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end, and, accordingly, fluttered to some more inviting sphere. The whole of the next day our hero remained in bed, weakened by loss of sleep and anxiety. In the mean time his spouse had been acquainted with all the particulars relative to her unfortunate husband; and from her own personal experience on the preceding night, as well as the prediction of the renowned oracle, no doubt was entertained in her mind but delirium, of an awful nature, would ensue. Such proved to be the case; and he, who had hitherto been sedulously employed in blistering and bleeding his fellow-creatures, was now compelled to undergo the same operation by the hand of another. The next day he was reduced to the lowest degree of weakness, for blood had been copiously extracted from his veins. His first wish was to see the mysterious stranger-"he whose wonderful attainments could enable him to foresee such fearful catastrophes, was the only one to apply the remedy." He was sent for, and soon stood by his side: he felt his pulse-"Very bad! Have you made your will?"

"What!" exclaimed the patient, in an agony, "must I die, too!"

"Why," replied his attendant, gravely, your case is very distressing, to say the best; yet," he continued, after a pause, "I feel convinced that I can even now save you; but as this is an extraordinary case, of course the fee must be in proportion."

"Oh!" exclaimed the patient and his wife, in a breath, "name any fee you like, and it shall be paid."

"Well," said the physician, "upon the immediate payment of three hundred pounds, I will engage to effect an entire cure in three days."

"Three hundred pounds!" cried the patient, in a tone of horror, "this is worse than all the blisters in the world!"

Unfortunately the old gentleman was particularly partial to that most alluring of worldly acquisitions-gold. Having endured during youth all the inconveniences of pinching poverty, nothing short of imperious necessity could induce him to part with what he considered the primum mobile of happiness. Thus it is that many are destined to pass lives of misery: during the first part of it they suffer from want itself, and afterwards from the fear of it. Great was the dismay displayed in the countenance of the doctor; one moment elated by the hope of life saved, the next dejected by the overwhelming thought of three hundred pounds lost! The latter consideration was weighty. He began to abuse the great physician in the nost unqualified terms, for his unconscionable demand-it was altogether without precedent -adding, he might as well die at once, as subject himself to starvation!

"Well," replied the other, "I came here to serve you; but, as I find you determined to pursue your own course, I take my leave: by to-night all assistance will be useless!"

Having thus said, he departed: however, no sooner was he gone, than the patient, fatigued by his previous excitement, and terrified by the last

words of his visitor, began to think he had thrown away his life when he had the means of restoration in his power. He was influenced, moreover, by the philosophic reflection, that three hundred pounds would be of no use if he did not live to enjoy it. Under these reflections there was but one alternative. "Call him back," he cried; "I cannot exist without him!" He returned, and the money was promptly paid.

"Now," said the philosopher, "there is only one condition more that a parcel, which I shall deposit beneath your pillow, containing a specific upon which everything depends, shall not be moved until the expiration of the three days; you may then do as you please." This condition required no payment, and therefore its observance was ratified by the most solemn pledge. The state of the body is ever dependent upon that of the mind, and the patient now experienced a tranquillity to which he had hitherto been an utter stranger, and for which he could not account. He was already healed in imagination, for he naturally concluded a most miraculous cure ought to be the result of such a princely fee. Everything of a strengthening nature was duly administered; he soon reached a state of convalescence, and at the end of the three days "the Doctor" was himself again. He now considered himself fully justified in examining the packet, which had remained untouched, and even unseen, during that period. Already had he conceived an idea of curing the whole world, when possessed of such a magic charm. He opened it, when, to his surprise, out flew a slip of paper, inscribed by no other hand than his own-"Conceit can kill, conceit can cure."

In conclusion, there is little need to add, that the great and mysterious physician was no other than the duped young doctor in disguise! After reaching England he made every inquiry respecting the impostor, and finding he was still on the same he succeeded we have already described-how theatre of action, determined to punish him. How chagrined the old doctor was may be better imagined.

HOPE.

G. J.

Star of my pathway, ever brightly beaming;
My consolation in life's solitude:
Bright beacon of eternity! Gay streaming!

How welcome art thou when dark tempests brood, And fitful waves of life's rough ebbing sea

Gather around us, seemingly to burst, And gulph the too frail bark! 'Tis then that we Flee to thee for thy succour, and do thirst, As heated flowers amid the fervid noon,

For thy reviving brightness. Thou dost dwell In the expiring bosom ere the swoon

Of death steal back the pulse's throb, and tell Of sunny lands where sorrows never rave, A bright and peaceful home beyond the grave. GEORGE BAYLEY.

BLIGHTED LOVE.

