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as if feeling that none but spirits heard. The helm had been entrusted to my care; but, lost in delight, 1 steered unskilfully against a much larger bark. There was alarm in our boat, and a rush made to one side, that made it tumble us into the merciless current. Then there was shriek upon shriek, and yells, and bubbling cries; but all were rescued, save my Mary; her feeble strength was nothing against the swallowing deep, that in a few minutes smoothed the trouble of its waters over her, and rolled on as before. Once more I saw her lovely and delicate body when she was picked up, but it was not Mary: the spirit had fled.—Mary was not there. True, when buried, I took, as it were, a never-to-be-withdrawn gaze at the spot where again she shall come forth alive. Her grave is within the shadow of St Mungo's Cathedral: "But," said I, "at the last day, the elements shall melt with fervent heat, and the works of man shall dissolve; then Mary shall live for evermore."
* • * • • *TO THE COMET OF 1811.
How lovely is this wilder'd scene, As twilight from her vaults so blue
All hail, ye hills, whose towering height,
Like shadows, scoops the yielding sky!
Dread traveller of immensity 1
Shred from the pall of glory riven,
Broad pennon of the King of Heaven!
Art thou the flag of woe and death,
From angel's ensign-staff unfurl M?
No, from that pure pellucid beam,
No latent evil we can deem,
Whsite'er portends thy front of fire, Thy streaming locks so lovely pale,—
* It was reckoned by many that this was the same comet wmcli appeared at tbc biiUt it ou' Saviour.
Where hast thou roam'd these thousand years!
Why sought these polar paths again, From wilderness of glowing spheres,
To fling thy vesture o'er" the wain?
And when thou ecal'st the milky-way,
And vauishest from human view, A thousand worlds shall hail thy ray
Through wilds of yon empyreal blue!
O! on thy rapid prow to glide!
To sail the boundless skies with thee! And plough the twinkling stars aside,
Like foam-bells on a tranquil sea.
To brush the embers from the sun,
The Icicles from off the pole; Then far to other systems run,
Where other moons and planets roll'
Stranger of Heaven! O let thine eye
Smile on a rapt enthusiast's dream; Eccentric as thy course on high,
And airy as thine ambient beam!
And long, long may thy silver ray
Our northern arch at eve adorn; Then, wheeling to the east away,
Light the grey portals of the morn.'
"Whv sitt'st thou by that ruin'd hall,
Thou aged carle so stern and grey? TJ(ist thou its former pride recall,
Or ponder how it pass'd away ?"—
"Know'st thou not me?" the deep voice cried;"So long enjoyed, so oft misused—
"Before my breath, like blazing fiax,
Siu WALTrai Scott."
* From "The Anliqiwry."
SECRETS OF CABALISM.
There appeared at Spa, in the year 1720, a young gentleman, whose fine figure and good equipage created what is now called a great sensation. He had all the wit and learning of that day; talked to the ladies of the plurality of worlds in the style of a junior Fontenelle, and quoted Montesquieu to the gentlemen. He dropped one day from his pocket an extract from Voiture's correspondence, which furnished half the pelit-maitres of Spa with pretty billets during the season. Then he affected great knowledge of state-mysteries; shook his head when prince Eugene was named; hinted at queen Anne's love for her brother; and said something strange about the French lady whose accouchement took place in king James's palace, and was foster-mother to his heir apparent. As there is remarkable sympathy between similar characters, the chevalier Valamour, as he chose to call himself, became very intimate with an obscure watchmaker in the suburbs of Aix-la-Chapelle. If this recluse had been the emperor Charles V. in his watch-making frolic, he could not have known more of men and manners. He had also a surprising familiarity with the names of learned physicians, and now and then dropped mystic phrases of cabalistical import. He had a daughterwhom he secreted in a corner of his miserable house, and guarded with the most anxious care. Our chevalier was duly fascinated with her beauty, and took all the pains required in the beginning of the eighteenth century to recommend himself. Not that he fully understood his own meaning, for he had a most religious horror of a woman's tongue, especially a wife's. Linns us himself, whom he partly resembled in genius, was not more unfortunate in a shrewish mother than he had been. His father's lady had compelled him to sweep his own room, prepare his own breakfast, and, perhaps, to hem his cambric ruffles. Certainly this woman's violence of power had contributed to excite and fix his imagination on the idea of a placid beauty as the most perfect; and as he probably did not find one exactly realized in the common world, he read romances, and especially the "Count de Gabalis," till he conceived something of the kind might be found elsewhere. Ariette was more like the charming creature detained in the palace of silence by the king of the fishes than any human female he had ever seen. She seemed to have chosen madame Dacicr's motto, " Silence is the ornament of women;" if indeed she had a choice, which certain mysterious motions of the father's head rendered doubtful. One thing was remarkable :—he never could prevail on her to snow herself by moonlight, nor to lift her veil when he had spoken to her half an hour. At the expiration of that time, she always dropped the light and elegant screen of black silk net which was constantly attached to her fine