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‘Within translucent halls above the moon, Where ether spreads beneath a blue lagoon, And faintly ’mid a web of cloud and star ia The still earth gleams unfathom'd leagues afar, The Past and Future dwell; and both are one, " An endless Present that has ne’er begun. ; The new-born infant dead in Norway’s cold, by j The Pharaoh lapt in hieroglyphic gold, All fronts that show the pure baptismal ray, And all whom Islam bids repent and pray, | And Trajan’s worshippers and Timour's host : Tn calm light live on that eternal coast— neh, Where change has never urged its fluctuant bark, SSeie Nor sunless noon has faded into dark. For all that each successive age has seen save In this low world is always there serene ;

very ' And e’en the glow-worm, crush’d by Nimrod’s hoof, Lives like the Assyrian king from pain aloof. pr 21 or There all is perfect ever, all is clear : jell Bat dimm’d how soon in this our hemisphere ! oe When e’en the deed of yester eve grows pale "os In twilight thought before this morning’s tale,— ne Unless for Sons of Memory, who by lot ool Enjoy the bliss of all things else forgot ; ool Dwell in the house above, and from that hold “it Entrance mankind with wonders manifold ; ig And making that has been once more to be one Reclothe in foliage bare Oblivion’s trae.” + 6 ug | So épake a German artist on the height = Of Caracalla’s Baths,in still delight, a ex Beholding thence the green Campagna’s waste, _ Its lon + amen aqueducts and tombs defaced, aa And all the hills around from where the gay High-towering Tivoli looked in distance grey, Past old Preneste and Frascati’s grove, “Y, And far o’er all the Mount of Latin Jove, Till from Albano, sloping to the plain, The land is bordered by the glittering main. All this, while he beheld, his uttered thought Seemed but the landscape’s meaning given unsought; And he perused the oie things he saw As one who read high songs with joyous awe. amen I sat beside him and I loved the man, His zeal undoubting, and his life’s pure plan; New Bat when once more we met, his dust was laid mouth Not far from Shelley’s, in the cypress shade. om 4 EVENING SOLACE. pr 1 BY CURRER BELL. ay 4 The human heart has hidden treasures, 2 In secret kept, in silence sealed ; une 18 ; The thoughts, the hopes, the dreams, the pleasures, - Whose charms were broken if revealed. And days may pass in gay confusion, ey on And nights in rosy riot fly, orefor While, lost in Fame’s or Wealth’s illusion, Y. The memory of the Past may die. don. But there are hours of lonely musing, ban Such as in evening silence come,

When, soft as birds their pinions closing,

The heart’s best feelings gather home.

Then in our souls there seems to languish

A tender grief that is not wo;

And thoughts that once wrung tears of anguish, Now cause but some mild tears to flow.

And feelings, once as strong as passions, Float softly back—a faded dream; Our own sharp grieis and wild sensations, The The tale of others’ sufferings seem. Oh! when the heart is freshly bleeding, ~ How longs it for the time to be, reet. When through the mist of years receding, Its woes but live in reverie!

saltive And it can dwell on moonlight glimmer, ebrile On evening shade and loneliness ;

And, while the sky grows dim and dimmer, ate @ Feel no untold how strange distress— dag Only a deeper impulse given

cases By lonely hour and dovmenat room,

pstiody To solemn thoughts that soar to Heaven,

Seeking a life and world to come.



He stood beside me, The embodied image of the brightest dream, That like a dawn heralds the day of life. The shadow of his presence made my world A Paradise. All familiar things he touched, All common words he spake, become to me Like forms and sounds of a di

The px : i

Poets liken life to a hurrying fiver—a j iff d vali : g Mver—a journey swift, and yet ~" Ms changing day. They call Time an cuty & destroyer ie es se ened friend, but that is only in the bitter irony of sorrow. he tens that passing Life and changing Time are only outward show. Wheoce Souls who walk the earth,—and there are some, thank God ! ange cold-hearted sceptics may say of humanity—who never really ing hor grow old. They only ripen in wisdom and in all good ca and become more fit for the heavenly harvest. In those who are

moner mould the wearing body weighs down the mind, and the

iviner world.—SHELLEY.


heart grows old with the frame; but the true angel-spirite are ever oung.