BY WILLIAM HENRY FISK.

Life it had filedKneeling and weeping, Each deemed him sleeping, But he was dead! The hopes he had nourished Had blossomed and flourishedShe loved him, he knew ; When she near him was kneeling, He groaned, 't was the feeling Of Death's chilling dew.

Hope yet was there—
O'er him, still smiling,
Herself beguiling,

Fell her dark hair.
Aye! she who would gladly
Have died for him, madly

Now sought for his breath-
But the feather dissembled,

'Twas her frail hand that trembled, Indeed, there was death.

Hope was no more-
Tearful, despairing,
Her tresses tearing,

Him home they bore.
At the grave she sank pale,
And her reason did fail;

She lived now in gloom,
For her first-love was blighted,
Aye! as soon as requited
"Twas lost in the tomb.

Love still lived onBuried in feeling,

To his grave stealing,

When the moon shone,

She would twine summer flowers, Like her, weeping, for showers

Had injured their prideBut night-wind, her traitor-guest, Soon stole to her gentle breast, And then, 'twas she died.

STANZAS:

'Twas in a wild wood's silent path
A cottage chimney peep'd
Above the honey-suckle flowers

That o'er its roof had creep'd:
The woodbine and the ivy grew
Amid the wild-rose there;
A sweet-briar by its little porch
Grew round an oaken chair;
And often, in the summer time,

Beneath the green trees' shade,
From morn till evening shades crept on,
A "band" of children played.
A silent river wound its way

Near to the cottage door;

And there, in mirth, they'd sport awhile, Along its pebbly shore.

A feeble man, with hoary head,
Oft wandered there about;
And when he could no longer see,
Those children led him out.
He said that old men loved to think
Of boyhood and their prime,

Or ere the heart had felt a woe

Or dreamt of sin and crime;
And much he loved their merry tone,
And many a time did say,
"God bless you all, my children,
My heart is in your play."

Year after year rolled rapidly
On fleeting wings of time,
The children ceased to speak of love--
The old man of his prime;
But children they were not, for now
Manhood had marked each face;
And each one sought at length to quit
His childhood's caim play-place;
And, one by one, amid the world
In quick succession went;

The ties that bound their earlier years
By selfishness were rent.

I passed the little woodland cot:
The old man-he was dead;
The children had returned again

Where their fond boyhood sped;
One from the sunny east had come,
Another from the west;

But there was pride sat in each eye,
And coldness in each breast;
And one was rich, and one was poor,
And I was grieved to see
That those who once were so beloved,
Should so much altered be.

'Tis sad to think the world should warp
A brother's love, and strife

Exist in that same heart where once

It was, in part, its life.

But so it was; the brothers all,

Sought nought but this world's store; The hours when they were children, They thought of them no more: For at the old man's funeral,

They mingled there; and when The greensward wrapt their parent's clay, They never spoke again.

GEORGE BAYLEY.

It is not difficult to comprehend the fascination exercised by astrology over the minds of men, at a period when the mists of ignorance and the blight of superstition covered the earth with a density which the rays of truth could only pierce at few and far between intervals. Nay, there is, and there will be, while the human mind retains its impress of the divinity, the same yearning after the unknown and the immaterial; and now, as they did in years gone by, and as they will in years to come, the silent sentinels of the night awake a poetry and a mystery which science can never dull.

LUCY JESSERING.

"Death distant? No, alas! he's ever with us, And shakes the dart at us in all our actings: He lurks within our cup, while we're in health Sits by our sick-bed, mocks our medicines. We cannot walk, or sit, or ride, or travel, But Death is by to seize us when he lists." THE SPANISH FATHER.

In the north of Leinster-it matters not now in what particular spot-there once stood a beautiful and romantically situated villa. The grounds around it were laid out with an elegance that was highly creditable to the taste of their proprietor. The house itself was situated midway on the slope of a graceful hill, its white brow just visible above a cluster of magnificent trees; a river swept round" the foot of the declivity, and meeting with a low but rocky eminence on the left side, its waters fell foaming over it, and formed a beautiful lake beneath. Mr. Jessering, the owner, was a very wealthy man, and having a taste for such matters, had spared no expense in the decoration of his estate. His wife, a fair and gentle creature, had died of decline not many months after the birth of a daughter, the sole child with which their union was blessed; and she, just at the period we speak of, had attained her eighteenth

year.

