Porte St. Croix, while his spiritual essence was thus absent, the unhappy Hendrik never could know; but when it re-entered his body -or when he awoke-he was horrified to find his learned uncle lying dead on the floor amid a pool of blood, his face and throat gashed by dreadful wounds, which had evidently been inflicted by a blood-spotted knife which Hendrik found elutched in his own right hand! Blood gouts were over all his clothes, the pockets of which were found to be stuffed with money, jewels, and other valuables taken from a bureau and desk, which had been burst open and ransacked.

The soul of Hendrik died within him! Even if he had committed this crime in frenzy-and he felt certain that he did not do so-why should he have sought to rob his uncle? He then thought of Lenora, and of the sorrow and shame that would come upon her now; he reeled and fell senseless on the floor. The cries of the old housekeeper speedily brought aid; Hendrik was arrested, charged with assassination and robbery, and was at once consigned, as already described, to the Palais de Justice, where all the weird story came to light. The hatred and horror he had expressed of his dead uncle were now remembered fatally by all who had heard them; but the knife he had in his hand was, sin

gularly enough, found to be the property of a soldier of the 2nd Belgian Infantry.

To the last Hendrik asserted his innocence, when tried and convicted for that which was, not unnaturally, deemed a most cruel and ungrateful crime; and his advocate, Père Baas, who, singularly enough, was also a dabbler in mesmerism, laboured hard in his cause, but in vain. When brought to the scaffold in the Grande Place, Hendrik, attended by Brother Eusebius, had all the bearing of a martyr, as he fully believed that the crime committed, if by his hand, was at least by the dictate of another spirit.

Lenora visited him in the dreary cell the night before he died, and, according to 'La Patrie,' as they parted, Hendrik said:

'Death, even on the scaffold, has no terror for me now. I know where my spirit will go, and that none on earth can recall it. You will come to me, beloved Lenora," he added, pointing upwards; 'you will come to me there in heaven, where there can be no parting, no death, and no sorrow.'

And, with one long embrace, they parted for ever.

The editor of La Patrie,' writing of these things next day, said, not without truth, Hendrik Van Gansendonck was, too probably, crazed; and if so, should not have been executed.'

JAMES GRANT.

Is

S my friend listening very attentively to Gounod's serenade, I wonder-as sung by that peacock of fashion, Madame ? Or is

he, perhaps, so deeply impressed by the various splendours of her presence, by the certain way she has,' by the nameless, but unquestioned sovereignty which she exercises throughout this glittering, rustling, flirting, envying, fandallying world of women-that he has not for a moment asked himself, or rather told himself, whether the song be good or the reverse, the singer a real nightingale or a shameless mock-bird? If so, one would think that roulade - so seriously more solid than the liquid ineffable something or nothing it ought to be -must have broken the spell; and no doubt he is now thinking the same questions to himself about me. Me! ah me! Why am I here? Why is my friend here? I brought him. But me. Who

brought me? Why no one, of course; I must confess that I came of my own accord.-' Dormez ma belle, dormez toujours,' — not to hear that, however. No! who or what did seduce me from my warm, quiet room, luxurious looking with books and pictures? Oh, just a sort of feeling that I wanted to go out somewhere, or anywhere, and so necessarily came hereeh ? No, not at all. Let me answer it quietly, silently to myself here, before that song ends— 'Dormez ma belle, dormez.' Yonder, on the sofa, in the far end of this brilliant room, is the real magnet which acted upon me invisiblysoftly drew me hither. Yonder, is the innocent and yet the resistless enchantress of my steps and my will. Alice. I will not go a bit nearer to her. I will look at her

and think about her here; and she will never know it, probably; and the result shall be-well, I am determined to be candid and dispassionate-an avowal? No, I think not; a poem, more likely, perhaps ; or why not a novel, fiendishly analytic? Alice has a face perfectly oval; yes, it is absolutely and perfectly oval. How surprising that I, with all my Luinis— that I, hopeless lover of La Polymnie, should never have wholly discovered that fact to myself before. But, somehow or other, it is quite a different shape from the face of the changelessly sad muse, inspirer of hopeless passions, pensive and eloquent by turns. Why, yes; many a flower is oval in just the same way: a tulip, a camellia, for instance. A camellia; that is just it. There is something mysterious in common between Alice and a wonderful white immortallooking camellia. They are white, immaculate and yet not pale; they look as if they never could die or fade; and, yet, as if they could not be living at all in quite an earthly sense, nor ever be wholly known to any one who might possess them. They probably both have the same fairy. Ah! if that fairy would just whisper somewhat in my ear now! Perhaps you will, adorable fairy! Alice has lovers and sisters and brothers; she sits there yonder in the centre of a lovely animated group of dear bosom friends, all bending forward like sweet flowers on slim swaying stems to their queen, who outshines them, but makes them all look lovelier for being near her. There is something in Alice, however, that nobody has ever known that no dearest girl friend has ever reached in any of her closest confidings.

