him, and as he had read in books, the material shape appeared to him, that his recognition might be immediate.

"I shall see him, but not now; I shall behold him, but not near," was the quotation continually escaping his lips during the illness, in which he

come down to Earth for him. He tried to rise, but the spell bound him too closely; he could not move: but he felt conscious that the shade of the departed was drawing near him,-so closely, he thought, that his warm breath was on his cheek. He knew, however, that it could not be a breath, that it was the waving of the hea-raved continually about the spirit he had seen in venly atmosphere which surrounded the shade, for Eyles was bending, as it were, over him. He felt the glancings of those dear eyes, and from awe, and gladness, perhaps, also, but not from terror, he held his own breath; he was like a corpse, lying there so pale and still amid the marble columns.

The spirit seemed to interpret his very thoughts; for he heard, but not as with his outward ears, but by a new sense of hearing infinitely more delightful than that to which he was accustomed, -he heard these welcome words:

"Yes, it is I, Arnold!"

'My guardian angel he is, then," thought Burke, yet without being aware that he spoke as much.

"Yes," was the reply to the imagining, "I am thy guardian angel. I am always with thee, Arnold. I know how thou hast mourned over thy fancied loss, with a love passing the love of woman. Know, then, faithful one, I am not lost to thee; I am always with thee, and I will meet thee here one day in every month, if so thou wilt."

"Wilt thou? wilt thou?" was the joyful exclamation, which, though pronounced in questioning tone, was evidently not proof of incredulity.

Yes; for thou hast been as necessary to me in our fancied separation as I to thee. Thou hast been led, and we will gratefully acknowledge it, to this mode of communication."

"Yes," said Arnold; "here in the night has the gracious God permitted it. And here in the night shall our tryst-place always be here! here!"

his trances. And then, with unequalled eloquence, he would comment on the passage, and express his belief that there was no reason why one pure and earnest should not penetrate the mysteries of the unseen world, and behold there much besides the human friends who have gained that bourne.

He was too weak, too ill, to endure disputation or contradiction; and, indeed, Arnold's fervent belief seemed to have communicated itself to other minds, and those almost as well informed as his own. The physician himself felt compelled to give his patient another name than monomaniac; for the statements made by the servants, and the manner in which Arnold expressed himself, added strong testimony to the truth of all he affirmed. Indeed, by the time he arose from his sick bed, he had gained many converts among sanest minds to participation in his faith. But, convert as the physician freely professed himself to be, he would not hear of Arnold's remaining at home a day after he was strong enough to undertake a journey. The orders he gave were peremptory; and he solemnly declared that, if they were not obeyed, he would offer no manner of encouragement as to Arnold's ultimate recovery, or even for his life's continuance through the summer.

Thus urged, and by the petitions of his people, as well as by that "love of life" which the most reckless usually at a crisis reveal,-a love our friend fancied was completely subdued in his own breast,—Arnold, in an early summer month of the year 18-, left home for the sea-side,bound for one of the most famous of the watering

The word died on his lip, and the thought places on the Atlantic coast. from his brain.

For many months were these rapturous visions continued; and on them Arnold lived, and through them he began to live, more thoroughly than he had since his bereavement, in the outer world; for the counsel of the spirit was continually directed to this end, to awaken the dormant soul of Arnold to active life and energy. At first, these visions had an exciting effect,-an effect of strengthening, which, in turn, exhausted; and his life became by degrees entirely concentrated in them. When the vision, or trance, was over, for the succeeding weeks he appeared invariably to exist as in a dream; and a happy dream it was, until broken by one more dangerous and fierce, in the shape of a brain fever.