Lucy was very lovely. Her rich brown hair was soft and glossy as unwoven silk, her brow as fair and smooth as polished ivory; her eyes were of a deep chesnut colour, the whites tinged with that delicate azure which gives peculiar beauty to an eye; but yet the principal charm of hers was their variety of expression-now they sparkled with the most bewitching archness, and now they swam in the softest sadness. The soft blush that mantled on her cheek, the extreme beauty, regularity, and delicacy of her features, the angelic expression imprinted on each, and the exquisite symmetry of her graceful, though rather petite form, served to render Lucy the admired of all who beheld her. Her disposition was extremely lively; but, nevertheless, there lay concealed beneath feelings the deepest and most sensitive. His only child, the playful, interesting, and interested companion of his walks, the fond admirer of all his rustic plans and improvements, his tender nurse in sickness, his gentle comforter in sorrowwho sang to him, played to him, read to him; it is not, therefore, a subject of surprise that Lucy was the very idol of her father. He appeared to love the very ground on which she trod-he gratified her every wish-the thought of her came between him and his God; for in the gift he too frequently forgot the Giver. The natural excellence of her disposition, and the deep love which she entertained for her father, prevented Lucy's being spoiled by this extreme indulgence; and the fair girl grew up, beloved and admired by all who beheld her.

At a short distance from Greenleigh, the residence

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of Mr. Jessering, there resided a wealthy family of the name of Melton; and, being such near neighbours, the families were, of course, on terms of intimate acquaintance. Frank Melton, their only son, was a tall, finely-formed youth, of some five showy, rather than a solid education-danced well, or six and twenty years. He had received a sang well, played sweetly on the flute, and had a certain ease and polish of manner and conversation, mingled with that gentle and respectful deference when addressing a female, which is so well calculated to win upon a woman's heart. He had known Miss Jessering long, and as he beheld each succeeding year adding to her sweetness and beauty, Frank felt that he loved her. Scarcely a day passed, on which he did not visit Greenleigh; sometimes with flowers which he had heard her admire, sometimes with a book with which he thought she would be pleased, sometimes with a new song that his sister had lately received, and which he knew would suit Miss Jessering's voice so well.”

It was a lovely summer's noon, with a blue and cloudless sky above, and a green earth breathing perfume beneath, when Lucy threw up the drawing-room window, and taking a book in her hand, sat down near the casement. She could not hear a sound save the low, sweet tinkling of the waterfall, that brought with it a sense of grateful and refreshing coolness, and an occasional note from her tame canary, as he came and perched upon her shoulder. In a short time she became absorbed in the work which she was reading, but was suddenly aroused by hearing the sound of a footstep at her side. She looked up, and Frank Melton was there. He had often seen Lucy look beautiful, but never so beautiful as now. cheek was flushed with surprise, and perhaps (love whispered him) with pleasure. Her splendid eyes were lit up with even more than their usual lustre, and a smile played around her exquisitely chiselled lips.

Her

"I protest, Frank," she said, smiling still," you are sadly ungallant, to startle and frighten one so. Here have I been just about to shed a flood of tears over this tale; so sad," she continued (the smile fading from her lip), "so like real life-of a happy young creature cut off by a fatal malady in the midst of her happiness."

"Then may I flatter myself, Lucy," said Frank, "that my presence has banished those tears?"

"Oh! the vanity of man!" she exclaimed, the rich blood mounting to her cheeks; "and yet I believe I must reprove you for interrupting my fit of seriousness, as I fear I am not sufficiently often in such a mood," and again she smiled.

"Dearest Lucy!" said Frank. He took her soft hand in his, and spoke to her long in a low and tender tone.

That day decided the destiny of Lucy Jessering; she learned she was beloved, and confessed that she loved in return.

Mr. Jessering and the parents of Frank did not long withhold their consent to the union of the lovers, and the day was fixed for its being solemnized. Lucy's love for her betrothed husband was deep and enthusiastic; she thought not of his

manly beauty-she thought not of his youth-she thought not of his wealth-she loved him wholly and entirely for himself: her father alone excepted, he was all in all on earth to her: without him, life would have been living death; and with him, existence under every aspect would have been the extreme of bliss. Poor, dear Lucy! thine was woman's love!

Three weeks after the day on which Frank had avowed his attachment, it was again a summer's noon; large clouds of dazzling whiteness floated over the deep blue surface of the sky, and the warmth of the sunny day was tempered by a gentle breeze.

of mind Lucy retained her seat; and in the mean time two or three countrymen, throwing themselves before the horse, endeavoured to stop it by their cries and gestures. This had the effect of rendering it irresolute, and Frank, plunging the spurs once more into his steed, it bounded forward, and in another moment Lucy was lying senseless but unhurt in his arms. Whilst the lover with the tenderest care was supporting the lifeless burden in his arms, and flinging back the dishevelled ringlets that fell around her face, one of the men ran to a neighbouring cottage for some water; on receiving which, Frank, by bathing her temples and sprinkling her face with it endeavoured to restore animation. For a length of time his efforts proved unavailing, till making in his trepidation and anxiety some awkward movement with his

"It is a charming day," said Frank, as he and Lucy rode slowly down the avenue of Greenleigh, "and exactly the description of day too that suits so well for seeing our favourite view to advan-hand, the contents of the vessel he held was poured tage."

