emotion on the bosom of her beloved mother, and Mr. Leslie's resumed calmness, when they again | met, removed every lingering fear. "Does she suspect? Have I ruined her peace for ever? Mary-Mary! why have I not your control?" was Mr. Leslie's agitated address to his wife, when all but themselves had retired to rest. "She suspects nothing, dearest Edward, save that your love for her is even stronger than she believed it; but oh, for the sake of our sweet girl's peace, bid her not to wed again. It seems as if that gentle heart were mercifully preserved from all love save for us, to spare me the bitter agony of giving her to another with the truth untold; the dark alternative of persisting in that which is not, or ruining her peace for ever. You do not feel this, and therefore believe that marriage would give her greater security than remaining with us; but oh, my husband, do not urge it again. An all-seeing Providence is round us. Let us believe he specially watches over her sweet innocence, and by keeping her thus from all love, guards her from dangers, from misery I dare not speak." Mr. Leslie seemed convinced and affected; but whether, indeed, he would have followed his wife's advice, could never be known; for, two short months after this event, he was attacked by a violent illness, terminating so suddenly and fatally, that Walter had barely time to travel post to London, called thither by a letter from Florence, in agony conjuring him to come to them without a moment's delay, ere the fond husband and affectionate father breathed his last. Of all deaths, a sudden one is the most dreadful, the most agonizing to the survivors. It is said death, whenever it comes, is sudden; a shock always stunning, always overwhelming. Perhaps it is so; but when only one week intervenes between life and death, one little week severs ties of years, hides under the cold damp earth features which beamed upon us in health and joy from every accustomed haunt; when the beloved is removed directly from his domestic circle to the narrow grave, missed from his usual seat, not to be found in some other, which, though painful (if a couch of suffering), yet becomes dear, but missed, to be remembered only as gone for ever; when no intervening period of dependence on the part of the sufferer, of unremitting attention and increased affection from the beloved ones, has taken place, and (as it were) partially prepared us for the last dread change, the final separation; when none of these things take place, oh, who may speak the agonies of death! And all this was felt by Mrs. Leslie and her children. They had had no time to fear, still less to hope, and it was long ere they could realize that one so ardently beloved indeed had passed away for ever. The extremity of Mrs. Leslie's anguish none knew but Him in whose ear in the watches of the night it had been poured. Her illness, her uncomplaining patience had bound her more closely than common to him, and his almost womanly care and gentleness through her long years of suffering excited no common love; and bodily disease itself seemed for the while subdued, conquered by this sudden and most agonizing mental affliction. She had left her couch to attend his dying bed; day and night she moved not from his pillow, save at the moment of Walter's arrival, for she dreaded the effect of the shock upon him. And not alone was it the husband of her love, the gentle soother of her painful couch, whom she had to mourn. There was a secret tie between them, calling for all the devotion, all the gratitude of woman's heart. In the first year of their marriage, he had granted a boon, a weighty boon; one, perhaps, that none other but Edward Leslie could have granted, and never from that hour evinced regret that he had done so. And now that dread secret was all her own, only her own; and its heavy weight appeared to increase the bitter anguish of her husband's loss. At the moment Mrs. Leslie left the pillow of the dying to meet her son, Florence alone stood beside his bed. His eyes were closed; the livid hue of death had stolen over his features, and the poor girl bent over him, stunned, motionless, unconscious that scorching tears were slowly rolling down her cheeks, and falling upon his. He opened his eyes languidly, and tried feebly to draw her to him, and as she laid her head on his bosom, kissing again and again his sunken cheek, he whispered in broken and disjointed sentences: "Florence, my child! my precious child! bless-bless you. You are indeed my daughter. Minie is not dearer. Love-love your mother, darling; cherish her, care for her as you have done. She has more than common claim for gratitude. Florence-darling-bless-" And his voice had sunk from exhaustion, so as to be wholly