M 2

Her eyes are blue; but certainly they are very different from all the blue eyes which I have ever seen. Sometimes they are limpid, and azure as the sky of a cloudless summer; other times they are deep, intense, and mysterious, like the inscrutable sky of evening. Their fascination is strange and inexplicable, while they rest upon you and hold you, if only for a moment; and an indefinable something like a memory or a cherished regret remains when their look has passed. You seem to have descried a dim, beautiful radiance in the depths of some alabaster temple or edifice seen in a dream. They have always a peculiar inward look, a look to themselves; and very often the great dreamy lids come quite down and cover them like two fair curved Venus shells. If one could see them then, no doubt a lovely secret would be known; but her wide, sweet brow, with its delicate sculpturing, will never reveal it; and her hair, with its string of pearls, is like a long, noiseless night, full of splendid stars, and wonders which pass away with its stars. What is the secret of Alice's soul, the unknown meaning of her face, the mystery of her eyes? Is it a memory of something that happened a long, a very long while ago? Or the knowledge of a very wonderful thing that is going to happen, probably a long while hence?

I am glad I came here to-night; I am certain now Alice does not care the least for any of those very proper-looking young men who are always hanging about her, and whom her friends seem to approve of so highly. I doubt whether she has ever seriously looked at one of them. Poor fellow! if she did so, it must have been a strangely puzzling moment for him. I think I have nearly read Alice's secret now. It is, I believe, this. If

there were in the world at this moment some particular person who does not exist just at present, but who may have existed, or who may be going to exist at some future time, Alice would love and be loved-passionately, poetically, as they love in the Arabian Nights,' or in Romeo and Juliet,' or in Tristan and Iseult.' Her eyes would then conceal nothing in their mystic violet depths, nor behind their pensive drooping lids; she would always be the same beautiful Alice in every way, and her friends would be just as sweet and dear to her, and she to them-only such wonderful things would happen, and all would be so different! Yes; and her fairy has just whispered to me, indeed, that in a strange age long ago, there was a certain glorious knight, who, after doing a great many noble deeds, such as the world had never witnessed till then, dreamed of a peerless lady named Alice, who was so much more beautiful than any of the ladies in his country, that he became for ever enamoured of this lady of his dream, and set off to travel once more about the world in search of her; but that after having visited many strange remote regions in vain, and penetrated into many enchanted castles where there were spell-bound princesses waiting to be freed by a kiss; and after having, with the aid of Sir Launcelot, descended into a lake where there was a sunken city, whose songs and chimes used to be heard quite distinctly by the fishermen on still afternoons-he came back to his own land, as he had departed, save that the memory of that lady whom he had seen in his dream was still with him, and as powerful as ever; so that he could not love any other woman all his life, and died with her name on his lips'Alys! Alys! Alys!'

ARTHUR O'SHAUGHNESSY.

IT

T is now, I think, some fifteen years since I became acquainted, quite in an accidental sort of way, with some circumstances connected with alleged spiritual manifestations.

I was travelling on the SouthWestern Railway, and when we reached the Basingstoke Station a gentleman whom I had never before seen opened the door of my carriage and stepped in. I was seated alone in the coupé, and he entered at once into conversation with me I don't in the least remember what we first talked about, but presume it was the weather, or some equally original topic. We had not, however, been long together before my new friend began to unburden himself of a subject which evidently was uppermost in his thoughts. He told me that he had witnessed the most amazing phenomena; that tables had raised themselves in the air, that knocks caused by invisible agency were heard in different parts of the room, which responded in an intelligent manner to questions put, and that the medium (a mysterious young man from America) was unquestionably in communication with spirits. He added that Lord Brougham, Professor Faraday, and other owners of great intellects were amongst those anxious to discover the source of the phenomena, and finally wound up a somewhat exciting narrative by inviting me to his house to witness the manifestations. I thought this was very kind of him, and I have been grateful to him ever since.

I did not, however, accept his invitation, as the American gentleman in question was unable to keep the appointment he had made to meet us.

The astounding stories of my railway friend were not of a character to be easily forgotten by one who, rightly or wrongly, had always been disposed to believe in the existence, or, rather, in the occasional and very exceptional appearance of what are commonly called ghosts, or apparitions. Not that at the time I speak of I had any personal experience on the subject. Nevertheless, I then believed, and do still believe, in the occasional appearance of forms more or less material, which, under certain conditions, may become manifest to our senses.

Some persons are, no doubt, more susceptible than others to superstitious influences, and are disposed to take for granted a good deal of the marvellous. with truth, say that I am not of the number.

I can,

I have endeavoured in the course of my inquiries to take nothing for granted. Many of the experiments made in my presence have been subjected to conditions so strict that fraud or deception, even if intended, would have been simply impossible. In endeavouring to describe some of them in the subsequent pages, I intend to omit all reference to those made in the presence of what may be termed professional or paid mediums. Not that I desire to impugn the bona fides of many of those whom I have met in that capacity, but because I think my