possessed one half of the impatience that burns within my soul ! They would not then have delayed their coming to await the tardy step of an appointed hour." Then, after a pause, during which he had rapidly paced the chapel, he leaned with his back against the tomb of Beatrice.

"I will not see it, since it can thus disturb me! Why should I be moved at the sight of a marble vault? What do I care who rests within? She must be dust ere this."

A faint groan, at this juncture, echoing among the recesses of the tomb, fell upon the ear of Sir Richard. Starting, he turned towards the spot-" Ha! Beatrice, dost thou hear me; and is thy spirit troubled at my approach? Thou shalt not scare me hence! If thou canst hear and understand that for which I this night am here, greater pangs shall be thy portion. If thou knowest him I seek, tremble when I tell thee that, though heaven and hell were armed in his favour, he shall not escape me!"

All the knight's superstition was roused, and his mental struggle against the fear that overpowered him was indeed most violent; but his resolution prevailed, and he stood calmly, but deathly pale, when those whom he had appointed to meet him entered the chapel. These were two men, muffled in dark cloaks of black cloth; the head of one was covered with a hood, the other wore a bonnet of fur. He with the hood was a tall, spare man; his face had been handsome in days of innocence, but now it was disfigured by the traces of vice and evil passion that were stamped upon it. The other slunk behind his companion, and remained concealed by the shadows in the porch.

"Art thou the man whose presence I have sought?" inquired Sir Richard.

"I am Andrew Westrill," replied the other; "an old friend of thine whom better couldst thou have wished to see?"

"Friend!" muttered the knight, between his set teeth,-" friend! And is it among such men as these that-no matter!" Then continuing aloud,-" Ay," said he, "thou art my good, my tried friend; but I would try thee yet farther; I have service on which to engage thee."

"I know it," answered Westrill.

"Know it!" exclaimed Sir Richard; "know it! from whom couldst thou have heard a design that my lips, till yet, have not dared to utter; my brain even scarce dared to conceive."

"I know nought of thy plan," replied Andrew, "nor care

I much to learn it :-of this only I am certain, that, unless thou hadst need of my services, thou wouldst have been too proud to remember, much less to seek, my companionship."

“Why should I tell thee otherwise?" cried the knight; "why should I lower myself in thy sight by vainly attempting to deceive thee? What if I own I care not for thee? Thou art useful to my plans; I have need of thee,-will pay thee well; and that last secures thy faith."

"Thou art right, Sir Richard," replied Westrill; "therein doth my faith most truly rest; I am not hurt by thy candour."

"Then hear me," continued the knight; "my design is terrible; the dead, Westrill, the very dead have risen from their graves to implore mercy; I have refused it. Last night I was in this chapel; I measured its length with my paces, as I pondered on my plans when, lo! from that marble vault, that containsthou knowest whom she came, clad in grave-clothes, and warned me to desist; I scorned the thought,-she vanished. Again, this night, have I heard the voice of the dead."

"This is delusion," cried Westrill; "the vision that thou sawest was but a waking dream, the offspring of thy disturbed mind, unworthy of thine attention."

"It may be so," replied Sir Richard Ellerton; "but I had rather join her in the grave, than once more behold her thus!" "Enough of this!" interposed Westrill. "It was not to be What is the nature

told thy dreams that I was summoned hither.
of the service in which thou wouldst employ me?"

“Let us, then, proceed to this matter," said the knight: "is thy companion true?"

"I am," replied the person alluded to, from the obscurity of the chapel.

"And thou wilt assist in carrying out my design?"

"Do thou but pay," replied he, "and fear not that I shall shrink in aught."

"Then approach nearer. If the souls of the dead dwell in the tombs that contain their mortal part, — if she whom I this night heard yet dwelleth here in spirit, she shall hear our plans." "To the point!" interrupted Westrill, impatiently.

"Hear me, then," continued the knight; "know ye, among the young men of the village, one, proud and reserved above his station, one-Heringford, I believe they call him?"

"Do I know him!" cried Westrill; "is it to plunge a dagger

in his heart that thou wouldst now engage me? No task could have suited more with mine inclination.”

"In brief," replied Sir Richard, "such is my desire." "It shall be done!" cried Andrew.

If Westrill be willing to

"Stay" interposed the third party; "if Westrill be eager for this young man's blood, not so am I. commit a murder without pay, not so I. Richard!"

Thy price, thy price, Sir.

"Be it what ye will!" replied the knight; "I will pay any price for the dagger that hath sped his life away; prove to me that he is dead, that ye have slain him, there is nothing I will refuse ye."

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"Five hundred marks is my price," stipulated the man; and for Westrill five hundred more ;-is it agreed?"

