the evening with her, and had fanned her into a sound sleep, and letting down the musquito curtains, she put the fan into the hand of the native attendant, and sought her own cabin, for it was now past ten o'clock.

On entering the little den, she saw Mary had not come; she wondered a few minutes, waited a few minutes more, and then went on deck. Every one had left it but the helmsman. A horrible memory came over Edina of one night, which she never recollected without a faint shudder; she gasped and turned giddy, and the moon, at that moment rising from a cloud, betrayed the white folds of Mary's dress, at the further end of the poop. Edina sprang towards her; she had crouched down in a dark corner, her face hid in her hands, sobbing in a paroxysm of tears.

Edina laid her hand caressingly on her shoulder. 'My dearest cousin, sister indeed! dear sister! why do you grieve so bitterly?"

The loving tone melted all the frost of reserve which had so long incrusted Mary's heart; she was at that moment too unhappy to care for secresy; she arose quickly, and clasped Edina in her arms-"I will tell you all!" she cried, in a low, sharp tone, "all! I am wretched beyond words.

"Come with me down," said Edina, gently urging her along. Dear Mary, your hair is quite wet with the dew; you are trembling with cold."

"Not cold!" muttered Mary; "I wish it were."

She sat down in the cabin, tried to speak, and again burst into tears. Edina's kisses and fond sisterly soothing melted her still more; but the violent weeping relieved her, and she was able to speak distinctly, though with much emotion. "Oh, Edina, do you remember your advice the day of Cholmondely's proposal? do you remember how you warned me? I was wavering then. I loved Frank always, but I did not know it till Cholmondely began his attentions. You showed me how impossible it was for me to marry Frank; and when you went away from me, I thought, I wished my heart would break at once. Then I began to think how foolish and wickedly I was acting, how I had encouraged Cholmondely from sheer shyness, and I was afraid to see him; but just as I had resolved to leave an excuse, he came in hurriedly, and when he saw me there he seized my hand, and would not let me go. Then he spoke so passionately, yet so respectfully, he pleaded in such irresistible words-oh, Edina, you know how fascinating, how talented he is; you know what eloquence he has at command, and he touched me so much I could not speak, to make him miserable, when he seemed so hopeful and so glad. And while

self and Frank, and I hoped I should be able to do my duty as a wife—indeed I did not mean to deceive him. But I was punished for my presumption in saying to my feelings-Thus far shall ye come, and no further;' they were like the waves of the sea, and overflowed all my defences. Cholmondely went away, and I thought I might innocently keep up a brotherly intercourse with Frank; but oh, Edina, that word brotherly has ruined the peace of hundreds, and it betrayed mine. For when Frank went, then I saw how I had deceived you all; I saw that I loved him alone, that I could never be what a wife ought to be to noble, generous Cholmondely, and I have been miserable ever since. I left England because I thought the voyage would do me good, and I hoped to find Cholmondely grown cold, that I might have broken off the engagement without disgrace to myself. But I will trust to you, you shall be my guardian angel; advise me, Edina, for I am both weak and wicked."

"You must not marry Cholmondely with such sentiments," exclaimed her monitor; “you could give him no crueller return for his love and constancy than a cold and repining wife. Frank is at Barrackpore, he is to meet us at Calcutta ; when you see him, perhaps you may think poverty an evil to be supported with one you love."

"But Frank may have changed," faltered Mary.

"I am sure not," said Edina, "I heard from him just before we sailed, and he is true and self-devoting."

Mary wept again, but these were happy tears. "We will trust to Frank," she cried; "oh! if he loves me still, I will struggle through any poverty for his sake. I care not for wealth now, I have suffered too much from this distortion of the heart," and again she wept.

She was quite wearied by her agitations, and Edina, with the tenderness of a mother, prepared her some tea, and soothed her to sleep with her low and mournful voice. There were tears in Edina's voice when she sung; the control was wanting there which kept her speech so calm, and therefore she seldom sung, for her own melody unnerved and distressed her. But on this occasion she warbled the saddest and wildest of her ballads, till Mary was sunk in sleep and she in tears. Edina did not sleep all night, but she prayed much, and looked serene and kindly as ever in the morning.

(To be continued.)

might construe my silence favourably, and I was so weak, I did not dare to speak; and then it was all over with me, I let him believe me his promised bride. Edina, Edina! I have sinned very, very deeply. I really intended then to ove him, I thought it the best way to cure my

To ope the lock of my charade,
Behold the mystic key;-

If all were good, Goodall no more
Pre-eminent would be.

X. Y. Z.

THE MIRAGE.

BY WILLIAM HENRY FISK.