In all these trances, and the thoughts they suggested, and the expectations they awakened, Arnold was never in the least degree terrified, or unnerved by superstitious awe. He had conversed, and listened to, the spirit, with all that freedom of other days, softened a little in its tone, it is true, by the deep reverence he felt. There was nothing horrible or awful to him in the disembodiment his eyes witnessed; for, though to him Durand seemed as he had on earth, united soul and body, Burke knew that he must be disembodied;-that, as the spirit told

The only vacant room in the immense house in which he sought accommodations looked out towards the sea; and in this small and thoroughly uncomfortable apartment he established himself with a continually-increasing self-disgust. Here he arranged the few books he had been allowed to take with him (and the reader may be sure that Stilling's "Pneumatology" was not among them), and all that then remained for him to do was to study human nature.

Two rooms beside Burke's opened upon a little balcony. These were occupied by an invalid boy and his sister. The girl was older than her brother. Both were in mourning. They were alone;-they were all in all to each other, as it seemed, for they were rarely to be met with in the crowded and magnificent parlours of the hotel. Their evenings, and such of the day hours as were not occupied with the baths, on horseback, or in walking, they spent for the most part in the high and shaded balcony, reading and conversing together.

The sister's name was Magdalene; the boy she called Hugo. That she was the guardian and the nurse of the frail lad, Arnold at once perceived, and that Hugo reverenced her as if she had been his mother, and loved her, too, as a playmate, he learned, without any effort on his part, from one or two conversations to which he

found himself compelled one day to listen. And | which she sat, and thanked her. Magdalene in the same way-yet still, my word for it, never as an intentional listener-he was informed that they were in mourning for a relative, who had left a small fortune to them; that they had, after her death, come at once to this famous sea-side for the benefit of the boy's health; and that, to accomplish this grand object, the sister had as a teacher of music long been labouring. Magdalene was a composer, as well as magnificent performer: this he also learned by his hearing.

started with surprise at the sudden act and word, but in a moment recovered her self-possession, expressed her gratification that she had pleased him by her singing; and her brother, who had, before this, several times exchanged words with Arnold, said, anticipating his wish, "Do, dear sister, sing it again." And she sang it again; and many another sentence, that was like a soft breathing from the "harp of Israfel,-Burke still remaining on the balcony, listening. And as he listened to the sacred words that her soul breathed forth in song, he felt impressed as he had never been before. Religion did not seem to him, as heretofore, a thing to be buried alive under the formularies of sect and opinion; for the first time in his life, he saw its vitality.

VI.

But Arnold did not acquire this information concerning his neighbours all at once, nor immediately on taking lodgings in their vicinity; nor did he at the time consider it knowledge in any degree essential to him, or powerful in any way to affect him. Had he met Magdalene in the crowded saloon, he would not have found it possible to recognise her, excepting as the constant companion of the invalid boy. He had hardly looked at her, and scarcely knew, till he had come in her way more than a dozen times, if there were more in her face than a certain very agreeable expression,-a genial, good-hearted expression (not one of your well-established, undeviating smirks); a look that, when directed towards Hugo, had a language of its own that any discerning person might readily have translated into "Kiss me!" or, "God bless you!" It was a sunny face,-the complexion dark and clear, the shape a noble oval, the hair black and straight, and arranged in a style that gave even the tresses a proud bearing; but of all her features the most beautiful, the most touching, was her voice. She was a tall, finely-shaped person, and could at will be all majesty, or all woman. Had you seen her in love, as when watching over Hugo, you would have thought most of her heart of tenderness; if you had seen her indignant, wronged, oppressed, you would not have thought of tenderness, or heart, or love, or weakness, at all. It entirely depended on the time, the mood, and the occasion in which she ap-mother's death, he had been an entire stranger. peared, whether she struck the gazer as in any way uncommon.

One night Arnold went upon the balcony, to look out on the sea, and to escape the sound of musical instruments and dancing feet, which came from a far extremity of the house in echoes sufficient to disturb him. After pacing to and fro a few moments, he paused in the shadow of his own door, and he heard just then sounds in the room adjoining his.

"What shall I play for you, Hugo?" she asked, in a delightfully free and tender voice, the like of which he had never heard before.

