession of it, notwithstanding Matilda's stipulation, as an earnest of his happiness. He had the picture set most ostentatiously, in the finest jewels, and constantly wore it on his person; and his enemies say, that he shewed it with more freedom than the delicacy of his situation, with respect to Matilda, should have warranted.

Albert made no complaint. He acknowledged the merit of his rival eagerly, the more eagerly, as the rivalship was suspected. The scene must now change. The action at Quatre Bras has taken place. The principal body of the British troops are at Brussels, and the news of the rapid advance of the French is brought to Wellington; and the forces are, before break of day, moving forward. But where is Horace? The column of troops to which he belongs is on the line of march, but Albert, and not he, is at its head. The enemy are in sight. Glory's sunbright face gleams in the front, whilst dishonour and infamy scowl in the rear. The orders to charge are given, and at the very moment that the battle is about to join, the foaming, jaded, breathless courser of Horace, strains forward as with a last effort, and seems to have but enough strength to wheel with its rider into his station. faint huzza from the troop welcomed their leader. On, ye brave, on !

A

The edges of the battle join. The scream-the shout-the groan, and the volleying thunder of artillery, mingle in one deafening roar. The smoke clears

away-the charge is over-the whirlwind has passed. Horace and Albert are both down, and the blood wells away from their wounds, and is drunk up by the thirsty soil.

But a few days after the eventful battle of Waterloo, Matilda and Sir Oliver were alone in the drawing-room. Sir Oliver had read to his daughter, who was sitting in breathless agitation, the details of the battle, and was now reading down