"Oh, Lady Mary? Why-let me see. By the way-in your version of my story, the other day-how did you dispose of her ?" he enquired curiously.

I heaved a deep sigh. "God Almighty has disposed of her since then," said I, looking him full in the face. "He has taken her gentle spirit to himself; she has left a dreary world, Sir Henry!" He looked at me with a puzzled air.

"I can't for the life of me make you out, Doctor! What do you mean? What are you talking of? Whom are you confounding with my heroine? Some patient you have just left? Your wits are wool-gathering !"

"To be serious, Sir Henry," said I, putting my handkerchief to my eyes, "I am thinking of one who has but within this day or two ceased to be my patient! Believe me-believe me, my dear Sir Henry, her case-very-closely-resembled the one you describe in your story! Oh, how sweet-how beautiful-how resigned!"

He made no reply, but seemed considering my words-as if with a reference to his own fiction.

"I can tell you, I think, something that will affect you, Sir Henry!" I continued.

"Aye! What is that? What is that ?"

"She once knew you!"

"Knew me! What, intimately?" "Very-VERY! She mentioned your name on her deathbed; she uttered a fervent prayer for you!"

"My God!" he exclaimed, removing his papers from his knee, and placing them on the table, that he might listen more attentively to me; "how astonishing! Who can it be ?" he continued, putting his hand to his forehead-" Why, what was her name?"

I paused, and sickened at the contemplation of the possible crisis. “I—I—perhaps-it might not be prudent to mention her name”.

"Oh, do! do!" he interrupted me eagerly," I know what you are afraid of; but-honour! Her name shall be safe with me! I cannot be base enough to talk of it!"

"Lady Anne Harleigh!" I uttered, with a quivering lip.

"Po-po-poh !" he stammer

the boy!" said he, uttering, or rather gasping a violent imprecation, continuing, in a swelling voice, "You were talking about my wife !"

"For Heaven's sake, be calm-be calm-be calm," said I, rising.

*

"MY WIFE!" he continued exclaiming, not in the way of an enquiry, but simply shouting the words, while his face became transformed almost beyond recognition. I shall, however, spare the reader the scene which followed. He got calm and pacified by the time I took my leave, for I had pledged myself to come and play a game at billiards with him on the morrow. On quitting the chamber, I entered the private room of Dr Y--; and while he was putting some questions to me about Sir Henry, he suddenly became inaudible-invisible, for I was fainting with excitement and agitation, occasioned by the scene I have alluded to.

"Depend upon it, my dear Doctor, you are mistaken," said Dr Y--, pursuing the conversation, shortly after I had recovered, "Sir Henry's case is by no means hopeless-by no means!"

“I would I could think so! If his madness has stood two such tremendous assaults with impunity, rely upon it it is impregnable. It will not be accessible by any inferiornay, by any other means whatever."

"Ah, quite otherwise-experto crede !" replied the quiet Doctor, helping himself to a glass of wine; "the shocks you have alluded to have really, though invisibly, shaken the fortress; and now we will try what sapping-undermining-will do -well followed out in figure, by the way, is it not? But I'll tell you a remarkable case of a former patient of mine, which is quite in point."

"Pray, forgive me, my dear Doctor, pray excuse me at present. I really have no heart to listen to it; I am, besides, all in arrear with my day's work, for which I am quite

[Bear with me, kind reader! Suffer me to lay before you yet one or two brief concluding extracts from this mournful portion of my Diary. If your tears flow, if your feelings are touched, believe me, 'tis not with romance-it is with the sorrows of actual life. "It is better to go to the house of mourning than to go to the house of feasting; for that is the end of all men-and the living will lay it to his heart."]

Nov. 9th to 14th inclusive.-Between these periods I called several times at Somerfield House, but saw little alteration in Sir Henry's deportment or pursuits, except that he was at times, I heard, very thought ful, and had entirely laid aside his tale,-taking, in its place, to chess. He grew very intimate with the crazy gentleman before mentioned, who was imagined, both by himself and Sir Henry, to be the king. More than once, the keeper warned Dr Y to interfere for the purpose of separating them, for he feared lest they should be secretly concerting some dangerous scheme or other. Dr Y watched them

several decanters, complaining all the while of their being allowed nothing but sherry! I need hardly add, that they had, in a manner, talked, and laughed, and sung themselves tipsy! Sir Henry, with a hiccup-whether real or affected I know not-insisted on my joining them, and told his majesty of the hoax I had lately been playing upon him, by "getting up" his own "tale," and mystifying him with telling it of another. His majesty shouted with laughter.

Wednesday, Nov. 16.-This was the day appointed for the funeral of Lady Anne, which I was invited to attend. I set apart, therefore, a day for that melancholy, that sacred purpose. I was satisfied that no heavier heart could follow her to the grave than mine.