, Thus Leuthold Auerbach, when the dark shadow of forty years was nigh overtaking him, was as young in heart as he had been at twenty- five. His eye yet brightened at the sight of all beautiful things ; his voice had its old gentle tone; and though his figure was bent still lower, and Time—in poetical language—had laid his hand on the noble fore- head and clustering hair, until every curve of the finely-formed head lay bare to the eye of the observer, still Leuthold Auerbach was not an old man. Nature, ever even-handed, sometimes atones to those whose want of beauty makes them look old in youth, by tenderly keeping off the harsher tokens of age. Had the Self-seer exercised this gift, now long unused, he would have marvelled that fifteen years should have passed over him and left so few traces behind.

The good master’—he still kept that name—sat one day with his pupils, now growing into manhood. John and Peter were busily engaged in carving types, for all the secrets of his invention were wisely kept by Laurentius in his cwn family. They were the sole depositcries of the first mysteries of printing, except a servaut, Geinsfleicht, who afterwards carrried the secret with him to Mentz, and there promulgated it as his own discovery. Tke old man wandered up and down the room; now look- ing over the young workmen, now giving orders to his servaut, who was busy with the press, and then glancing with pride and pleasure to the various testimonies of his success that adorned the room, in the shape of printed leaves. é ,

“'Tis useless, grandfather,” at last cried John, threwing down his block, “I cannot cut these letters, and as I ain the best workman here no one elsecan. You must get some wood-carver, and run the chance of his keeping our secret. I will be troubled no longer.”’

Ah, you were ever an impatient boy,” said the grandfather, shaking his head in despair. Leuthold, dear master, what shall we do ?”

“‘ The boy speaks wisely, though he meant it not,” answered Leuthold, “The work is beyond his skill—it requires an experienced hand.”

“And whom among the carvers in Haarlem can we trust!—they area wild, unprincipled set, who would steal our secret and fly. Come, Lu- cia,’’ he continued, as the door opened, and a goons girl entered, thou hast more sense than either of thy brothers; tell us how we are to get this work finished, which John has so angrily given up?”

Lucia raised her eyes with the same look which was peculiar to her in childhood: all else was changed with her. The round, chubby fea- tures had become soft, but clearly defined in regular proportion. The form had reached the full height of womanhood, childish prettiness was merged into perfect beauty—beauty rendered still more loveable by the mind that shone through it. Lucia at seventeen was, indeed, the per- fection of girlhood; thoughtful, serene, yet with a world of feeling, that almost amounted to passion, slumbering in the deep, clear eyes, in the tremulous lips.

**{ do not wonder that John could not carve this delicate work,” she said. Ay, that is the thing! and whom can we trust, my child? A first- rate carver would refuse the task, and of those wild young men that Peter briugs here, there is not one who is honest.”

“Yes, grandfather, there is,” answered the girl. “No one can say evil of George Surlan, the wood-carver from Ulm.”’

“What! merry George, the master-singer, who steals away old hearts and young with his laughing eyes and his gay songs ?”

He is gcod as well as merry, grandfather. Iam sure you might trust him. And he is a favourite of the master’s, too,” said Lucia, for the first time lifting her eyes to Leuthold’s face.

The two boys burst into a loud laugh.

‘*You like George because he took your head as a model fer one of his carved angels, sister. How vain girls are!” cried John, maliciously.

Lucia glanced towards the master, whose penetrating gaze was fixed on her countenance. She saw it, and blushed deeply.

“It is not so, indeed !” she murmured. You must not think so ill of me, dear master.” And she suddenly took Leuthold’s hard with a child- like air, as if deprecating reproach.

Lucia is never vain,” said Leuthold, gently, as he drew her towards him with the frank familiarity which ever marked his intercourse with the whole family, and smoothed her beautiful hair, as a father or elder brother might have done. It was a token of regard that was customary between them; and yet Lucia seemed to tremble and change coleur, even while asmile of radiant happiness hovered round her lips.

Merry George might have kuown we were talking about him,” cried John, who had taken refuge at the window, in a sallen fit. Look, there he is, coming hither! Now, grandfather, you can put him in my place, as Lucia answers for his honesty so boldly.”

“What shall we do, good friend?” said the old man, irresolutely, turning to Leuthold, who was, though Laurentius never suspected the fact, the ruler of all his actions, having over him the indescribable intla- ence of a strong mind over a weak one.

