brother unknown to the doctor, that thereby the breach was only made wider.

But now all was over. Wife, brother, all gone, and at last Walter sees the sad past in its true light; but alas for him that his eyes are opened only when too late!

Upon the day of the funeral Walter Murchison took his place as chief mourner, going alone in the carriage, declining, although not rudely, all companionship. So Mr. Wickliffe and the kind neighbours, Mr. Wilson and his son, went in a second one.

Walter Murchison tacitly accepted his brother's bequest, though he did not long live to enjoy any of all this large valuable property; and he declined living in the house, never, indeed, ever returning to it after the day of the funeral. For the following one he took to his bed, paralysis having also seized him, though in a more lingering form than that which took off his brother.

Three months after the burial of Mr. Murchison, the family vault was again opened to receive Walter, the last member of this branch of the once so highly-respected Murchisons.

Walter dying without any will, two maiden ladies, living in Yorkshire, very, very distant relatives of the family, through their lawyer, took possession of the property, claiming it as being the only direct heirs of the deceased Walter. But the Charity in whose favour Mr. Robert Murchison originally made his will, contesting the right to it with them, it in consequence thereof fell into Chancery. And in Chancery it seems doomed to remain, unless some better claimant than has yet appeared shall come forward.

Since the foregoing tale was completed, the writer has learned through the newspapers that the law has decided the Chancery suit in favour of "the Charity," against those who believed themselves to be the rightful heirs of this very large property; sc that being finally settled, repairs and alterations will doubtless so change the face of things, that soon there will be no remembrance left, save in London's legendary lore, of the strangely melancholy, haunted-looking houses in Stamford-street, Blackfriars.

LADY MOUNT-EDGCUMBE.

BY THE REV. JOHN STEDMAN.

MOUNT-EDGCUMBE's lordly halls are dark,
For death has left its traces;

A hearse's wheels have ploughed the park,
And grief has furrowed faces.
Over the sad repose in state,
The bearer's heavy tread,
The meeting at the churchyard-gate,
The dust upon the dead.

Countess and churl in common home,
The grave's republic, met,

May yield no sign in years to come,
Who wore the coronet.

Yet when the flesh hath moulder'd,
Who finds shall understand
These bones are not of doubtful dead,
For lo, a jewelled hand!

Mount-Edgcumbe's halls are dark to-night;
Darker the churchyard's ground,—
Is that a meteor's fatuous light

Which plays upon the mound;
Which flings a gleam across the shade,
Projecting stone and tree,

And figure, shouldering bar and spade,
Advancing stealthily?

A menial from the silent hall,
Who, mid its sorrowing,
Though mourner at the funeral,
Mourned only for the ring:
Familiar long with lordly ways,
Yet bent on nothing more,
At ebb of life, than waifs and strays,
A wrecker on death's shore.

He digs apace, with body bowed,

Nor heeds the owl's alarm;

Unscrews the lid, and tears the shroud,
Uplifts a yielding arm:

He grasps the hand which peers have prest,
And counts the precious stones,-
Unmarked, those fingers now may rest
As any other bones.

Rudely he tries to draw that ring,
It will not come away;
Bound, guardian signet, yet to cling,
Pull rudely as he may.

He scruples not; unclasps a knife
To haste the heartless deed,
As 'twere a hand endued with life,
The wound begins to bleed.

And, stranger still, the heavy eyes
Unclose, and wildly stare;
The sleeping form essays to rise,
She breathes the damp, night air,
And wakes as from bewildering dream,
Oh, does she dream or rave?
Can bed so like a coffin seem,

Or chamber like the grave?

She stands upon her tottering feet,
Seizes the swinging light,
And, as a spectre dire to meet,
Stalks feebly through the night.
Ah, never from that castle door
Has such a solemn blow
Resounded through its halls before
As thrills its inmates now!

And well might joy with terror vie
At such a ghastly meeting,
And glad forgiveness e'en supply
The miscreant a greeting:
"He dared, indeed, the grave to ope,
Yet broke death-like trance."

Let neither knave nor sleeper hope
A like deliverance.

THE CLOWN'S STORY.

