new order of beings. One could stand and feed one's gaze with it for ever.

"Are you fond of relics? There are plenty here, but we cannot get at them. Of the few which are exposed to the public, those two beautifully twisted columns of white marble which are elevated in that niche half way between the pavement and the cupola, are said to have been brought from the temple at Jerusalem; and that splendid Corinthian pillar near the Pièta of Michael Angelo, is affirmed to be one against which our Saviour leaned while discoursing in the Temple. Many of the Roman relics are undoubtedly spurious, but I am far from being so universally sceptical upon the subject as many persons profess to be. It is certain that all the relics to which any degree of credit is attached were actually brought from the Holy Land, and it is more than probable that those who imported them believed them to be genuine. When, as in the cloisters of St. John Lateran, they show you with a grave face the well from which the woman of Samaria was drawing water when our Saviour addressed her, the stone on which the cock was perched when he crew to St. Peter, the two halves of a column rent in twain at the Crucifixion, &c., &c., we may reasonably assent to what we are told with a certain degree of mental reservation; but it would be difficult I think to prove the impossibility that a pillar may now stand in the church of St. Peter's at Rome which formerly made part of the Temple at Jerusalem.

"But I see you are almost tired, so we will return home. You must come again, and again, and again, in order to understand thoroughly the marvels heaped together upon this spot. Every tomb, every mosaic picture, almost every block of marble is a study, and has its history and its associations. The human mind can regale itself with only a limited quantity of dainties at one repast, so we will retire now that we have feasted sufficiently for one day.

"And having once more arrived at the open air, you will confess that your eyes are dazzled and your mind is saturated with the number and variety of the new ideas you have just imbibed. Our friend, the Cardinal, seems also to have taken his leave, and is driving off in a carriage that is resplendent with gilding, brick-red, and waggonblue. The only respectable part of his equipage (to English eyes) are the black, long-tailed horses, and they really are handsome. But one wholesome, healthy-looking footman would make a far better appearance than the three unwashed, unshaven, ill-clad varlets who ride behind his Eminence's vehicle. They are now rumbling off in quest of his palace through some of the intricate windings and dirty streets of the Campus Martius. We will take a short cut across the fields, pass the Tiber by the ferry-boat, and, on arriving at Monte Pincio, I hope we shall find that the 'trattore' has sent us an excellent. dinner, for I am sure we have worked hard, and well deserve it."

D.

ORIGINAL POETRY.

Ah! who can say, however fair his view,
Through what sad scenes his path may lie?
Ah! who can give to others' woes his sigh,
Secure his own will never need it too?

KIRKE WHITE.

It cannot last! It cannot last!
This sickness of the heart;

For it wakes and weeps o'er the faded past,
And is willing to depart.

It cannot last! It cannot last!

The grief that fills me now;

Soon will my life-blood welling fast,

In death array my brow.

It cannot last! Yet while life's dream

Brings sorrow and dismay,

My storm-toss'd bark shall brave the storm,

Though death command the way.

O life! thy sea is never calm,

Its billows never rest;

Thou ne'er giv'st peace, nor healing balm,

To those thou hast opprest.

O'er youth thou throw'st a smiling ray,

But as it bursts in bloom,

Thy storms appear, and it fades away
Like a flower, into the tomb.

The kindling hopes which manhood feels
In the plenitude of years,

Droop-as thy blight upon them steals,
And sink with heavy cares.

Yet o'er thy waves, though never still,
Dark storms not always sweep;
There may burst beams of joy to fill
The hearts of those that weep.

Then farewell life! A long farewell,
Thou spell that binds my breath!
I seek no requiem in thy knell
But rest from thee-O, Death!

E. W. G.

THE BARONET'S DAUGHTER.

Oh! what a thing is man!

To bandy factions of distemper'd passions,
Against the sacred providence above him.

CHAPTER I.

It was on a fine autumnal morning that two gentlemen were seated in the library of Euston Hall.

"You look upon the world with the eye of a priest, Courtenay," said the elder, as he arose and walked to the window.

He was a man about the middle age, and something below the average stature. His hair was short and of a sable silver; but his thinly marked brows were perfectly black, and gave additional fire and vivacity to a pair of piercing dark eyes which were wont to flash with every varying emotion. His mouth was small, and his lips thin and straight, and the singular whiteness of a set of teeth perfectly smooth and even, formed a strong contrast to the almost olive complexion of a face, the features of which, although small, were well defined and regular. His frame was well built, compact and muscular; and as he walked up and down the room, a leg of still faultless symmetry evinced that the virgin of his earlier manhood had scarcely yet begun to depart from him.

The pervading expression in the countenance of the other was that of passive mildness, of almost imperturbable equanimity. His large gray eye reflected meditation; perhaps, anxious thought long ago subdued; and the tone of his voice was that of one more accustomed to converse with books than with men.

"I do not look upon mankind merely with the eye of a priest;" answered Courtenay to the observation which had been addressed to him," it is because, Sir Robert, I think I know their weaknesses, their follies, and their vices, that I presume sometimes to set forth those divine precepts of our heavenly Master which may at least restrain, if they do not altogether eradicate them."

"You talk to me of charity and of forgiveness of injuries," said Sir Robert, turning from the window out of which he had been gazing for some minutes, "Charity, it is said, covers a multitude of sins; but were it not better to give the sins fair play against virtue, and throw away the cloak altogether? and for your forgiveness of injuries, to forgive is to sanction, nay to license the injury. What! you would warm the snake at your fire, you would permit it to sting you, and then, forsooth, you would heap another log upon the flame? is that your doctrine?"