inarticulate, though his lips still moved as if he spoke. Again and again those words returned to Florence; the feeble tone, the look of death haunted her; but there was no mystery attached to them, they seemed to her but the last warning accents of that parental love, which had so long blessed her with the guidance of a friend as well as father. With more than usual claims for love, and gratitude, she recalled her mother's years of suffering, which yet had never checked her devotion to her children, and she compared that affectionate devotedness with the fashionable selfishness and culpable neglect of others whom she knew, and she felt she had indeed a double incentive to duty and affection. She knelt by the dead body of her father, and secretly vowed to make her mother the first object of her life, and then only felt relieved from the weight even of love which her father's last words had left. NEIGHBOURLY CANDOUR. Our neighbours dear, we fondly dream, And all our errors canvass'd there. X, Y, Z. 76 HACKFALL. BY W. G. J. BARKER, ESQ. Few who are acquainted with Yorkshire scenery can have omitted visiting this attractive spot, or will readily forget the beauties it possesses. Through a narrow glen, whose almost perpendicular sides are thickly covered with lofty trees, principally oaks, the river Yore flows for about a mile and a-half. Winding walks enable visitors to climb the rocky and precipitous banks, from various stations on which very extensive views are obtained. The name of the place has been derived from "hag,' a witch, and "full," a descent; thus literally signifying "the witch's valley." It is situated about two miles from Masham. The ancient trees are arching o'er Oh, could the cliffs around but speak, Oft when the pallid stars withdrew caught, The hideous shriek-the demon cry, The backward prayer, in mutter'd verse, These rocks, that now but give reply Have echoed oft, as rites obscene Here were those fatal charms enwove, Like fleeting days, years roll away, Since the recesses of this glen Where once the spectral voice rang loud, And odorous flowers for gouts of blood, Here now, at noon, beneath the shade 'Tis pleasant to recline; Or, pensive, watch at evening cool Till from the distant village tower Fearless of magic's evil power, Here blooming damsels rove Whose ruby lips and dark eyes work The witchery of love: Hence, fitly, the sequester'd glen Suiting their walks so well, E'en to this day, in ancient speech Is named THE WITCHES' DELL! Banks of the Yore. SONGS FOR STRAY AIRS. BY DINAH MARIA MULOCK. CAOINHE OVER AN IRISH CHIEFTAIN. Irish Air-Brian Boroimhe's March, Oh woe, Erin, woe! For thy hero is fled; And solemn and slow Sounds the wail o'er the dead! The lightning hath broke O'er the young mountain oak, And here it is lowly lying; While we are mourningEver thus turning, With our hearts burning, But there is none replying. Yes!-a voice from the tomb Where our lost hero lies Calls us on to our doom, Vengeance! vengeance!" it cries. Shall he sleep here alone, While revenge is our own, The pledge he has left in dying? Oh weep, Erin weep! For thy glory is o'er; He will waken no more; O'er the young and the brave? 'Tis the blood of the foe That shall weep o'er his grave. * Pronounced "keen." Who, who shall tell how many sank to die! Who, who shall tell of tears in anguish shed, That coursed adown the maiden's cheek, to lie, Or mingle with the blood-drops on the head Of him she loved: who tell of mother's sighs, Of dying groans, of children's answering cries, As, noiseless, soul in soul, sped viewless to the skies? Beautiful Joan! Then burst the shout of victory again, "The Maid of Orleans!" "Joan of Arc!" the hills Re-echoing the sound upon the plain, Reverberating joy so full, that ills The dying suffered dwindled on the air, Which so surfeited, answered not their prayer, Till life, impatient, fled, and death consumed its Beautiful Joan! care. THE GHOST. BY LEITCH RITCHIE. It is now the cock-crow of science, and apparitions are in the act of vanishing. Let us take the opportunity of this parting glimpse to see what they are. Let us inquire into the character of the Ghost. There are two kinds of inferior spirits mentioned in Scripture, the spirits of men, and the spirits of beasts; but the latter are less in the habit than the former of revisiting the glimpses of the moon. They prefer remaining in the earth, to which, we are told, they go down; having, no doubt, had enough of the upper world while still in the flesh. It is sufficient to mention that the spectre-beasts are chiefly wolves, horses, hounds, and deer; that their habitat is, in a great measure, confined to the forests of Germany; and that, even there, they have been discouraged of late years by roads