It was a fine frosty day. The sky was brightly, deeply blue, and the glorious sun was there, dazzling, but apparently not warming, the chilly earth. As I drove slowly down to the Hall, about noon, with what aching eyes did I see here a scarlet jacketed-huntsman, there a farmer at his work whistling; while the cheery sparrows, fluttering about the bare twigs, and chirruping loudly, jarred upon my excited feelings, and brought tears into my eyes, as I recollected the words of the Scotch song,

"Ye'll break my heart, ye merry birds!" In vain I strove to banish the hideous image of Sir Henry from my he seemed to stand recollection gibbering over the corpse of his lady! Hall was a spacious building, and a blank desolate structure it looked from amidst the leafless trees-all its windows closed-nothing stirring about it but the black hearse, mourning-coaches and carriages, with coachmen and servants in sable silk hat-bands. On descend

"Lord, Doctor," said one of them, smiling, taking a decanter, and pouring out a glass of its contents, "taste it, and see how much it would take to intoxicate a man."

I did it was toast and water, of which the two lunatics had drunk

ed out of the gloomy bustle of the undertaker's arrangements below, to the darkened drawingroom, which was filled with the distinguished relatives and friends of the deceased -a silent, mournful throng! Well, it was not long before her remains, together with those of her father, the Earl of were deposited

in the vault which held many members of their ancient family. I was not the only one whose feelings overpowered him during the ceremony, and unfitted me, in some measure, for the duty which awaited me on my return, of ministering professionally to the heart-broken sisters. Swoons, hysterics, sobs, and sighs, did I move amongst du ring the remainder of the day!Nearly all the attendants of the funeral left the Hall soon afterwards to the undisturbed dominion of solitude and sorrow: but I was prevailed upon by Lord their brother, to continue all night, as Lady Julia's continued agitation threatened serious consequences.

It was at a late hour that we separated for our respective chambers. That allotted to me had been the one formerly occupied by Sir Henry and his lady, and was a noble, but, to me, gloomy room. Though past one o'clock, I did not think of getting into bed, but trimmed my lamp, drew a chair to the table beside the fire, and having brought with me pen, ink, and paper, began writing, amongst other things, some of these memoranda, which are incorporated into this narrative, for I felt too excited to think of sleep. Thus had I been engaged for some twenty minutes or half an hour, when I laid down my pen to listen-for, unless my ears had deceived me, I heard the sound of soft music at a little distance. How solemn was the silence at that " witching hour!" Through the crimson curtains of the window, which I had partially drawn aside, was seen the moon, casting her lovely smiles upon the sleeping earth, all quiet as in her immediate presence. How tranquil was all before me, how mournful all within! The very room in which I was standing had been occupied, in happier times, by her whose remains had that day been deposited in their last cold resting-place! At length more dreary thoughts-of Somerfield -of its wretched insensate tenant, flitted across my mind. I drew back again the curtain, and, returning to the chair I had quitted, resumed my pen. Again, however, I heard the sound of music; I listened, and distinguished the tones of a voice, accompanied by a guitar, singing the

melancholy air," Charlie is my darling," with exquisite simplicity and pathos. I stepped again to the window, for the singer was evidently standing close before it. I gently drew aside a little of the curtain, and saw two figures, one at a little distance, the other very near the window. The latter was the minstrel, who stood exactly as a Spaniard is represented in such circumstances-a short cloak over his shoulders; the colour fled from my cheeks, my eyes were almost blinded, for I perceived it was-Sir Henry, accompanied by the wretch whom he treated as "the king!" I stood staring at him unseen, as if transfixed, till he completed his song. He paused.

and

They all sleep sound," he exclaimed with a sigh, looking up with a melancholy air at the windows

Wake, lady-love, wake!" He began again to strike the strings of his guitar, and was commencing a merry air, when a window was opened overhead. He looked up suddenly— a faint shriek was heard from above -Sir Henry flung away his guitar, and, followed by his companion, sprung out of sight in a moment! Every one in the house was instantly roused. The shriek I had heard was that of Lady Elizabeththe youngest sister of Lady Annewho had recognised Sir Henry; and it was providential that I happened to be on the spot. Oh, what a dreadful scene ensued! Servants were sent out, as soon as they could be dressed, in all directions, in pursuit of the fugitives, who were not, however, discovered till daybreak. Sir Henry's companion was then found, lurking under one of the arches of a neighbouring bridge, half dead with cold; but he either could not, or would not, give any information respecting the Baronet. Two keepers arrived post at the Hall by seven o'clock, in search of the fugitives.

It was inconceivable how the madmen could have escaped. They had been very busy the preceding day whispering together in the garden, but had art enough to disarm any suspicion that circumstance might excite, by a seeming quarrel. Each retired in apparent anger to his apartment; and when the keepers came to summon them to supper, both had disappeared. It was sup

posed that they had mounted some of the very many coaches that traversed the road adjoining, and their destination, therefore, baffled conjecture.