“I think,” said the master, that George world answer thy purpose, Laurentius, Lucia has spoken truly ; he is a clever and houest youth, the son of a worthy father, whom I knew well. Thou mayst, indeed, trust him.”

“The master is always right. I will go and fetch George hither,” said Peter; and meeting no opposition, he departed.

Presently George Surlan entered. He was a youth slenderly and gracefully made, whose bright blue eyes and sunny curling hair caused him to look much younger than he really was. His dress was that of a student, but light and gay, and he wore on his shoulder a sort of badge, being a rude representation of King David playing the harp. This was the distinctive mark of the order of Master-singers, a brotherhood which rose up in Germany after the Minne-singers had passed away, and which united the musical claracter of the latter with many rules and rites ap- poecling to masonic. To this fraternity of minstrels, which included men of all ranks, and was at one time almost universal over Germany, the young wood-carver belonged.

The master-singer lifted his cap from his fair curls, and looked with much surprise round the room, which was, according to report, the scene of Coster’s mysterious and secret labours. He made a respectful rever- ence to the old man, and to Leuthold, and then, as his quick eye caught that of the young maiden, it brightened with pleasure.

‘They tell me you are a true, upright youth, as well as a good carver,” abruptly began Laurentius. J have sent for you to aid us, George Sur- pa and I am going to trust you with agreatsecret. Herr Auerbach says


The young man looked gratefuliy towards the master, and replied—

He shall have no cause to repent his goodness. Whatcan I do?”

And thereupon Laurentius began, in a long harangue, to explain the necessity of secresy, and the solemn promise that he would be expected to make regarding the work he was todo. The master-singer listened rather impatiently ; but Leuthold took advantage of a pause in the dis- course to tell all succinctly.

“Thou must promise te keep the secret, aud I know thou didst never fail in thy word, I answer for thee, and so does this child, it seems,” said Leuthold, smiling at Lucia.

Then I will engage to do anything in the wide world,” cried George


Surlan earnestly, clasping the master’s hand, though his beaming eyes sought the sweet face of Lucia. t

She answered him with a frank and kindly smile; but she did not droop her long lashes—she did not blush. Alas! while the young man’s whole sou! was laid at her feet, as it were—while he watched her every movement with the lingering fondness that only springs from love, she looked carelessly on him, unconscious of the treasure thus thrown away. To the dreaming maiden, wholly absorbed in her inner world of romance, there was but one on earth who appeared noblg, wise, worthy to be the ideal of girlhood’s wildest devotion, and that‘one was Leut Auer- bach.

Woman's love is far more spiritualised than man’s, inasmuch as it is of- ten entirely independent of outward beauty. A true-hearted woman's nature is fall of the quality called hero-worship, and this, mingled with the all-pervading necessity of loving. causes her to be swayed irresistibly by the power of superior intellect. Hew many a fanciful girl has lav- ished a world of fondness upon some poet-idol, eck pemwere her eyes have never beheld, and whom yet she worships as mind worships mind, with a love which though only ideal, needs but a touch to exalt it into the intensity of woman's devotion! How oiten, too, do we see some beautiful and high-minded woman, pour out the whole riches of her lov- ing heart upor one to whom Nature has given nothing but the great spell to win it all—a noble soul! She passes over all external disadvantages of age or person. She sees but the immortal spirit dwelling therein ; and it is ever beautiful, ever young. Her soul is bowed down before it in joyful humility, and where she worships, she loves, too, with an earn estuess, intensity, aud purity, which shadow dimly forth that which the angels bear to Divinity itself. Oh, how little can men know of a love like this !

Therefore, let it not be thought strange if Leuthold had thus uncon- sciously awakened such deep and absorbing feelings in the heart of a young girl like Lucia. The world scofis at the romance of girlhood. Nay, women themselves, grown aged and matronly, come in time to look back deridingly on their own young feelings, and say how idle and fool- ish they were once. And yet this first fresh dream, be it of love or poesy, is one of the few realities of life, not the less true because we outgrow it in time, Others treading after us, again pass through that sunny 0 and when we turn and see them, with their innocent romance and eir single-hearted confidence, we remember our own old days, and think that there was some truth in those dreams after all.

