invisible virtues, clothed in the tender recollections of their discovery and developement. If he remembers her features at all, it is the changing colour of her cheek, or the droop of her curved lashes, or the witchery of the smile that welcomed him. And even then he was intoxicated with her voice-always a sweet instrument when the heart plays upon it-and his eye was good for nothing. Noit is no matter what she may be to others-she appears to him like a bright and perfect being, and he would as soon paint St Cecilia with a wart as his mistress with an imperfect feature.

Duncan could not satisfy himself. He painted with his heart on fire, and he threw by canvass after canvass till his room was like a gallery of angels. In perfect despair, at last, he sat down and made a deliberate copy of her features-the exquisite picture of which we have spoken. Still, the eye haunted him. He felt as if it would redeem all if he could give it the expression with which it looked back some of his impassioned declarations. His skill, however, was, as yet, baffled, and it was at the close of the third day of unsuccessful effort that he relinquished in despair, and, dropping his head upon his easel, abandoned himself to his imagination.

Duncan entered the gallery with Helen leaning on his arm. It was thronged with visitors. Groups were collected before the favourite pictures, and the low hum of criticism rose confusedly, varied, now and then, by the exclamation of some enthusiastic spectator. In a conspicuous part of the room hung The Mute Reply, by Duncan Weir.' A crowd had gathered before it, and were gazing on it with evident pleasure. Expressions of surprise and admiration broke frequently from the group, and as they fell on the ear of Duncan, he felt an irresistible impulse to approach and look at his own picture. What is like the affection of a painter for the offspring of his genius? It seemed to him as if he had never before seen it. There it hung like a new picture, and he dwelt upon it with all the interest of a stranger. It was indeed beautiful. There was a bewitching loveliness floating over the features. The figure and air had a peculiar grace and freedom; but the eye showed the genius of the master. It was a large, lustrous eye, moistened without weeping, and lifted up, as if to the face of a lover, with a look of indescribable tenderness. The deception was wonderful. It seemed every moment as if the moisture would gather into a tear, and roll down her cheek. There was a strange freshness in its impression upon Duncan. It seemed to have the very look that had sometimes beamed upon him in the twilight. He turned from it and looked at Helen. Her eyes met his with the same-the selfsame expression of the picture. A murmur of pleased recognition

stole from the crowd whose attention was attracted.

Duncan burst

into tears and awoke. He had been dreaming on his easel!

'Do you believe in dreams, Helen?" said Duncan, as he led her into the studio the next day to look at the finished picture.

LANGSYNE.

LANGSYNE!-how doth the word come back
With magic meaning to the heart,
As memory roams the sunny track,

From which hope's dreams were loath to part!--
No joy like by-past joy appears;

For what is gone we freak and pine.
Were life spun out a thousand years,
It could not match Langsyne!

Langsyne-the days of childhood warm,
When, tottering by a mother's knee,
Each sight and sound had power to charm,
And hope was high, and thought was free.
Langsyne!-the merry schoolboy days-
How sweetly then life's sun did shine!
Oh! for the glorious pranks and plays,
The raptures of Langsyne!

Langsyne!-yes, in the sound, I hear
The rustling of the summer grove;
And view those angel features near
Which first awoke the heart to love
How sweet it is in pensive mood,
At windless midnight to recline,
And fill the mental solitude
With spectres from Langsyne!

Langsyne! ah, where are they who shared
With us its pleasures bright and blithe?
Kindly with some hath fortune fared;
And some have bow'd beneath the scythe
Of death; while others scatter'd far

-O'er foreign lands at fate repine,

Oft wandering forth, 'neath twilight's star,
To muse on dear Langsyne!

Langsyne-the heart can never be
Again so full of guileless trust;
Langsyne! the eyes no more shall see,
Ah no! the rainbow hopes of youth.
Langsyne with thee resides a spell
To raise the spirit, and refine.
Farewell!-there can be no farewell
To thee, loved, lost Langsyne!

DELT

GOD'S JUDGMENT ON A BISHOP

Here followeth the History of HATTO, Archbishop of Mentz.