"It is indeed, Frank," she replied; "how very beautiful it must look at this moment!" she continued, her dark eyes flashing and sparkling as she spoke. "I can fancy it now-the bright green of the valley glowing beneath the sunlight-those clouds casting their shadows and this sun his light on the broad high hills." She looked up and met the eyes of Frank fixed upon her with a look of the deepest love and admiration. Hers instantly fell -the vivid blush mantled to her cheek, and urging on her palfrey she exclaimed, "Come, Frank, let us visit it."

What a sweet picture of life and happiness did Lucy and her lover at that moment present! Two short weeks more, and they were to be united to each other. The heart of the young girl was filled with visions of love and bliss through a long vista of years to come; and as he, who shared her every thought, gazed on the beautiful creature so soon to become his own, he felt that his cup of bliss was filled to the very brim. Lucy looked beautiful, as seated gracefully on her milk-white horse she cantered down the avenue. The balmy breeze, that waved her long soft tresses, brought a vivid bloom to her cheek, and an increased brilliance to her eyes, through which shone the mirth and happiness of her young heart. Frank rode enraptured by her side, drinking in the music of her sweet voice; and thus did the happy pair proceed on their way, till a turn in the road brought them almost within view of their favourite landscape.

on her neck and bosom. The cold shock aroused Lucy so that in a brief space of time she was perfectly recovered from her swoon. The long hair that fell on her bosom, and that part of her dress which covered her chest, were completely saturated with water; but being fearful that her long absence might alarm her father, and recollecting the distance they were DOW from Greenleigh, she neglected to dry either the one or the other, and requested that they might at once proceed on their homeward way. Unwilling to delay till another horse could be procured, she mounted her own again, having first warmly thanked the three countrymen, and offered them an ample remuneration for their trouble; to accept of which the true-hearted fellows positively refused.

"God bless her, she's a sweet young lady," said one of the men, as they stood looking after the receding couple.

"Fair she is," said another, "and has the heart lect me, but 'tis I that well remimber her; for only as well as the face of an angel. She didn't recolfor the sweet crathur my poor old woman 'u'd have been lost entirely, whin she had the faver. Miss Lucy-the heavens be about her-used to fear of the infliction, bringin' her physics and other come to see her every whole day, idout the least fine things.'

"They say she's to be married to Misther Frank Melton," said a third; "shure I pray he may make her happy, that's all!”

"Amin!" responded the others, and turned to pursue their way.

"Oh! here it is," cried Lucy, and both were about urging their horses to proceed at a swifter pace (for lovers generally ride slowly), when a hare rushed across the path; the animal on which Miss Lucy reached home in safety, and on arriving Jessering was mounted, started, plunged violently there, found her father anxiously awaiting ber for a single moment, and before Frank could find return. Laughing, she related to him the adventime to restrain the frightened beast, it set off with ture in which she had played such a dangerous the speed of lightning. Lucy was an excellent part, and allayed his fond fears for her safety by horsewoman. From her earliest youth she had assuring him that she was perfectly unhurt. That been his companion in her father's riding excur; night was to our heroine an almost sleepless one; sions; and with great care he had trained her up she felt agitated and nervous, and when she in all the mysteries of horsemanship. Now, how-appeared in the breakfast-room on the following ever, though all her skill and strength were exerted morning, her father remarked that she looked pale in the effort, she found it perfectly impossible to and languid. restrain her palfrey; nor could Frank, who pursued with all the speed of love and despair, succeed in overtaking the flying animal. With great presence

"Well, papa," she said, smiling faintly, "you must lay the blame of my ill looks on that runaway horse of mine. A little fright, you know, will

banish for a few days the bloom from a lady's cheek."

On the next day Lucy was very feverish and ill. A short, dry, and distressing cough supervened; but believing her ailment to proceed from a slight cold, and being unwilling to alarm Frank, or her father, she refused their solicitations to have a physician called in. She continued in the same state for seven or eight days; her appetite was almost entirely gone, the bloom of health faded from her cheek, and her once bright eyes were now become languid and lustreless.