'Oh, anything!" said the lad, languidly; and then, as with a sudden thought, "Oh, no!—dear sister, sing that little sentence they used to sing in church at home,-Cast thy burden on the Lord.'"

"That requires more than one voice," she answered; "but, if you want me to try it, I will;" and immediately she began chanting, "Cast thy burden on the Lord,-He will sustain thee, and comfort thee," repeating the words, "He will sustain thee," till the voice sunk to the softest whisper, and the sighing, or rather the comforting assurance of an angel was in the tone.

The action of Burke was involuntary; he could not resist the impulse, but suddenly presented himself before the opened window near

The acquaintance did not end here. Unaccountably, from that night, Arnold felt himself impelled towards these children,-for such they seemed to him. It was an easy matter for him to find his way into the confidence and the heart of Hugo;-easy for him, and awakening, too, for, with every new investigation into their characters, he found his interest, and his desire for an intimate acquaintance, on the increase. Their evident singleness of heart, their refined manners and conversation, not induced, as it seemed to him, by society, nor by perfect education, but rather the work of nature,-their unassumed grace, their mutual affection, habitual reverence, and, finally, the attractiveness of Magdalene's face, and her brother's talents, quite engrossed the attention of Burke; he began to forget himself, his disappointment, and almost his bereavement, in them.

Deprived as he had been of the society of women by his misanthropical habits of late years, the acquaintance with this girl awakened in him a sort of interest and emotion to which, since his

He was as a born poet, who has been suffered to live in ignorance of the melody of verse and rhythm, until the great thoughts of his brain are ready and ripe for that exquisite form. He had held himself a captive to his own will on the borders of life, until Fate drew the veil aside, and revealed to his doubting heart a truth that filled his soul with the madness of ecstasy.

To the passion of study he once more abandoned himself,-to the study of Magdalene; to the task of learning her, of loving her, as naturally consequent: and boundless was the passion that swayed him.

Yet there was not a being in the world aware of this capacity of loving, of this wondrous change, wrought, as it seemed, in the twinkling of an eye, in the life of Arnold Burke. In the interest manifested in her brother. Magdalene saw, what was not at all unaccountable to her, the feeling and sympathy of one invalid for another. She saw how he directed much attention towards Hugo; how he entered often into conversation with him; she thought the design evident, that he meant to discover the attainments and abilities of the boy, and she felt all a loving sister's pride, when he passed through the fancied ordeal so honourably as to win the friendship of one whose every word proclaimed him a finished scholar. In fact, it would have taken a keener, a

one.

any emotion, it was not a perceptible, nor an active He never indulged in the thought of avenging himself, for a moment. He knew how Durand might readily be stripped of the honour he had so basely won; and that if he would, he might see Magdalene shrinking in horror from proffers of a love which was now her joy and pride. But he forbore to speak. He looked upon himself as having been deceived, both by the woman and the man; and the transcendent beauty and worth he had always attached to the words FRIENDSHIP —LOVE, made him shrink, in horror and disdain, from intermeddling with those who had conceived the sacred names so profanely.

He coveted no longer the honours Durand had won; the fact that such a man could win them, convinced him of the worthlessness of that fame, those worldly honours. Fame? such men, loathsome for their sin's sake, deceived and deceiving as Eyles, awarded it! Public gratitude? if its "need be" sprung from a heart of corruption, must it not of itself be a corrupt, corrupting thing? No, never for one moment did Arnold think of claiming the aid of justice, that his cause might be established.