hair. This and the marble palenessof Ariette's countenance, gave something of poetic sanctity to her character, which her profound modesty and secluded mode of life completed. He was often tempted to propose himself to the ancient watchmaker as a son-in-law, but his reverence for him as a man of science was not quite enough to subdue the pride of birth, and some hereditary fears of a wife's dominion. At length fear and pride gave ground, and the chevalier made a suitable speech in the artist's study. To his great surprise, the offer was rejected, but with an air more in sorrow than in anger. He repeated it, and was promised a month's consideration. Before the end of that time, he was informed the watchmaker had suffered an apoplectic stroke, and lay at the point of death. He ran to him— the old man was expiring, and had only strength to put a small ring on his finger before he breathed his last. The room was silent— there was no spectator but himself, and a crowd of alembics, phials, and chemical preparations, lay in one corner. The suspicion he had always entertained, that the deceased artist studied alchymy, and had probably discovered the long sought secret of creating gold, induced our chevalier to search into the heap under which rested a little iron box. He soon perceived that the ring put on his finger by the dying man was contrived to act as a key, and it readily unlocked the coffer. There were in it only a few mysterious calculations, and one on which a horoscope was constructed. Underneath it, in Romaic characters, he decyphered words to this import.
"My art informs me you will find this parchment on which your nativity is accurately traced. Ariette is not of my nature, nor have I power to bestow her. What her veil conceals I never knew, nor can I recollect any change in her aspect, though she has dwelt here many years; but I am at no loss to guess her purpose. Sylphs, gnomes, nymphs, and salamanders, are incapable of enjoying eternity, unless by marriage with a Christian. They have then the power of sharing earthly happiness, and their partners, if they choose* may share with them that intellectual soul which is the spirit of eternal life. Or if they so please, these husbands may content themselves with their society during the short period which the order of their nature permits them to exist in human shape—Ariette is, as I humbly guess, a sylph or spirit of the purest element. For she has no interest in the world's wealth, no delight in its tumults, no capacity for ardent, jealous, or hostile feelings. She thinks, she acts, and she speaks, by the rule of reason ;—but"
The manuscript broke off, as if a sudden sickness had arrested the writer's hand. To whom this could be addressed, unless to him, was not to be conjectured, and Valamour went home in great agitation. The very few neighbours who had seen Ariette celebrated her domestic virtues, her charities, and unimpeachable prudence, during her residence of ten years' length among them. He could judge for himself of her grace and beauty; what could he risk by marrying her? If the Romaic manuscript was a fable, it could no way harm him—if it stated truths, it increased his chance of happiness. Valatnour's heart was better than his head ;—it prevailed, and he married Ariette.
On his marriage day, the bride's conduct gave some countenance to the dead cabal ist's assertion ; for instead of the grateful tenderness which might have been expected to touch an orphan raised from poverty to a noble rank, Ariette showed a reserved, calm, and gentle demeanour, which expressed more good sense than sensibility. Valamour, however, was delighted with his prospect of escaping all the turmoils caused by an impatient spirit, and enjoying perpetual serenity with a wife altogether reasonable. On the third day after their nuptials, the chevalier conducted her to a carriage without saying a word of its destination, which she never inquired, and the next morning brought them to a charming villa in the midst of a rich Provengal valley. It was late in spring, but few flowers had made their appearance, except in a little recess near the Garonne, where a perfect bower of roses was spread. "These," said he, "are all the offspring of a sprig planted by my mother, who won in her youth the crown of roses given as a trophy of merit by the owner of the Chateau de Salency. You must have heard of that affecting ceremony, and I hold these rose-trees as the best partof my patrimony. —" There is no reason for it," she answered coldly;—" these roses are no way conscious of their origin, nor a part of your mother's merit—if they were, you have no right to it.—If, indeed, they had been reared and nursed for you by your grateful peasants, like the roses of M. de Malesherbes, you would have reason to be pleased with them."—Valamour was piqued at this reply, and obliquely reproached her with a want of that feeling which in such cases is more delightful than reason.—" It is not my fault," she returned, with the same coldness—" it would be as wise to quarrel with these flowers because they have not the waving branches of the willow, as to be angry with me because I cannot feel like you. And if you are angry, that is no reason why I should be displeased with you, because you do not feel that you are unreasonable."—Valamour was highly displeased; but after recollecting himself awhile, he began to consider that his anger was useless, and might be absurd. If her supposed father's words were true, Ariette had no power to understand his feelings, unless he could infuse into her that human and tender