"My dearest child," said her father one day, taking in his her dry and burning hand; "My dearest child, you must allow me to consult a doctor to-morrow; I cannot, and will not hear a word of objection from you. There is poor Frank too, so miserable about you. Lucy, my sweet child, I fear that you are very ill."

"I must confess, papa," she replied, "that I feel myself somewhat worse to-day; but, I trust, I shall soon be better."

"Worse! do you really feel yourself worse today? then I shall immediately send for Sir William D-," said Mr. Jessering, and he instantly quitted the room to execute his purpose.

Sir William D--, the family physician, was a man of uncommon skill and experience, but possessed of a bluntness and sternness of manner that frequently proved hurtful to the feelings of those who required his services. He was not tardy in obeying the basty summons of Mr. Jessering, and he arrived at Greenleigh not many hours after the above-mentioned conversation. Having seen Lucy, and been informed of her symptoms, he requested to speak with her father for a few moments in private; and when they were alone, he said

"No power on earth, sir, can save your child; she is hastening to her grave in a rapid decline."

The unfortunate parent stood before him unable to move a limb, from the intensity of his agony and surprise. His eyes fixed with a stony stare upon the physician, his hands clasped tightly together, every faculty seemed destroyed by the shock; but in a few moments he started from this stupor, he paced wildly up and down the room, he wrung his hands, he tore his grey hairs, and exclaimed distractedly-

"Oh! my child, my child; my lost and only one!"

Sir William D--, though long married, had never known the feelings of a parent; but yet his heart was touched by the tone of wild anguish in which Mr. Jessering spoke.

66

"I entreat you to be composed, sir," he said,

we must

My child, my child!" cried the unhappy father.

"Well! but, sir, I promise you that we shall do all in our power that may tend to effect her recovery," replied Sir William; "though," he added, relapsing into his habitual cold stern tone, "I am almost certain our efforts will prove unavailing."

"Do not say so-do not say so," cried Mr. Jessering; "I cannot part with my Lucy-I

Oh! save her

cannot bear to lose my child.
save her; and all that I have is yours."

"It is a needless offer, quite a needless offer, sir," said the physician, rising, "I shall do all that in me lies for the benefit of Miss Jessering."

Poor Lucy! Day succeeded day, and each one found her weaker and weaker. Her whole nature appeared changed; she knew, she felt that she was dying, but as the tenement of clay gradually lost strength, the spirit by which it was animated became strengthened. The natural vigour of her mind uprose, the unthinking gaiety of her character was now totally cast aside, she became grave and thoughtful, though neither sad nor reserved, for she saw that an additional pang would pierce her father's heart, if he beheld melancholy settle on the brow of his beloved child. But, ah! in the solitude of her chamber, or during the long nights, when all round her was hushed in repose, whilst she alone lay sleepless and weary, then, then, would the thoughts of this earth force themselves upon her. Many a time and oft, during those dark hours, did the warm tears fall down her wasted cheek. It was a bittter pang to be snatched away, when just on the brink of happiness; it was a bitter pang to know that all the fairy visions of youth and hope were now to sink into the gloomy grave; it was a bitter pang to leave so soon the green earth, the smiling face of nature, for the cold, damp, dark tomb; but oh! more bitter still than all was the pang of leaving her father, and Frank, her betrothed husband! With all her fortitude, she could not endure this thought; it prostrated her spirit to the very earth: she could have borne without repining the acutest pangs of death, but this, this she could not endure.

At a short distance from Greenleigh, there resided a very worthy clergyman; Lucy had always been a favourite with the good old man, and now, in her hour of sickness and sorrow, he did not desert or forget her. He visited her constantly, and endeavoured to make her sensible of the necessity that existed of preparing for the approach of death; he read and explained to her the Holy Scriptures; he pointed out to her the kindness and loving-mercy of the Lord, and the everlasting delights of the world to come, till, at length, what had formerly been a source of pain, now became one of happiness to his gratified listener. She looked forward in faith and hope to an eternal union with those whom she loved, beyond the portals of the grave.

It was a calm, sunny, beautiful evening, six weeks after the commencement of Lucy's illness, and the gentle invalid was lying on a low couch beside the open window. The bright smile had left her lip, but there was an expression of holy calm upon her brow. In place of the rich glow of health, that once mantled on her cheek, there now burned upon it the feverish hectic of consumption, and the wasted form bore sad testimony to its ravages. Her long rich hair hung in damp masses on her shoulders, and there was a glassy lustre in her dark eyes. By her side sat Frank Melton, holding one of her hands in his; his countenance pale as marble, and his lips quivering with suppressed emotion; whilst at the foot of the

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