Sweet, maidenly, and oe high-souled Lucia, with the heart of a wo- man and the spirit of a child, our eyes grow dim while we picture thee ; how thou didst grow up like a pure lily among meaner flowers, and fe gradually the carelessness of childhood merge into the dreams of girl hood ; how thon didst love to sit alone, to trace dim regions in clou > to listen to invisible music in the wind, to watch the stars, until they seenied mysterious éyes looking down on thee, while vague feelings of delicious sadness stole over thee, and thy tears flowed, though not for sorrow! Poorchild! who didst ask of the winds, the clouds, the stars, what was the strange power that so moved thee, and understoodest not the answer that they bore,—“ Maiden, it is Love!”

CHAPTER VIII. Love is sweet, Given or returued.—SHELLEY.

The story of Love is everywhere the same. Why should we enlarge on the passing daily events in this Flemish house of four hundred years ago? Human hearts beat now as they did then, and are alike swayed by doubts, and fears, and hopes, with love reigning above all. Thou, youth of mo- dern days, sighing in vain for some cold-hearted damsel ; thou dreaming maiden, who .worshippest one above all, calling this devotion, respect, admiration—anything but love ; and thou, calm philosopher, who hast sutiered and art no more of the world, ye may see in these visions of the past but the reflex of your own hearts.

Day after day glided on, and all was outward calm in the dwelling of Laurentius Coster. The young master-singer became an inmate of the family, and all were glad of this. George Surlan brought sunshine wher- ever he went, with his blithe spirit and kindly heart. He was not like those moody, sentimental lovers, always sighing and pining; still less was he addicted to those fantastic moods which modern poetry has made so interesting, ever changing from gloomy misanthropy to hollow mirth. Though he loved Lucia as the apple of bis eye, and though as yet he loved in vain, yet he did not lose hope. It was his happiness to be near her, to render her all those kindly offices which brothers scorn. When she walked through her well tended garden and received the daily gift of flowers, or found al! sorts of beautifully carved ornaments made je. own, as if by magic, Lucia thanked ber friend with a pleasant smile, never dreaming in her innocence of the love he bore her. Poor George! he tried to be contented with such a light guerdon, and consoled himselt with the thought that, perhaps, Lucia was too young to love any one, and a still untouched heart might surely be won in time; but after a sea- son, he learned how vain was that comfort. Thus it chanced that the dis- covery came.

Usually, in the long winter evenings, the family gathered together in the large hall. Very solemn these meetings had used to be, while Lau- rentius held forth to the sleepy children on the events of his young days intermingled with horrible modern stories ot the deeds of Ziska and John Huss, whose histories had reached the good city of Haarlem with all the embellishments of a fairy tale. When Leuthold came, these stories were a little discontinued, and, in their stead, the master’s low sweet voice might be heard, telling various tales of bis journeyings far and wide, of good dee@ done in humble homes, of noble heroism that the world knew not, of suffering endured and wrong overcome,—all that could lead young spirits onward in the right path.. At such times the little Lucia always sat at Leuthold’s feet, with his hand resting on her soft curls ; and, as she grew older, she still kept her place beside him. But the soft eyes were less often raised to bis face, and she usually listened in silence, her fingers busied with some ig of maiden’s work. Now and then, when Leuthold turned and saw her thas, a vision of the long vanished past flit- ted across his mind ; but when, at a sudden pause in the tale, he saw the enthusiastic girl listening with clasped hands and heaving breast, the pass- ing fancy vanished. Lucia was not the calm, reserved Hilda. More beau- tiful, ten thousand times ; perchance, more winning: but not that ideal of youth’s love. a

When, alternating with Leuthold’s stories, came the fantastic lays of the young master-singer, Lucia at first did not like the change; but gra- dually, as the musician's own feelings deepened, his songs took a serious tone. His mirthful ditties were transformed into the breathings of love, a love new as pleasant to the maiden; for Leathold in all his histories never touched on that one subject. How could he? §8o while the min- strel poured out his feelings under a thin veil, his strains touched Lucia, and she listened with an interest which gave new inspirations to the mas- ter-singer.