"I would make every allowance for human feeling," replied the priest humbly; "but what I would strongly insist upon is that it is human feeling, and human feeling only.

The baronet tapped the lid of his snuff-box. "Gently, Mr. Courtenay, gently," said he, "am I a fool, or a madman? neither, I believe; let me then go my own way. He shall be judged fairly, he has been judged fairly, yes," he repeated, observing the expression

of incredulous surprize which the priest evinced; "I say he has been judged fairly. You know not all, although, perhaps, the whole may be known shortly, not only to you but to the world. I will not be hasty. He shall be heard. By heaven! he is arrived," and the baronet started to his feet, as the sound of carriage-wheels driving up the avenue became distinctly audible; "now, Courtenay, you shall see whether I cannot command myself."

A servant opened the door, "Mr. Willoughby, Sir Robert, is below."

"Show him up, by all means," exclaimed the baronet, and he turned to the priest with a smile, "observe," said he, "how politely I can receive my friends."

Mr. Willoughby at this moment entered the apartment and advanced towards the baronet. "I am very happy to meet you once more," he said, as he extended his hand, "you were no doubt expecting me, agreeably to my letter from Paris. With respect to yours we will talk about it hereafter."

66

The baronet stept back a pace. "I am very glad to see you here, Mr. Willoughby," he said emphatically, "but my hand is not in at present for mere shows of friendship. I am very glad to see you here.” A slight flush overspread the face of the young man. Well, you decline my hand," said he with affected unconcern, "I expected as much," and he turned towards the priest, "you, Mr. Courtenay, will, perhaps, suffer me to exchange a show of friendship with you." "You do me honour, with much pleasure," stammered the priest, as he cast a half-imploring glance towards the baronet. "You look well, Mr. Willoughby, remarkably well. Paris, I suppose-"

"Yes, Paris is the place to enjoy life and to prolong it," returned the other, and having retired to the window, an inaudible conversation ensued between the two gentlemen, which from the manner in which it was carried on would seem to have been confined to general topics

During this colloquy the baronet walked up and down the room humming an air, and playing impatiently with his watch-chain. He paused, at length, and with an earnest and measured glance surveyed from head to foot the person of his son-in-law.

"I am sorry, gentlemen, to interrupt your conversation," he said suddenly," but you know, Courtenay, that I have some particular and urgent business to transact with Mr. Willoughby; will you favour me, Sir," he continued, turning towards the latter, "by accompanying me to the gallery?"

"With pleasure," returned Willoughby, "I follow you."

The priest laid his hand upon the arm of the baronet, and directed a deprecating look towards him, "Be calm, I implore you," he whispered.

"Fear me not, fear me not," answered the other, "Come, Sir, I attend you," and he led the way from the apartment.

"Will you permit me to hope that you have been well, since I last had the pleasure of seeing you?" said Willoughby, as they ascended

the staircase.

"I have been very well, Sir," replied the baronet, "nothing has occurred, you see, to disturb my tranquillity; the death of a daughter

is a trivial circumstance, and that can't happen again, for she was my only one; and besides," he added, as they entered the gallery, "it is almost past memory, for it happened two months ago; oh! yes, I have been well." very

A shade of undefinable emotion clouded the brow of Willoughby as the baronet concluded, and his nether lip quivered, and the glance he ventured at his companion betrayed that he knew the subject upon which the other was about to enter, and that he dreaded its

commencement.

"You have some fine portraits here, Sir Robert," said he, with assumed calmness.

You have seen them often before."

"Indeed; I was not aware; I had forgotten."

"Yes, Mr. Willoughby," cried the baronet, as he placed two chairs in the window recess, "these are the portraits of my ancestors, the portraits of knights, bannerets, and gentlemen of my family; men, Sir, who held their honour sacred, and devoted their lives to the maintenance of it. But, come, will you take a chair? I will lock the door," he added, as he walked across the room, "lest we should be intruded upon, come, Mr. Willoughby, sit down."

The baronet took a seat opposite his companion, and after a short pause, during which he appeared to be arranging the order of his questions, and the particular words in which they were to be conveyed, he began thus: "You received my letter addressed to you at Paris, about two months ago, in which I required an explanation of the reason of your strange absence during the illness, and until after the death of the late Mrs. Willoughby? Am I to consider you bow an assent? Well, Sir, your letter dated a fortnight later was received by me, in which you did not condescend to satisfy me touching the questions I presumed to put to you; but you informed me that you would wait upon me on this day for the purpose of arranging some important business."

"I did so,” said Willoughby, hastily, "and if you will allow me, I will at once enter upon this business, for which I came hither, and which settled, I will remove myself from your sight for ever." "Not so fast, young man, my business first, if you please," said the baronet coolly. "Hear me. A communication was made to me by one of your own servants to the effect that your wife was dying, but that she was very reluctant that I should be sent for, or acquainted with the matter. For this I can account: her own pride, and an unwillingness to distress me, her father, her father, Mr. Willoughby. No matter, I hastened to town, I watched over her till she died. Before this event took place, however, she informed me that she had written many letters to you, apprizing you of her situation, and imploring your return, letters which you never answered. Is this true, do you not know it to be true?"

"Several letters I

Willoughby answered not for some moments. did receive," he said slowly and hesitatingly, his eyes fixed on the ground, "but they did not dwell so much upon her illness, they did not implore my return, I did not know she was so ill, the letters were written for another purpose, a secret—a—”