It happened in the year 914, that there was an exceeding great famine in Germany, at what time Otho surnamed the Great was Emperor, and one Hatto, once Abbot of Fulda, was Archbishop of Mentz, of the Bishops after Crescens and Crescentius the two and thirtieth, of the Archbishops after St Bonifacius the thirteenth.-This Hatto in the time of this great famine afore-mentioned, when he saw the poor people of the country exceedingly oppressed with famine, assembled a great company of them together into a Barn, and, like a most ac cursed and merciless caitiff, burnt up those poor innocent souls, that were so far from doubting any such matter, that they rather hoped to receive some comfort and relief at his hands. The reason that moved the prelate to commit that execrable impiety was, because he thought the famine would the sooner cease, if those unprofitable beggars that consumed more bread than they were worthy to eat, were despatched out of the world. For he said that those poor folks were like to Mice, that were good for nothing but to devour corn. But God Almighty, the just avenger of the poor folks' quarrel, did not long suffer this heinous tyranny, this most detestable fact, unpunished. For he mustered up an army of Mice against the Archbishop, and sent them to persecute him as his furious Alastors, so that they afflicted him both day and night, and would not suffer him to take his rest in any place. Whereupon the Prelate thinking that he should be secure from the injury of Mice if he were in a certain tower, that standeth in the Rhine near to the town, betook himself into the said tower as to a safe refuge and sanctuary from his enemies, and locked himself in. But the innumerable troops of Mice chased him continually very eagerly, and swam unto him upon the top of the water to execute the just judgment of God, and so at last he was most miserably devoured by those silly creatures; who pursued him with such bitter hostility, that it is recorded they scraped and gnawed his very name from the walls and tapestry wherein it was written, after they had so cruelly devoured his body. Wherefore the tower wherein he was eaten up by the Mice is shown to this day, for a perpetual monument to all succeeding ages of the barbarous and inhuman tyranny of this impious Prelate, being situate in a little green island in the midst of the Rhine near to the town of Bing, and is commonly called in the German Tongue, the MOWSE-TURN.-CORYAT's Crudities, p, 571, 572.

Other Authors who record this tale say that the Bishop was eaten by Rats.

And they should have food for the winter there. In the morning as he entered the hall

Rejoiced such tidings good to hear,
The poor folk flock'd from far and near
The great barn was full as it could hold
Of women and children, and young and old.

Then when he saw it could hold no more,
Bishop Hatto he made fast the door;

Where his picture hung against the wall,
A sweat like death all over him came,
For the Rats had eaten it out of the frame

As he look'd there caine a man from his farm,
He had a countenance white with alarm,
"My Lord, I open'd your granaries this morn,
And the rats had eaten all your corn."

* Hodie Bingen.

SOOTHED by the self-same ditty, see the infant and the sire;
That smiling on the nurse's knee, this weeping by the fire;
Where unobserved he finds a joy to list its plaintive tone,
And silently his thoughts employ on sorrows all his own.

At once it comes, by memory's power, the loved habitual theme,
Reserved for twilight's darkling hour, a voluntary dream!
And as with thoughts of former years his weakly eyes o'erflow
None wonder at an old man's tears, or seek his grief to know.

Think not he doats because he weeps; conclusion, ah! how wrong !
Reason with grief joint empire keeps, indissolubly strong;

And oft in age a helpless pride with jealous weakness pines,

(To second infancy allied) and every woe refines.

He ponders on his infant years, when first his race began,

And, oh! how wonderful appears the destiny of man!

How swift those lovely hours were past, in darkness closed how soon!
As if a winter's night o'ercast the brightest summer's noon.

His wither'd hand he holds to view, with nerves once firmly strung,
And scarcely will believe it true that ever he was young.
And as he thinks o'er all his ills, disease, neglect, and scorn,

Strange pity of himself he feels, thus aged and forlorn.

The Bachelor's Wife.

THE STORY OF THE CROSS-BONES.

In an obscure corner of the town of Galway stands a house of extreme antiquity, over the door of which are still to be seen a skull and cross-bones, remarkably well sculptured in black marble. This house is called "The Cross-bones," and its tragical history is as follows:

In the fifteenth century, James Lynch, a man of old family and great wealth, was chosen mayor of Galway for life;-an office which was then nearly equal to that of a sovereign in power and influence. He was reverenced for his inflexible rectitude, and loved for his condescension and mildness. But yet more beloved,—the idol of the citizens and their fair wives,-was his son, according to the Chronicle, one of the most distinguished young men of the time. To perfect manly beauty and the most noble air, he united that cheerful temper, that considerate familiarity, which subdues while it seems to flatter,-that attaching grace of manner which conquers all hearts without an effort, by its mere natural charm. On the other hand, his oft approved patriotism, his high-hearted generosity, his romantic courage, and complete mastery in all warlike exercises, forming part of an education singular in his age and country, secured to him the permanency of an esteem, which his first aspect involuntarily bespoke.

So much light was not without shadow. Deep and burning passions, a haughty temper, jealousy of all rival merit, rendered all his fine qualities only so many sources of danger to himself and others. Often had his stern father, although proud of such a son, cause for bitter reproof, and for yet more anxious solicitude about the future. But even he could not resist the sweetness of the youth,-as quick to repent as to err, and who never for a moment failed in love and reverence to himself. After his first displeasure was past, the defects of his son appeared to him, as they did to all others, only spots on the sun. He was soon still further tranquillized by the vehement and tender attachment which the young man appeared to have conceived for Anna Blake, the daughter of his best friend, and a girl possessing every lovely and attaching quality. He looked forward to their union, as to the fulfilment of all his wishes. But fate had willed it otherwise.

While young Lynch found more difficulty in conquering the

From the Tour of a German Prince, in England, Ireland, and France, in the years 1828-29.'