Advertisements were issued in all directions, offering a large reward for his capture-but with no success. No tidings were received of him for upwards of a week; when he one day suddenly made his appearance at the Hall, towards dusk, very pale and haggard his dress in a wretched state-and demanded admission of a new porter, as the owner of the house. Enquiry was soon made, and he was recognised with a shriek by some of the female domestics. He was, really, no longer a lunaticthough he was believed such for several days. He gave, however, unequivocal evidence of his restoration to reason-but the grief and agony occasioned by discovering the death of his lady, threw him into a nervous fever, which left him, at the end of five months, "more dead than alive." Had I not attended him throughout, I declare I could not have recognised Sir Henry Harleigh in the haggard, emaciated figure, closely muffled up from head to foot, and carried into an ample travelling chariotand-four, which was to convey him

towards the Continent. He never returned to England: but I often heard from him, and had the satisfaction of knowing that for several years he enjoyed tolerable health, though the prey of unceasing melancholy. The death of his son, however, which happened eight years after the period when the events above related occurred, was a voice from the grave, which he listened to with resignation. He died, and was buried in Italy, shortly after the publication of the first of these papers. I shall never forget that truly amiable, though unfortunate individual, whose extraordinary sufferings are here related under a disguise absolutely impenetrable to more than one or two living individuals. They will suffer the public to gather, undisturbed, the solemn instruction which I humbly hope and believe this narrative is calculated to afford, as a vivid and memorable illustration of that passage from Scripture already quoted, and with which, nevertheless, I conclude this melancholy history"And in my prosperity, I said, I shall never be moved. Lord, by thy favour thou hast made my mountain to stand strong: thou didst hide thy face, and I was troubled!"

WE British-born are certainly, of all the inhabitants of earth, the most highly-favoured children of heaven. Let us feel that we are so, not in pride, but in humility; let our gratitude be love, and our love sympathy with the character and genius of all our brethren of mankind, of whatever colour, and under every climate. Our character and genius, in this the most fortunate of all the Fortunate Isles, have grown great under the sacred shelter of Trees and Towers, planted or built by the holy hands of Liberty and Religion. The sun has not been suffered to hurt them by day, nor the moon by night, so tempered has been the spirit of our beautiful native sky even in its tempests. Wars have been among us, long and loud, and blood has flowed like water; but for intervals, neither short nor far between, have the regions assigned us by Providence, enjoyed the sun. shine and the airs of peace-sunshine sometimes settling down as if it would endure for ever-airs often wandering in their joy, as if every spot they visited were itself a home fit for the very sweetest in a perpetual paradise. Renovation has been ever accompanying decay and out of death, and the ashes of death, have arisen, brighter and bolder, new forms of life. In the spirit of each succeeding age the good and wise have still felt there was much over which to mourn; but Hope never left our patriot-prophets; their gifted eyes, piercing the thickest gloom, saw "far off the coming shine" of some destined glory; and now, after all those alternations, and revolutions which darkened the weak-eyed and astounded the faint-hearted, who dare say that we are degenerate from the ancestors whom all the world called a heroic race-that our present is dimmed by their past-or deny that it gives promise of a still greater future? Imagination dead! You may as well say that all our oaks are doddered, and that not a

primrose now at peep of Spring shakes its yellow leaflets to gladden the fairies dancing round their Queen, in annual celebration of the melting of the last wreath of snow. This is an age of poetry, and therefore must take delight in poetry-let the strains it loves, whether of higher or of lower mood, come whencesoever they may-whether now first rising from isles shadowing the remotest seas of the sunset, or born long ago in the kingdoms of the Orient, but their music brought now over the waves to mingle with that of the sweet singers native to the West. Shall we not delight in the inspiration of genius that two thousand years ago won the ear of Asia, and charmed, with a sweet reflection of their own country's life, the hearts of the Hindus, whose whole history seems to us a kind of glimmering poetry, in which interesting realities are too often shrouded in elusive fancies, but which, in their Drama, shews how Fiction can embody and embalm Truth, and preserve it from decay, for ever lovely in all eyes that desire nothing lovelier than the lineaments of nature?

That there is a Hindu Drama, and a noble one, was hardly known in England till Professor H. Wilson published his Select Specimens ; and how few people in England even now know any thing more about it than what we shewed by extracts and analysis of the beautiful Romance of Vikrama and Urvasi, or the Hero and the Nymph? Many thousands must have been surprised to find so much of finest fancy and of purest feeling in a poetry which they had before supposed was all emptiness or inflation-like air-bubbles, bright perhaps with variegated colours, but breaking at a touch-or like ill-assorted bunches of gaudy and flaring flowers, fit only for the few hours of a holiday shew, faded and scentless ere nightfall, as SO many weeds. They wondered to see how genius, in spite of the many