And so poor Burke!-he became a cannibal, devouring his own heart!

tonished the circle of hearers, which, attracted at first in divers ways, continued to gather around him whenever his call was made. These lis teners-all who came a second time to listen to him-were of that class which he delighted to deal with, and cared most to affect. He taught them; they believed him. His tenets, which were intended to subvert the worn-out establishments of religion, were proclaimed with the impassioned eloquence of the enthusiast, and not only so, but with the distinguishing coolness of one perfectly convinced that all he averred was supported by the grand principles of truth. He had not anticipated that his thoughts would tell so immediately on other minds. The effect produced was sudden; he found himself all at once exalted as the leader of a sect, the founder of a new religion, a religion which was called after the one main idea of all his tenets.

There was something marvellous about this teacher. He had lived so long alone, that the links once binding him to the world and society were completely broken, and all the associations of ordinary men's thoughts were foreign to him. When the name of Love lingered on his lip, it was no light and idle word, nor comparable even with any emotion known among men by that name. He would not admit that any human heart had ever formed a due conception of its meaning; and the reverential expressions he made use of in taking the name upon his lips satisfied his hearers that he, at least, was earnest and sincere in making his assertions.

Was his desire satisfied, when he stood in crowded places, elevated above all, looked up to with reverence by all,-a master, and acknowledged as such, though the links which bound

When he stood, isolated, ungenial, distrustful, different from every other human being, his heart answering to no other heart, though myriad minds responded to his mind, was his desire satisfied? God knows. I know not.

And as the years, the "melancholy years," of his life went on, he lived separated from all companionship with his fellow-man, excepting that which may exist between a reserved, taciturn, intellectual employee, and his laborious employed. When religion became to him a necessity, as it does always to the minds of thoughtful men, Arnold sought out a device of his own imagining, built on the foundation of his own experience. To the greatest of all ideas, the glorious idea of the spirit of demo-him to the rest of the world were for ever broken? cracy in religion, he would not bow or yield. To his own heart he answered, and not to the great Heart of Love; by his own will he governed himself, and not by the Infinite Will; by himself he stood, determined to live unto himself, and to die unto himself. Once, after several years of study, Arnold proposed to his mind that he should go out into the world as a lecturer, or as an author-there was, after all, a lingering spark of the old ambition in his soul. But overwhelming disgust for the public again and again dissuaded bim. So he lived, studious, observant, maintaining his estate with an inherited pride; but the spirit of hospitality was driven from his halls. And thus he passed from year to year, until sixty years' experience had justified the gray hairs, the heavy heart, and the matchless gravity of his manner and countenance. And then he came out from his solitude, and stood before the world. Those years of unfulfilled intention—were they all wasted? No! he had gathered strength unto himself in them, though he had not acquired faith; his mind was enriched with the fruits of his originality of thought. An intellectual warrior,—an innovator, if you will.-he appeared in the world, a Lecturer, as unlike the great majority of the hosts known by that designation as may be imagined.

The tenets he advanced, his extraordinary power of language, the flow of words (which were burdened with meaning, and could be compared to nothing so well as to the rushing river, covered with freighted vessels,-sailing treasure-houses, white-winged messengers), as

Among Burke's listeners was one towards whom his eyes and his meditation turned more frequently than towards any other living man. This was Hugo, Magdalene's brother, himself now a man well known in the "walks of literature." But Hugo, though an earnest listener to the brilliant lecturer, was not a believer :-his sister had not sung to him in vain, through all the weary hours of his invalid youth, "Cast thy burden on THE Lord."

Magdalene had now been long dead; Durand also was dead. Hugo was alone; and, had he dared, he would gladly have allied himself, by no common tie of friendship, with Arnold Burke. But Burke would not recognise him as an indivi dual; though he would quote his printed words, and prove thus, even in the author's hearing, that he had studied what Hugo wrote, he would still pass by him, and meet the earnest glances directed towards him,-understand the appealing of the glance, and yet remain deaf to it.

When he really understood this, the author, with honourable pride, made no more effort at advance towards one whom, for his friendship in the past, he looked on as a benefactor. His pride was, moreover, fraught with charity; for Hugo and his sister had both learned how Arnold was wronged, and how grossly his "visionary eyes" had been deceived.