My native place is M-, in Wiltshire. My father was an eminent solicitor, and possessed an extensive practice for miles around. There were only two children-myself and a girl, my senior by three years. We lived in a detached house, with fine gardens, hothouses, and every luxury surrounding us. My father was passionately fond of us, and by his lavish affection ruined me, and extinguished by these means what sparks I had left of a noble disposition. I soon found out my power, and by degrees became a clever hypocrite. We kept no society, and, with a favourite pony, for days I would absent myself from home, mingling with the country lads, and accompanying them on their ratting and ferreting excursions, much to the alarm of my poor dear mother, who now sleeps in the churchyard of B, who would send out the servants after dark to scour the country for miles in search of the missing fugitive. I was a strong, powerful lad, and generally the leader in all daring excursions. Many have been the nights I have returned home late, and, finding the house wrapped in silence, have tethered old grey Fan to a tree and slept on a haystack.

In the summer time gipsies would encamp in a wood, about a mile from the house. I have slept on their camp-ground frequently, and taken pot-luck with them. Their life had charms for me, although a vagrant one. There seemed within me an innate dislike to the constraints of society, which strengthened with my growth. I loved to lie upon my back in shady lanes and watch the flowers, that always bloomed a month before the gipsies came; and my warm blood would throb with delight as I stood on their camp-ground, to know that another week would see their foremost waggon rounding the neighbouring hill.

Time passed away, and I had reached my eighteenth year, when a change took place in our domestic circle. An old uncle from a distant town came to pay us a visit, and opened my father's eyes to the certainty of my ruin if I stayed with them any longer. It was decided ere he left us that I should leave home for college, to prepare myself for a profession. I was sad at leaving, for I loved them all dearly, in spite of my waywardness. I remember well that my poor mother sobbed as though her heart would break when I bade her good-bye. For days before, kind soul, had she been cramming my box with all manner of things that I might want.

It was a beautiful summer's evening--I never shall forget itwhen the mail-coach, which passed every day, pulled up at the gates for my box-that same mail-coach which, when a boy swinging on gates, I had looked upon with so much awe, watching it disappear down the white turnpike-road, mid clouds of dust. That night saw me safely housed at O. I remember that a feeling of pride at being my own master overcame my sadness for a time as we rattled over the stones of the brightly-lighted town, the guard blowing away to bid the loungers at the inn look out. I will not weary you with too many particulars; suffice it to say that I had plenty of money at my command, and having a thirst to "see life," soon fell into a dissolute lot.

Three years passed away, and found me blasé to everything-a gambler, and a spendthrift. My correspondence with home had diminished with the length of absence, and, in fact, had almost entirely ceased, my supplies being sent to me by my father's London banker. There was one fellow to whom I attributed my ruin-Norton, the son and heir of Lord Norton, of the Grange. He was fascinating, clever, and very handsome. A child of genius, he sang divinely, in a rare tenor voice, the most difficult music, and with ability that would put many professionals to the blush. He scribbled for the London publications, was our crack man at the wicket and the billiard-table; gave dinners to the collegians, and played first-rate whist. He kept blood-horses, betted, and had a friend Charley in the Horse Guards, with whom he was continually corresponding. My weak brain was touched with his taking me, the son of a commoner, under his wing. My poor vanity was, however, destined to have a severe, shock.

One autumn night a party of us had been up the river to see a boat-race. There had been a flood the day before, and the water overflowed the banks. We had taken up bottles of champagne with us, and upon our return all were in an excited state; but Norton worse than any of us. The moon rose behind a mass of dark clouds, and shed a fitful light upon the water. We were no more fit to guide the boat than a band of madmen, to whom we bore a strong resemblance. Norton would insist upon pulling stroke-oar, though I had twice risen in my seat to dissuade him. Brandishing a bottle above his head, he swore he would strike the first man who dared say nay.

We had gone some miles down the river, and were fast approaching a dangerous place, called Deadman's Ferry, where, on a mass of red sandstone rock, a blasted pine-tree spread its lone arms o'er the black and sullen water. Our oars gave forth strange sounds, that told of dangerous depths below. There was a rapid running here, and all of a sudden the cry of a "man overboard!"