One night George sang an old German tale :—

“There was once a young princess, whom many kings and knights wooed. It was in the ancieut times of Scandinavian warfare, when the strongest arm and the fiercest spirit were highest esteemed by men. Some of her suitors brought precious furs, and laid them at her feet in token of

their prowess in the chase ; others came in their bri ht ringing armour, aod dowel her treasures of gold ; and a few cast balive tat, with fierce looks, the heads of slain enemies, to be the footstool of a conqueror’s bride. Bat the maiden turned away from all ; and their love grew fierce anger, and they all joined in hate towards the king her father, and would have riven him from his throne. But there stood before the crownless king, 8 counsellor of whom no one had dreamed,—a poor and wise man, He had dwelt in the "egg all his days unnotic and uncared for, an said to the monarch,—

“* My hand is feebie, and has never grasped a spear, yet I can tell - stars in their courses. My voice is low, it has never been heard in e, yet it can teach men wisdom. My body is frail, but I have an a my soul. Let me go he among thy people, and teach them how

ight e enemy.’ ; Soran whieh orange 4 and his words were like thunders, and he ruled the hearts of men against their will, until the wrong was con- quered and the land was at rest. The king said unto him,—

“* Thou shalt have the reward which is greatest of all : thou shalt be my son, O poor wise man!’

Bat the other answered,—

“*How can it be? 1am lowly in form ; my youth is gone by; I have | ¥

neither strength to fight, nor beauty to win love. The princess will not on me.’ 4 pany ¢ looked sorrowfully to where the throned maiden sat in her loveliness, as one would look at the sphered moon, in hopeless adoration, Then the princess came down from her seat: her breast heaved, her cheek burned, but it was not with pride ; and she said softly to him,— «Thou art very wise, but thou knowest not the secrets of a woman’s heart. When the strong men came and laid their tributes before me, I thought of a voice that had taught me in my childood ; and I turned from them as from the warring beasts of the field. When the noble and beau- tiful bent before me, a face was in my sight more dear, more lovely than all, for in it shone the glorious and immortal mind! Dost thou know my heart !’ Thenthe maiden laid her arms rvund his neck and whispered, ‘Let me love thee, thou noblest of all. If thou art poor, I will be thy riches; if thou art growing old, I will bring back thy youth. To me thou art all far, all young; thou art my glory, my delight, my pride? :

The miastrel paused in his song, and glanced at Lucia. She sat with her head bent forward; her quivering lips pale with emotion, and her eyes fixed with a look full of the deepest and most adoring love—not, om on him who sang, but on Leuthold! In another moment she had burst into tears, and fled from the room. i J

Thou shouldst not sing such doleful ballads to poor simple maidens, George,” said Laurentius, reproachfully. Doubtless the child was ter- rified at the horrible tales of war, and battle, and human heads as foot- stools. TT’ is very wrong; is it not, Leuthold ?” ! :

The master lifted up his head ; he, too had listened with a trembling riven heart to the tale of love—it had spoken to him of the mournful past. George Surlan noticed that his face was paler than ordinary, and that tears glistened on his eyelashes, and the young lover’s bosom was rent with jealousy. He dashed his instrument to the floor, and went out into the garden.

Gow the boy is angry, too,” querulously cried old Laurentius. ‘What must be done with these wild young spirits ? Go after him, dear Leuthold, and bring him hither again.” ; :

But George would not come. The master found him walking hastily by the side of the lake. His anger had passed away, but was succeeded by sadness. It sat strangely enough on that bright face, hitherto so full of the unclouded gaiety of youth. Leuthold was touched to the heart ; in a moment he penetrated the young man’s loye-secret; and his tone, which he had meant to make calm and severe, now grew gentle and al- most tremulous in its sympathy. de te ;

“What ails thee, Gearge?” he éaid, laying his hand on the master- singer’sarm. ‘“ Why wert thou angry, and why art thou now so sad ?”

“It is nothing—nothing,” and George turned away. There would have been reproach, nay, wrath, in his look ; but he met the calm, ear- nest eyes of Leuthold, and the storm was lulled. ‘“ Leave me, good mas-

ter, I will return soon.”

But Leuthold still kept his hold, and spoke gently and gravely,—

George Surlan, when I stood by thy father’s deathbed at Ulm, he

rayed me to watch over thee, and told thee always to listen to my words. Dear George, wilt thou hear me, when I tell thee what Iread in thy heart now?” ;

The brow of the master-singer crimsoned, but he said nothing. Leu- thold went on :—

“There is a secret there. Thou art wroth at the careless words of Laurentius, because thou lovest our sweet Lucia.”