On wild Sahara's savage waste of sand,
Where time has wrought destruction and decay,
And where the ruin, heaped by spoiler's hand,
Is scattered by the wild winds far away,
It seems as 'twere an afterthought of God,
Amid the beauties born with time, to rear
An arid waste, with scarce one moistened sod
To make its solitude less dark, less drear-

A land to which the skies forbid the tribute of a tear!

There, on its sand-breast, floats a phantom lake,
Luring the jaded wanderer the more
Because he deems each moment he shall slake
His thirst upon that wild yet welcome shore :
On, on he crawls with wearied pace, and slow,
For life imbibes each poisoned breath of air,
Nor seems more near, then wildly shrieks, for lo!
The phantom lake is fled, a waste is there,
The empty mirage gone for aye, that seemed so
bright, so fair!

The fretful, fragile infant, when its feet
First trip the earth their energy to try,

If on the plain, 'mid buds, he chance to meet
Roving on wanton wing, the butterfly,
He marks it light beside a sunlit bower,
Then, child-like, leaves each gilt and gaudy toy,
And runs to catch it from the painted flower,
Then-no!-'tis gone! and gone his smiles and joy:
Such is the mirage then which springs our gladness
to alloy.

'Scaped from the dull monotony of school,
He spreads the main-sail of his ardent mind,
To catch the gales he deems shall gently rule,
And waft him on, new joys, new hopes to find;
The stream which seemed so smooth, so soft, so fair,
Where wave with wave seemed noiselessly to meet,
When launched upon, assumes a wilder air,
Gone is its smoothness and its smile so sweet;
And such the mirage then which springs our blighted
hopes to greet.

Then o'er the spirit dawns the morn of love,
Spreading around a fairy world of light;
Then adoration, as the sun above,

Mounts to her mid-day zenith, warm and bright;
And hope and constancy, twin sisters, twine
Around existence an enchanted ray,

Which shall, awhile, with truth's own lustre shine, When cold estrangement snaps affection's sway : Such is the mirage then which blights our first love to decay!

And then ambition rears her lofty tower, Her palaces and monuments, to stand The ravages of time, beyond his power, And spread immortal fame from land to land; Marks in the deep futurity the goal, But sees not sickness lurking in his lair, Which early thwarts the greatness of his soul, Proving his towers but "castles of the air :" Such is the mirage then which leaves an empty, wild despair.

And how, e'en to the last, to life he clings,
So wildly flutt'ring in the web of Death,
Deeming, still falsely, that existence brings
To crippled age some years of peaceful breath;

And whilst he flutters to release his hold, He sees not dissolution; but the grave Enwraps him in her bosom damp and cold, Existence struggles (but in vain) to saveLife is the mirage stream which flows with empty phantom-wave!

But it has moments-unawares they beam,
Oasis-like, its desert waste upon;

With new-born joy and thrilling hope they gleam,
But like the sun, soon set, though bright it shone ;
And disappointment to their brightness yields,
Where'er they rise on earth from pole to pole,
Then soon again its crushing power wields,
And drowns their joys ere they attain their goal:
So disappointment makes sweet hope life's mirage
of the soul.

THE STUDENT OF HEIDELBERG;
OR, THE TRANCE.

BY NICHOLAS MICHELL, AUTHOR OF
DUCED," &c.

Nightly on Heidelberg's gray towers,
The Student passed his sleepless hours:
The mysteries of the worlds that roll
In ether's depths absorbed his soul.
Wearied of telescopic glance,
He burned to travel Heaven's expanse ;
But sighed to feel his cumbering clay
Impede the spirit's upward way.
And thus he gazed, and nightly pined;
Like a caged bird; the immortal mind
Fluttered against its fleshly bars;
His eye grew dim, his cheek waxed pale,
He sickened, died-so ran the tale-

In worshipping the wondrous stars.

THE TRA

Sigh, students of Heidelberg, over that clay;
The long fettered spirit hath winged away:
Its wishes are won, and whether that be
A trance, or death, it is free! it is free!
Now will it read the bright book of the skies,
Each wonder in yon blue depth that lies;
Will traverse our system, and follow each star,
As it wheels on its flaming course afar;
Mark how from nebulæ* worlds are springing;
What creatures of light adorn each sphere;
What passions are burning, what music is ringing,
Through all the worlds seen so dimly here.

The Student's soul in midnight's noon,
Shot, like a meteor, to the moon.
There spread no sea, no cloud, no air;
There lived no plant, no creature there :
A ghastly silence reigned around;
E'en when some earthquake rent the ground,
Or vast volcano's sulphury breath
Whirled rocks on high, 'twas still as death.t

*For the theory of the formation of worlds from masses of nebulous matter scattered through space, vide Professor Nichols' learned and interesting work, "The Architecture of the Heavens."