"It is thine," cried Sir Richard; "a thousand marks between ye for his death, though it cost me a fortune to solve the debt."

"Be it so," said Westrill; "the reward is acceptable, though I had rather lose it than my vengeance. To-morrow night, Kate's lover shall be a corpse. I had done this, Sir Richard, without the aid of thy spur; but may I ask, wherefore thou dost thus track his course, and seek to end it ?”

"He hath given me mortal offence-"

At this moment, a series of the most preternatural howls, yells, and hissings proceeded from the tomb; then a sound, as of a heavy body falling—and all was again still.

"The spirits of evil are among us!" exclaimed the knight in alarm.

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Say rather, some trifler hath thus made his presence known," cried Westrill.

New fears arose in Sir Richard's mind.

"It is even so," he cried; "our conference hath been overheard; the listener must not live to tell the tale!" and, throwing aside his cloak, he leapt, sword in hand, into the tomb, that but now, under other feelings, he had shuddered to behold.

No trace of life could he discover; no motion, but the flickering of the moon's light, as it fell, through the riven marble, upon the coffins of his wife and child.

(To be continued.)

HAPPINESS.

WHAT is happiness? If every man were asked this question, what various definitions we should have! And yet there would be many who would unite in giving one description of that goal which all are striving for, but which few confess that they have attained, I mean those who think, with me, that a great part of happiness consists in sympathy; in the society of, and "sweet communion" with those who have ideas and feelings like your own.

I would hope, (for the character of my species,) that not many would make this summum bonum to consist in merely sensual enjoyments, in the gratification of those appetites which belong to men and beasts in common. But I think many would call ease and freedom from all constrained work, the ne plus ultra of felicity. Yet old men, who have retired from business, and are just in the situation these people think so happy, are generally cross and irritable animals as any you meet with, and think themselves the most miserable men upon the face of the earth.

That which raises man above the level of the beasts, and makes him lord of the creation, is his mind; and it is to the mind he must look for real happiness. All those pleasures which consist in the gratification of the senses, are things which perish in the using; but the mind is a spring from which you may ever draw; it is a mine of rich ore, whose veins are inexhaustible, but for which you must dig.

The cultivation of the mind does not merely consist in acquiring a great quantity of knowledge, which may lie in your head, like the hidden talent, to no profit; nor only in acquiring the power of arranging in order those distinct facts which you may discover into a system. You may in this manner, indeed, build up a large and massive temple of science; but the walls will be bare, and the roof unadorned; and, while you stand in the edifice which your reason has raised, and contemplate the stores which your understanding has joined together, you will be cold and comfortless. The chaplets to the columns, and the fretwork to the roof, must be given by the imagination.

By imagination, I mean, that faculty of the mind by which it works upon the knowledge which it has acquired. When the

light of reason has shown, in the paths of science, the footsteps of the Creator, it is the imagination which harmonizes the music of the spheres, and modulates the voices of countless worlds to one full chorus of praise to the Almighty; and it is the imagination that, rising to the first great Cause of all the wonders of the universe, pictures to itself the abode of God, surrounded by myriads of bright beings, and listens to the songs of the angels. The knowledge that we acquire by our external senses, forms the foundation on which the imagination builds its superstructure of beautiful creations, the elements which it combines into new forms, thereby producing those lovely conceptions and ideas which constitute the charm of poetry.

Now, I think that happiness consists principally in the indulgence of these dreams of the imagination; and so forming for oneself an imaginary world, in which the spirit may wander, and search out all that is fair and holy and pure. I hate realities. All those pleasures which depend upon real, tangible things, are vanity and vexation of spirit; they perish in their using.

But when the spirit has thus formed for itself a world, in which all the beauties of the heavens and the earth are blended into one fair and lovely creation,-is there nothing more wanting to content it? Can it wander through regions boundless as thought, and in which all that is fair and pure and holy, all things that the most fertile imagination can conceive, are collected, and be satisfied? Is man to live in this ideal world without any connexion with his fellow-men, uncaring and uncared for? And is his ear never to be charmed by that sweetest of earth's music, the voice of sympathy? Oh, no! Feelings which are unshared are almost unfelt. It is not good for man to be alone. As he wanders through this world of fancy, there should be another spirit that can share his joys, can feel what he feels, and love what he loves. Sympathy with others constitutes a great part of happiness. The charm of poetry consists in sympathy with the poet. Poetry creates nothing in our minds; it only combines elements which existed there before. But, to have perfect sympathy with one spirit, clothed in a beauteous form; to tread with her the paths of fancy, and to revel in the beautiful creations of the poet;-that is felicity indeed.

I know there are many who call all this a delusion; who say that when a man indulges in these pleasures of the imagination, he is building a temple to an unreal deity, and raising an altar on