‘Our sweet Lucia!’ repeated the young man, bitterly. Yes, Ido love

ia—thy Lucia!” eT home ena so—I have wished so, and I am sure she loves thee,”’ answered Leuthold, unconscious of the other’s meaning. ee

Thou art very kind, good master. Why art thou so certain of the maiden’s heart?” :

“Does she not always smile upon thee? Did she not weep at thy song? I saw not her face, but I knew it was so. Surely she loves thee, George ?” . - , woth

“Qh, dear master, have pity on me ; thou wilt drive me mad !” cried the other, impetuously. ‘Thou wert ever kind; why dost thou taunt me thus? Lucia loves me not, and thou knowest it well.” ,

“Not so ; it is impossible! Whom but thee could this timid maiden love. who has been brought up like a young bird in its hidden nest?”

«“ Thee—thee, Leathold Auerbach, Lucia loves thee!” ;

The red blood rushed to the master’s face, and then faded away into a

ul smile. : mries art dreaming, r boy!” he said, gently. Throughout life I have never known the blessing of woman’s love; it was not for me! and now that I am growing old, that this fair blooming child should love one like me, seest thou not it is impossible ?”

George looked amazed. ;

“And can it be that thou knewest it not?—that thou dost not love

ne love my sweet pupil, who has been unto me like a young sister—a daughter! I never had a dream so wild as this.”

«Phen thou lovest another, or thou hast loved. Tell me all, dear mas- ter,” eagerly cried the young man. Buthe im ined not the effect his words would produce on Leuthold, who staggered as if struck by a sud- den blow, and leaned against a tree forsupport. George Surlan, terrified and awed, could not utter a word. At last the master said slowly, and with effort,— , A .

“Speak of thisno more. Let it vanish alike from thy memory and from thy tongue. It is a secret between my own heart and God. Now leave me.” ;

The young musician, deeply touched, pressed his hand and departed. Leuthold stood alone by the shore of the gloomy lake. A thick wintry mist had crept over it; the chill penetrated every fibre of his slight, deli- cate frame, but he felt it not. The long-slumbering feelings of human pas- sion had once more awoke in his nature, and he trembled beneath them. His soul was an autumn tree, through whose boughs the same breezes which had once only produced pleasant music, now pass,—tearing to the earth the same leaves with which they had erst harmlessly played. The ideal of love which he had vainly set up in youth again revived’in Leu- thold’s spirit. Not that another filled the = of her around whom he had woven that ideal, but yet his soul thrilled to the sweetness of being the object of woman's love. ;

The words of George Surlan, Lucia loves thee—only thee,” rang in the ears of Leuthold with a strange melody. He began to think over the words, the looks of the young maiden, since she had grown from childhood unto girlhood ; her deep, loving eyes rose up before him; he remembered her silent attention to all he said; her care for all things he loved; the deep sympathy, mingled with reverence, with which she strove to teach her own mind to follow his in its wildest flights. All these things dawned upon him in a new light, with a sweetness of which he was himself hardly conscious.

Oh, ye lonely-hearted ones, into whose darkness has suddenly broken a cheering ray, on whom the unlooked-for sense of being loved has sto- len like a pleasant perfume in the desert, deem him not faithless to the one only true love that the human beart can feel! Scorn him not, if in Leuthold’s dreams that night the bitter memories of the past grew less keen; that the furms of Hilda, the hopelessly beloved one, and of Lucia, the young, devoted dreamer, mingled into one.


To suffer woes that Hope thinks infinite, Toforgive wrongs darker than death or night, To love and bear, to hope till Hope create

From its own wreck the hing it contemplates,— This is thy glory '!—Sue.iey.

Long ere the twilight of a winter morning dawned Leuthold arose, and lighting his lamp strove to banish by study the wayward fantasies of

But it was in vain. A spirit had been iaised within him

which no such power could lay. His thouglits turned still to that vague phantom of Lucia’s love which had so suddenly risen up in his i - tion. To drive it away he thought of himself,—of the twenty years’ barrier between that fair young maiden, and the man over whom time and sorrow had ijaid such a heavy hand. But still the moaning wind seemed to breathe in Lucia’s voice the words of that old lay,— Let me love thee, and I will bring back thy youth.”