†The reader, we presume, needs not be informed of the fact that where air is wanting, no sound can be propagated.

Appalled, the Spirit turned away,

And, gliding on a silver ray,

Reached the fair orb of Venus, glowing

With rosy clouds, and life, and light;

Bright streams are whisp'ring, musk-winds blowing, Cerulean seas in music flowing;

All things seem steeped in warm delight.
Oh! what a Paradise is here,

To which earth's loveliest scenes appear
Charmless and dark; and 'mid the bowers,
Which birds flit round like flying flowers,
Fair women smile; such forms as never
Our dim and colder planet trod;
No fall-no curse their spirits sever

From hymning angels and their God:
The Student's soul their witchery feels;

And as he sees them sport and dance, Their fair arms wave, their black eyes glance, A speechless rapture o'er him steals.

Mercury, half lost in solar beams,
Its hot dense soil, and boiling streams;
Its small race, formed the heat to bear-
Mars, like our earth, now dark, now fair-
The little Asteroids, pure and bright,
Urging through Heaven their joyous flight;
With tiny vales, and hills, and seas-
All this the curious wanderer sees;
Until o'er Jupiter's vast ball,

He hangs in awe and dread surprise ;
That mighty orb, the king of all

The planets circling through the skies.
A thousand earths will form but him;

He rolls along his noiseless way;
Huge creatures through his forests dim,
And men, like giants, o'er him stray.
Vast fields of ice enwrap his poles;
Volcanos burn, and thunder rolls;
A world to mock Destroyer Time!
Where all is fearful, all sublime !

Now through the moons of Saturn wending,
He lights upon its wondrous ring;
Chaos with Order still contending,

That world is an unfinished thing.
Condensing still its mass, its rocks
Are torn and heaved by earthquake shocks ;
Reptiles, as erst upon this earth,

Ere man was formed, have monstrous birth. From Saturn's sphere the depths he seeks,

Where Herschel wanders far and slow; Dimly o'er him the sunbeam breaks, Buried from vale to mountain peaks,

In still, calm, everlasting snow. Yes, winter here holds ceaseless reign; Yet is this globe not formed in vain : Man breathes with aspect cold and stern, And walks his world a thousand years; Sages that only think, and learn,

And know no smiles, and shed no tears.

Swift up the vault a comet wheels,
No dread th' adventurous Spirit feels;
But following fast its far career,
Dives 'midst its luminous atmosphere.
Each orb is passed; the blue profound
Spreads like eternity around.
Sirius a brighter beam is throwing,
The Milky-way more radiant growing.
But now its far aphelion won,

Once more the comet seeks the sun :

If it meet earth, that fiery air
Must blast all living creatures there;
Or to its heart if mass be lent,
The shock must shake the firmament.
But it flies past, and, swift as light,
Wheels round the orb it must obey,
And mounts again the empyrean height,
To roam ten billion leagues away.

The Soul approached that dazzling sun,
Which mortals scarce dare look upon;
The worshipped God of ancient sages,
That, all undimmed, hath burned for ages.
He deemed him erst a world of flame,
A notion Truth must put to shame ;
As if the subject orbs, that gleam

Round his huge mass, with life should teem,
While he, the lord of all, must be
A desolate immensity!

No, through a brilliant air, that throws
Throughout the system heat and light,
Onward th' enraptured spirit goes.

Oh! beautiful and gorgeous sight!
But mortal line may ne'er unfold

The glorious scene the wanderer sees; Islands of flowers, and fruits of gold, Bright streams through emerald valleys rolled, While balm and music load each breeze : The glories of each other sphere, With all their joys seem gathered here. Then they who tread the enchanted ground, Wreaths on their radiant temples bound, With godlike forms, and looks of love, Are all he pictured saints above.

To that fair world adieu he bade,
And shot into the fields of space;
But where the swift-winged Spirit strayed
In those far depths, 'twere long to trace.
Systems he saw, whose planets wend,

Like ours, around their central sun;
And on, and on, the links extend,
A mighty fabric without end,

Worthy the Everlasting One.
And farther as that Spirit flew,
More strong his thirst for knowledge grew.

*

Within an old carved oaken room,
Three torches struggle with the gloom :
There lies the Student's senseless clay;
And one pale scholar comes each day,
To breathe a sigh and drop a tear
O'er him he loved in life full dear.
The funeral bell is tolling now-

One last fond look on that white brow.
Hush!-heard you not that low-breathed sigh ?
He moves!-he opes his long-sealed eye,
And thrusts aside the sable shroud;
And, like the soft moon, when the cloud
Unveils her orb, his pale face glows,
As just awakened from repose.
The gazers start, but feel no dread,
So sweet the smile those dark eyes shed.
And then he tells them, as with awe
They o'er him bend, of all he saw ;
Describes the glories of the spheres,
In tones that charm their listening ears,
Points to Heaven's depths, and only sighs
That still he cannot roam the skies.

