"His absence vouches for his faith: were he false he would not risk suspicion. Either he cannot leave unobserved, or he hath forgotten his promise. He is a mad-brained fellow, and the latter is very likely."

"Seest thou that?" cried Sir Richard suddenly. "There! there! within the sacred pale of the altar!-Aroint thee, spirit! Air, air thou art, and canst not harm firm flesh and blood!Blood!-why holdest thou thy finger up at me? I tremble not at the name, no, no at the sight, of blood! To thy grave, Beatrice! to thy coffin and pursue me not!" The vision-haunted criminal was fearfully excited as he thus spoke, with glassy eyes fixed upon vacancy. "It is no evil spirit," continued he," that dares tread that hallowed spot.-Beatrice! leave me !—leave me, or I die!” The superstitious and conscience-stricken knight pressed his hands before his eyes, as if to behold no more the horrible illusion. "Dreams!" exclaimed Curts. "Be manful!"

Sir Richard would have answered, but his eyes were once more fixed upon the altar: "Ha!" cried he, "I see a braver sight! -My victims stand there,-look! look! within the rails,-and blood-hounds without are struggling to get at them!-On, on, hounds! On! give me good omen," shouted he, "and bathe your fangs in their proud blood!-Well done! another rush and ye destroy the barrier! Forward! forward!-Perdition! themselves perish by their own blows! I will get at them! I will overleap the bar!" and rushing wildly forward he fell senseless to the ground.

"Thus it ever ends," said Curts, angrily.

"Let us leave him to recover," said Westrill; "we must meet again, but no more chapels!"

Pushing aside with his foot, with contemptuous petulance, the body of the visionary that blocked his way, Curts, followed by Andrew Westrill, left the scene of meeting; and Mat Maybird and Heringford, having allowed time for the villains to depart, emerged from their place of concealment. At the sound of footsteps Sir Richard was aroused, and, half rising, supported himself on one arm, as he watched them passing out of the chapel. His glassy eyes were fixed upon Edward's face, and when he found himself again alone he relapsed into his former insensibility.

(To be continued.)

THE DREAM.

I DREAMT I Stood in silent thought

Within an ancient fane,

Where all with solemn awe was fraughtHigh arch-and tinted pane.

"Twas eve, and o'er the western sky
There streamed a purple glory:

The snow-capped mountains seemed to vie
In radiance with their canopy;
While in the east the summits high

With pines were grey and hoary.

Yet not within that sacred shrine
Those rays might in full splendour shine,
But mellowed to a calmness holy;
Piercing through storied windows dight,
It was a "dim religious light,"
And filled the soul with sacred awe,

Like that which painters love to draw
Around the Virgin Mother, meek and lowly.
And while the eye, with dazzled sight,
Drank in that flood of mystic light,
There stole sweet sounds upon the ear,
Like those in yon bright fires,

What time from each harmonious sphere
The Angel-bands sweet music hear
Borne from invisible lyres.

And holy strains they were, whose tones
Might wake the dull and lifeless stones
Their full response to give.

With sweet accord their accents rung-
Those words in which our fathers sung,

Which we now sing, and live.

And while my soul was tranced, and fraught

With wonder and with solemn thought,

I saw a priest-like form:

In spotless white that man was clad,

Yet was his visage pale and sad,

And worn with care, like one whose mind

Is troubled with the tempest-wind,

And fury of the storm.

Yet once methought a smile there played
E'en o'er those features sad and staid,
Such as might beam o'er martyr's face,
When led by Heaven-vouchsafed grace
To seek his crown, and die.

And hold communion with his own meek heart,
While all around might awe and holy fear impart.

Nought but those solemn strains around were heard.

I felt as though a charm had bound me→→
As though there were a spell around me;
A silent, voiceless ecstasy.

And he, the Saint-like One, was calm
As though he bore a martyr's palm,
When, all at once, those strains were closed,
And all that sacred fane in silence still reposed.
Yet soon there came the sound

Of murmuring streamlets rushing by,
And meeting waters' melody.

Now louder rushed it o'er the ground,

With mighty sound of solemn dread,'
Such as might rouse the imprisoned dead
From their sepulchral grave;

It seemed as though we, too, should sink
Beneath that torrent fierce;

And then my soul began to sink,

And pains my heart to pierce.
I feared; but he whom now I saw,
With holy reverential awe,

Stood firm, unshrinking, undismayed;
No tempest-blast, no torrent-flood,
No falling stars, no sun of blood,
Could make his soul afraid.

I sought to gain his strength
And fearless calm of heart;

Nor sought I it in vain: at length

He deigned his source of comfort to impart.
"Fear not," he said; "thou art within the Shrine-
The Ark which ne'er shall perish or decay;

Here rest, and, trusting to the word divine,

Fear not these waves, for they shall pass away;
But TRUTH shall rest secure

In her own light divine, for ever to endure."

II

THE ROSE.

(From the German of Herder.)

"ALL the flowers of earth I see perish around me, and yet it is ever me that men call the withering, the quickly-fading Rose. Ungrateful men! do I not make my brief existence pleasant as may be? do I not even after death leave an offering of sweet perfume; medicines and salves, too, full of strength and refreshment? · Yet do I ever hear ye sing and say, 'Alas! the withering, the quickly-fading Rose!'"

Thus complained the Queen of Flowers, on her throne, perhaps in the first consciousness of departing beauty. A maiden stood by and heard her; thus she replied: "Sweetest, be not angry with us; call not that ingratitude which is nobler love, the language of tender affection. All the flowers around us, we see them die, and look upon this as the flowers' fate; thee only, their queen, do we desire; thee we judge worthy of immortality. When our hopes perish, O leave us then the plaint that compassionates ourselves in thee. All the beauty, the youth, and joy of life, we compare with thee; and, while their bloom decays as thine does, do we ever sing and say, "Alas! the withering, the quickly-fading Rose!"

OUR SCHOOL DAYS.

"Forsan et hæc olim meminisse juvabit."-VIRGIL.

"When I remember all

The friends so link'd together,
I've seen around me fall,

Like leaves in wintry weather,

I feel like one that treads alone

Some banquet hall deserted,

Whose lights are fled, whose garlands dead,

And all but he departed."-Moore.

THAT the days spent at school are the happiest of life, is a notion which, on my first leaving my parental roof, my master endeavoured, with all the sagacity of age, to impress upon my mind. Even at that time I felt anything but a firm belief in the axiom; and the experience of a few weeks led me to reject it altogether as a mere cheat, formed without consideration, and based upon a fallacy. To a little boy at school, who is suffering what he fancies the greatest hardships in life, this proverb affords but slight comfort. For my own part, I was bullied by big boys all day, except when the masters took their turn; in short, I scarcely knew which to dread most-the play-hours, wherein I had to endure the lot of the unfortunate monkey, whose allowance, if we may trust the saying, is remarkable for a superabundance of kicks, with an accompanying paucity of small coppers; or the hours devoted to teaching and caning on the part of the master, learning and being caned on that of the boys.

If I was industrious, I was sure of a thrashing from some big bully, for "mugging," instead of playing at cricket; if I was idle, I was equally sure of a caning from the master, for not mugging." If I saw a big boy stealing apples, I was either flogged for not attempting to prevent the illegal appropriation; or, in the classical language of school," got my precious young head broke," with the friendly intention of impressing on my memory the necessity of giving such sights in future "an understanding, but no tongue." Nor did night close my misfortunes, for it was often my fate to go, tired and bruised, in a November frost, to a bed "flowing" not "with milk and honey," but with snow, carried up