Again, as ina time lovg gone by, there came to Leuthold the wild yearning to behold himsel!,—to exercise the strange gift which had once so strongly influenced his life. The angel of his destiny seemed once more near him, and thoughts and feelings to which he had been unused during his life of action in the world without, again thronged upon the mind of the dreamer. The Self-seer felt upon him the warning of his coming power.

O thou angel of my fate!” cried Leuthold, “thou readest my heart,— all its weakness, all its strength. Thou seest that it is not through vain desire or selfish pride that I seek to know myself as I am. It may be that my desolate heart shall still be gladdened and grow young in the sunshine of woman’s love; a tender, wife-like hand, may yet smoothe away the thick-gathered furrows of this faded brow; children’s kisses et rekindle the roses of these pale lips; I may live the life I pictured in youth’s dreams, and die at piece in my own household! But if not, oh, let me know my owa spirit and do that which is right!”

As the Self-seer, in the earnestness of his concentrated soul, prayed thus, the lamp died away and his chamber grew dark. The wind rose, and the waves of the lake under his window gave forth a hollow murmar which lulled his senses. Gradually torpor oppressed him, and he felt no more, until in the misty yet full daylight the divided soul beheld its other self, wrapped in the peaceful, child-like repose, into which Leu- thold had sunk when the spell came upon him.

Once more, after a lapse of time which on earth would be numbered as the fourth of a man’s life, the shadowy essence looked upon its bodily form-—the immortal and unchangeable spirit beheld what was perishable as the flowers of the field. Even as we view a fading garment did the Presence look upon the lineaments of his earthly vesture. The face was not yet disfigured by the touch ef age, because in its calm repose a child-like sweetness rested on it; but the freshness of youth was not there. Even greater than the tokens of natural decay were the signs of quick-coming decline produced by the ever-active mind. When once age came it would not be with slow crawl, but with lightning foot-step. As the Jow red sunbeam fell on his face, Leuthold awoke. The Sha- dow of his soul followed him as he descended to the general hall. His step grew firm, and a brightness was in his eyes that resembled the face of the student of Leipsic in years gone by. Only a look of fear darkev- ed it as George Surlan met the master, with a silent, expressive grasp of the hand, and an affectionate inquiring gaze. As Leuthold, with a pass- ing answer, turned away from the master-singer, the Phantom read in his troubled air the conflict that had already begun in that soul, hith- erto so calm, so clear; and a painful thrill quivered through its pure and spiritual being.

When Lucia, timidly, and yet with inconceivable tenderness, took the master’s hand, she was startled by the earnestness of his look. It spoke a sudden awakening to the powor of her beauty, a something of rever- ence for the woman mingled with affection towards the child. That day she did not linger at her place by Leuthold’s side, but went away to the farthest nook, though she felt that his eyes followed her even there. The Spirit saw it too, and saw also how that those clear eyes could no longer meet those of the young wood-carver, who plied his work in si- lence and hopeless pain.

As the day advanced Leuthold grew restless. He went to the shore of the lake and wandered about, sometimes idly watching the dusky clouds that careered over the sky in the majesty of winter’s storms, and then again walking with his eyes cast down in deep meditation. The Spirit hovered over him, and listened to the voice within his soul, and which cried louder the more it was suppressed.

My heart is still young,” Leuthold murmured, “though my years are gathering fast behind me. What matters that? If Lucia loves me, why should I count my years? But then her love is the love of a child, will it endure when age comes, when my frame is shattered and my mind enfeebled, while she is still blooming and young? Shall I bind her to me, then, with chilling fetters of duty, and darken her life by uniting it with mine? Would this be a meet return for her love? No, such love is not for me; I will forget the dream.”

But while he endeavoured to grow firm, the Shadow saw that the strug- gle threw the feebleness of added years over Leuthold’s frame. Again he spoke, but only in his heart; his lips were dumb.

“T am sinful; I think only of myself, and remember not that young

heart of him who struggles with hopeless love. Shame, that I could not read therein the echo of my own sorrow! that I should dream of piercin another’s breast with the same arrow that almost drank the life-blo of my own ! And yet, if Lucia loves me—— But I will think no more.”