Sauntering arm-in-arm down the main street of a fashionable provincial town were two young men, engaged in discussing the merits of a party they had shared in, the night before. The elder of the two (and there did not seem many years between them), an intelligent barrister, steady in his profession, was rather enduring than listening to the complaints of his companion, while an occasional monosyllable, uttered with a half smile, was more than sufficient to keep alive and feed the flood of his eloquence: they were not relations, but long acquaintance; and that sort of freemasonry which exists between those of the same profession (for the younger had just been "sworn in" a member of the law) acted as a magnet in this case, and made them what the world terms-Friends! "Nay; but I tell you, Percival," exclaimed the younger, while his dark eye brightened, and his pale cheek flushed with excitement, "that Grace Clifford did slight me last night to have watched her, as I did, was not easily to be deceived. She laughed and waltzed with that puppy of an officer, Murray, though she must have seen how it distressed me; more than all, her sweetest smile and most witching glance were for him all the evening."

:

She is not such a beauty as you imagine, Selby," interrupted his friend; "Fanny Weston, or her sister, Kate Clifford, are prettier and milder."

66

Ah, nonsense! Fanny is a stupid, milk-andwater girl, and Kate too mild, quiet, not life or spirit enough. Grace's winning, half coquettish manner is not easily forgotten, and her ringing laugh is even now in my ears. Oh, the mockery of her step and glance, as she passed me, en route to the supper-room, leaning on that handsome tinselled boy, while I was reclining sorrowfully against the ballustrade, I could have died of very vexation that she caught me. Even Kate saw her conduct, and made excuses for the gay disposition of Grace; but when next we meet, I will show her I value not a flirt!"

"So like Kate, to be sure," said Percival, "kind and good; but that reminds me, I met Grace this morning. She asked after you, and mentioned they would be at Mrs. Mansergh's party to-morrow night; so go, for pity's sake, my young lover, and arrange the quarrel-by Jove, here's Murray! Now, Selby, we shall see how warmly you rivals will meet.'

Confound the fellow, I wont meet him-I have business this other way. Au revoir." And having reached the end of the street, they separated. Selby shot out of sight in a minute; but Percival remained, with his usual steady, sombre manner, to speak to the young officer.

It was the scorching noon-tide hour of a June day, about the same time as the above conversation was taking place, that Kate and Grace Clifford were seated in their drawing-room, with open windows, and sun blinds half pulled down, amusing themselves talking over the affairs of the evening before. Kate was bending over a frame, working with the greatest attention, her ringlets shading her cheek; but now and then, as she raised her eyes, to glance toward the blue sky and green trees without, a merry laugh or suppressed sigh would come startlingly on her ear; and then, she would remember to check that flighty, wayward Grace, for her idle

ness.

In an arm-chair reclined Grace Clifford, her head thrown back resting on the cushion, with eyes half closed, and one hand falling listlessly at her side, while the other held a book; with a face, pale as the white rose in her bosom, without a sign of life or animation, lay the brilliant flirt of the night before. Any person visiting the young ladies just then, would be justified in proclaiming Kate "a very pretty girl-one calculated to make a useful member of society;" and Grace, a rapid victim of ennui, either dying from ill health or disappointment. We will let their conversation speak for them.

Grace, are you ill, or out of sorts-which? or do you regret having made a conquest of the young officer?"

Nothing of the kind, Kate; but I am tired, must be that I talked and laughed too much, for and have not a word to say this morning. It it is a very trouble to open this book and read, though I should like it; nay, more, I believe the day is warm and sunny without, yet I am cold as snow. Don't talk of Murray, I hate him!"

Kate smiled astonishment, and suspended her "Well, but employment to look at her sister. you are strange, Grace; after dancing with him, flirting until I was certain you were in love; to declare now that you hate him. But tell me, what do you intend doing with Alfred Selby? he made fifty complaints to me about you. I do not think you have behaved well.”

"Dear Kate, what a prude you are! however, I intend to make up' with him to-morrow at Mrs. Mansergh's. I will lay all the blame on himself-say that he flirted with Fanny Weston, while I was jealous, and that Murray is odious to me. It will be a capital scene: if I can keep my countenance, all will go on well. Alfred is becoming a little annoying; he has no money, nor a prospect of any; I have none either. What would he? To love, I suppose, and die