and manufactories. It is not to be concealed, that some difficulties attend the conception of the idea of a human ghost. It cannot be merely an unsubstantial appearance, for without substance it would have neither colour nor form; without substance it could not sigh, or groan, or speak, for the vibrations of the atmosphere cannot be produced by Nothing; and, above all, without substance it could not be felt, as in the case of the spectre-knight who overthrew his mortal assailant, or in that of the spectre-lover who squeezed his mistress's hand so hard that she was compelled for the rest of her life to "" wear a covering on her wrist." But to say nothing of the apparent contradiction of spirit possessing the properties of matter, let us inquire what the substance is of which we see the appearance. A man is formed of the same materials as a vegetable, viz.: hydrogen, oxygen, and carbon, but with the addition of nitrogen and other substances in smaller quantities. His bones, if merely composed of gelatine, would be elastic; but they are rendered hard by innumerable minute particles of phosphate and carbonate of lime held together by the gelatine. Five-sixths of the intire weight of his body are simply water. If the ghost, having form and colour, and being capable of speech and action, is not immaterial-what is it? Is it a material representation of this compound mass of matter, of this lump of lime and jelly, charcoal and water? But there is a greater difficulty still. It is not enough that we see the apparition of sundry bits of lime, and ounces of iron, and gallons of water; for ghosts have too great a sense of decorum to appear in puris naturalibus. The knightly spectre is clothed in the ghost of a suit of armour, some thirty or forty pounds weight of cold iron; and the spectre lover is encased in the phantom of a Taglioni, or the spiritual essence of a pair of kerseymere unutterables. This is what gives us pause. We have not merely to contend for the reality of the ghost of a man, but for that of the ghosts of his old clothes. When we would comfort a friend with the idea that he must have been mistaken in supposing that he had seen the ghost o a dear departed grandfather, he assures us that mistake was impossible: that the old gentleman, besides exhibiting his own identical features, wore his well-known three-cornered hat, his gold spectacles, and his glossy cane. Thus our opposition is borne down by a legend of ghosts, and we have no more to say. In fact, this difficulty is almost insuperable. If we suppose that the spirit of a man has the same form as his body, we must believe it to consist of substance, or, in other words, of matter, otherwise it could not become visible to us; but even if we get over this by assuming that it has some mysterious means of impressing us with the idea of form and colour, without employing the agency of our senses, we have still its phantom habiliments, its wig, its cravat, its old shoes, its nether unimaginables, like so many stumbling blocks before our faith. But supposing ghosts to be real, however incomprehensible, the next question is, cui bono? what's the good of them? Nothing exists in vain; and if ghosts exist, they must answer some purpose. We recollect reading of the apparition of a headless cock (himself a notable layer of apparitions), which appeared to some terrified seer, and beckoning him to follow, strutted out of the room. Onward they paced through the hall, the one almost as breathless as the other, down the steps, out into the misty night, across the chill court-yard to its farther corner, where the ghostly cock, at length standing still, pointed mournfully to his head and feathers lying on the stones. This is the history of almost all apparitions. They disturb the order of nature, and fright the souls of men, without any better excuse than the cock. It is true there have been ghosts who have brought about the discovery of a murder, and the execution of the criminal; but we have not heard of any well-authenticated affair of the kind since the advent of the New Police. Others, it is said, were in the habit of directing persons to pots of gold buried in gardens; but, alas! this was before our time, and, indeed, we question whether it would be found comprehended within the memory of the oldest inhabitant, even if that non mi recordo witness were not in his dotage and proverbially incapable of recollecting anything. Ghosts then, taking them generally, have no utility, and in this utilitarian age it is no wonder that they should meet with little favour. They are like the orator in parliament, whose eloquence being wide of the mark, provoked an opposition member to observe: "If the honourable gentleman has not spoken to the purpose, to what purpose has he spoken ?" The type of this class of spirits is the ghost of Cæsar : Brutus. How ill this taper burns! Ha! who comes here? I think it is the weakness of mine eyes Ghost.