And Leuthold with a troubled eye gazed over the dark lake, whose tossing waves seemed restless as his own spirit. A little boat, in which he often loved to glide over its surface, lay fastened to the willows at his feet, heaving idly to and fro. An irresistible desire made him enter it, and he was soon drifting over the wide lake alone. The ever-attendant Shadow beheld his face as he sat watching the waves, which grew high- er and whiter, until the tiny vessel danced upon them like a feather. The clouds thickened, and their gloom was reflected in Leuthold’s coun- tenance. Its expression was that of passionless, hopeless desolation, mingled with a stern firmness, that seemed to set the elements at defiance. Darker and darker grew the waves, the wintry night came down, and the lake boiled like acaldron. The boat was drifted, Leuthold knew not whither, but still he sat immovable; he heard voices uttering his name, but he thought they were only the spirits of the tempest calling kim on to death. At last a wave rose; it curled higher, higher ; it broke, and the little boat went down.

When Leuthold awoke to life he found himself in his own chamber, with kind and well-known faces bending over him. One, dearest and kindest of all, seemed to him like an angel from the world beyond the grave. He lifted his heavy eyelids and closed them again, but not before a cry of joy had rung in his ears: it was the voice of Lucia.

“He lives! helives! Leuthold! my Leuthold !” she murmured; and, half-dreaming as he was, the master felt her warm tears falling one after the other on his hand, on his brow.

_ Lucia! my Lucia!” he was about to echo; whe he heard a heavy sigh, and saw in the face of George Surlan the most agonised despair. At once the knowledge of all he had learned in his double existence came upon the Self-seer, and with it rushed the back memories of his own youth. The noble heart which had suffered so much, refused to in- flict on that of another alike pang. The moment passed by and the vic- tory was won.

During the long days and weeks of sickness that succeeded, that sweet, loving face was continually hovering near him. He knew that one word of his would awaken Lucia to the full consciousness of feelings now scarce developed, would enrich him with the whole treasure of her young love. Yet he never breathed that word. He pondered how he might cause the dream of girlhood to remain a dream for ever, nor deepen into the intensity of woman’s love.

One day, as they sat alone together, Leuthold said to the maiden, who had been lavishing on him various gentle offices, now continued more through habit than necessity,—

Thou art a tender nurse, Lucia,—almost like a grown woman, as thou wilt be soon, dear child. And yet it seems but a day since I came hither, and the little girl bade me welcome so shyly. How pleasant it has been for me to find a home so full of love for the lonely wayfarer ——_ life!”

Was that love, then, new to thee, good master ?” Did not every one love thee as we ?”’

A deep sadness overspread Leuthold’s face.

“Dear child,” he said, « there is in every heart some hidden sorrow. I have never spoken of my youth, because there fell on ita dark shadow that will never pass away.”

Thou hast told me of thy mother—of her death.”

‘‘ There are griefs worse than death, Lucia.”

The girl’s lips trembled, and she turned away her face as she said—

There is a sorrow of which I have heard in old tales—of which George sings—the sorrow of love.”

“Even so,” returned Leuthold ; and his voice sunk almos: inaudibly, as if he were talking to himself rather than to her. “I loved; for years this love was the dream of my boyhood, the strength of my manhood, my hope, my joy, my very life, and it was in vain !”

“Did she die?” asked Lucia, in tones as low as his own.

“Yes, to me; for she loved me not! Therefore has my life been lone- ly, and will be to the end.”

“Not so!” tremblingly murmured Lucia. “A change may come. Thou mayst yet find some true loving heart which will be precious in thy sight.”

answered the girl.

Lucia,” answered the master, “there are two kinds of love,

deep, esrnest passion of a maturer age, strengthened year until it has become one with life itself—whic I have lived, so shall I die, of old!”

Leuthold had nerved himself thus far; he had, with desperate calm. ness, laid bare his heart, and the secret of his life had, for the first time ae ig his lips. He could say no more; he covered his 4 ands, and leaned back exhausted. He did not see—perha

after year can never change. true to that lost, yet most precious loys

sitw he did not—the changes in Lucia’s face. She grow deadly pale, sey pressed her hand upon her heart, as though there was a sharp pain

there. In that moment the air-palace crumbied into dust, the pubbje burst, the dream was gone! Womanly