-Thy evil spirit, Brutus. Ghost. To tell thee thou shall see me at | are of imagination all compact, and the ghost is the Philippi. Then I shall see thee again? Who are the ghost seers? Not soldiers, nor surgeons, nor undertakers, nor sextons; not any of those who slaughter the living, and mangle or bury the dead. The belated hind who approaches accidentally and unwillingly a church-yard at night, is sure of a spectre or two; while the jolly gravedigger, who sings and jokes as he kicks the skulls out of his way, and like Juliet," madly plays with his forefather's joints," has no such luck. murderer, it is true, is sometimes appalled by the ghost of his victim; although this has been supposed to be nothing more than "the painting of his fear," and his companions are but too apt to reply to his narrative of the visitation, in the unpolite terms used by Lady Macbeth on a similar occasion: " Oh, proper stuff!" A magna parens of the whole array. As the heart ripens, so do his features change. The paleness of death is slowly illumined by the purple light of passion; the winding-sheet floats around him in the form of wings; and the youth who once hid his face with a shudder in the bed-clothes, now gazes at the transmigrated phantom with eyes dewy with rapture. Youth, manhood, age; love, honour, ambition; "all thoughts, all passions, all delights;" each has its apparitions, and these are all the descendants of the ghost. What do I not owe to thee, O parent of that spiritual world in which I live, move, and have my being! Ilow often in earlier years hast thou been my preserver and my solace! What were the deprivations of death to me, whose solitary hours were haunted by the phantoms of the lost? What cared I for the unkindness of friendship, or the coldness of love, who was surrounded by those "Who did not change through all the past, And could not alter now." in feeble health and fainting spirits, have I been How often have I been thrust back by the world! How often have my soul's yearnings met with closed hearts and glassy eyes! How often have I felt as if there was no place for me on the earth, as if my thoughts had lost all means of communion with my fellow men, or as if they themselves had turned into phrensy, and must henceforth be shut We will not, however, permit the last of the up in my own bosom! And how often in darkghosts to vanish, dimmed into nothingness by theness and solitude, in disappointment and sorrow, glare of gas-light, or carried away by a jet of steam, without a word of kindness and farewell. A belief in its existence was implanted in our breasts by nature, and nature does nothing in vain. It was a connecting link between the two worlds of time and eternity; it was a perpetual memento of mortality, and a perpetual assurance of immortality. The man who believed in ghosts could not be an atheist, and no man is utterly and hopelessly bad who is not so. To the young, ghosts are always "spirits of grace," for they are the inciters to virtue, and the punishers of vice; and at that season of the human year, when the boy, with his exuberant vitality, seems to have eaten of the tree of life, and to possess a self-sustained and immortal existence, it is not unwholesome to have a secret intuition of a nature beyond his own, a mysterious dread following his proud steps, and haunting his daring imagination. To the old, ghosts are messengers with sealed lips, who point and beckon, and draw away the weary eyes from looking backwards, and detach slowly and solemnly the worn-out heart from the world, ere the shadows of the grave have closed upon its vanities: But it is in the progeny to which they have given birth that ghosts are most to be honoured; for they themselves, it must not be concealed, are but rude and wild aborigines, haunters of caves and forests, and prowlers of the still and mystic night: The spiritual world undergoes the same process of refinement as the moral world; and the same train of circumstances which changed gradually the descendants of the rude Northmen into knights and poets, converts the sheeted spectre into a spirit of joy and beauty. The phantoms that haunt our solitude, however apparently distinct be their nature, IMPRESSIONS OF BEAUTY. When the hopes and enchantments of beauty have And the spirit has taken its flight; Laments o'er the tenanted bier! How many a bronzed cheek grows haggard and pale, For the sunshine of life passes by like a dream, But the heart may be cold, and the eye may be And the spirit may revel unchained; And linger where beauty once reigned. |