A TALE FOR TWILIGHT.

As far as I am myself concerned with the following facts, I am fully prepared to vouch for their authen. ticity; but the reliance to be placed on the other parts of the recital must be at the option of the reader, or his conviction of their apparent truth. It is now nearly thirty years since I was a partial witness to the circumstance, at my father's house in Edinburgh ; and though, during that period, time and foreign climates may have thinned my locks and furrowed my brow a little, they have neither effaced one item of its details from my memoyy, nor warped the vivid impression which it left upon my recollection. It was in the winter of 1798 the occurrence took place. There was an old retainer of our house, who used at that time to be very frequently about us; she had nursed my younger brother and myself, and the family felt for her all the attachment due to an old and faithful inmate. I remember her appearance distinctly; her neatly plaited cap and scarlet ribband, her white fringed apron and purple quilted petticoat, are all as fresh in my memory as yesterday; and though nearly sixty, she retained all the activity and good humour of sixteen. Her strength was but little impaired; and as she was but slightly affected by fatigue or watching, she was in the habit of engaging herself as a nurse-tender in numerous res spectable families.

The winter was drawing near a close, when, one evening, old Nurse came to tell us of an engagement she had got to attend a young gentleman, who was lying dangerously ill in one of the streets of the Old Town. She mentioned that a physician, who had always been very kind to her, had recommended her to this duty; but, as the patient was in a most critical state, the manner of her attendance was to be very par ticular, she was to go every evening at eight o'clock, to relieve another who remained during the day; and to be extremely cautious not to speak to the young man, unless it was urgently necessary, nor make any motion which might in the slightest degree disturb the few intervals of rest which he was enabled to enjoy ; but she knew neither the name nor residence of the person she was to wait on. There seemed to be something past the common in all this, and my mother desired her to call soon and let her know how she was coming on; but nearly six weeks had elapsed, and we had never once seen or heard of her, when my mother sent to say she was longing to see her again. The ser vant, on his return, informed us that poor Nurse had been dangerously ill, and confined to her bed almost ever since she had been with us; but she was now some little better, and had purposed coming to see us the following day. She came accordingly; but oh, so altered in so short a time, no one would have believed NO, XLVI, VOL. IV,

[VOL. 4.

it! She was almost double, and could not walk without support; her flesh and cheeks were all shrank away, and her dim lustreless eyes almost lost in their sockets. We were all startled at seeing her; it seemed that those six weeks had produced greater changes in her than years of disease in others: but our surprise at the effect was nothing, when compared to that which her recital of the cause excited, when she informed us of it; and as we had never known her to tell a falsehood, we could not avoid placing implicit confidence in her words

She told us that in the evening, according to appointment, the physician had conducted her to the resi dence of her charge, in one of the narrow streets near the abbey. It was one of those extensive old houses, which seem built for eternity rather than time, and in the constructing of which the founder had consulted convenience and comfort more than show or situation. A flight of high stone steps brought them to the door; and a dark staircase of immense width, fenced with balusters a foot broad, and supported by railing of massy dimensions, led to the chamber of the patient. This was a lofty wainscoted room, with a window sunk a yard deep in the wall, and looking out upon what was once a garden at the rear, but now grown so wild that the weeds and rank grass almost reached the level of the wall which inclosed it. At one end stood an old-fashioned square bed, where the young gentleman lay. It was hung with faded Venetian tapestry, and seemed itself as large as a moderate-sized room. the other end, and opposite to the foot of the bed, was a fire-place, supported by ponderous stone buttresses, but with no grate, and a few smouldering turf ashes were merely piled on the spacious hearth. There was

At

no door, except that by which she had entered, and no other furniture than a few low chairs, and a table covered with medicines and draughts beside the window. The oak which covered the walls and formed the pannels of the ceiling, was as black as time could make it, and the whole apartment, which was kept dark at the suggestion of the physician, was so gloomy, that the glimmering of the single candle in the shade of the fire-place could not penetrate it, and cast a faint gleam around, not sad, but absolutely sickening. Whilst the doctor was speaking in a low tone to the invalid, Nurse tried to find out some further particulars from the other attendant, who was tying on her bonnet, and preparing to muffle herself in her plaid before going away; for, as I said before, it was winter and bitterly cold. She could gain no information from her, however, although she had been in the situation for a considerable time. She could not tell the name of the gentleman; she only knew that he was an Oxford student; but no one, save herself and the Doctor, had ever crossed the threshold to inquire after him, nor had she ever seen any one in the rest of the house, which

R

she believed to be uninhabited. The Doctor and she soon went away, after leaving a few unimportant directions: Nurse closed the door behind them, and shivering with the cold frosty gust of air from the spacious lobby, hastened to her duty, wrapped her cloak about her, drew her seat close to the hearth, replenished the fire, and commenced reading a volume of Mr. Alexander Peden's Prophecies, which she had brought in her pocket. There was no sound to disturb her, except now and then a blast of wind which shook the withering trees in the garden below, or the "death watch, " which ticked incessantly in the wainscot of the room. In this manner an hour or two elapsed; when concluding, from the motionless posture of the patient, that he must be asleep, she rose, and taking the light in her hand, moved on tiptoe across the polished oaken floor, to take a survey of his features and appearance. She gently opened the curtains, and, bringing the light to bear upon him, started to find that he was still awake: she attempted to apologise for her curiosity by an awkward tender of her services, but apology and offer were equally useless; he moved neither limb nor muscle; he made not the faintest reply; he lay motionless on his back, his bright blue eyes glaring fixedly upon her, his under-lip fallen, and his mouth apart, his cheek a perfect hollow, and his long white teeth projecting fearfully from his shrunken lips, whilst his bony hand, covered with wiry sinews, was stretched upon the bedclothes, and looked more like the claw of a bird than the fingers of a human being. She felt rather uneasy whilst looking at him; but when a slight motion of the eye-lids, which the light was too strong for, assured her he was still living, which she was half inclined to doubt, she returned to her seat and her book by the fire. As she was directed not to disturb him, and as his medicine was only to be administered in the morning, she had but little to do, and the succeeding two hours passed heavily away; she continued, however, to lighten them by the assistance of Mr. Peden, and by now and then crooning and gazing over the silent flickering progress of her turf fire, till, about midnight, as near as she could guess, the gentleman began to breathe heavily, and appeared very uneasy; as, however, he spoke nothing, she thought he was perhaps asleep, and was rising to go towards him, when she was surprised to see a lady seated on a chair near the head of the bed beside him. Though something startled at this, she was by no means alarmed, and, making a curtsey, was moving on as she had intended, when the lady raised her arm, and turning the palm of her hand, which was covered with a white glove, towards her, motioned her silently to keep her seat. She accordingly sat down as before, but she now began to wonder within herself how and when this lady came in: it was true she had not been looking towards the door, and it might have been opened without her perceiving it; but then it was so cold a night, and so late an hour-it was this which made it so remarkable. She turned quietly round, and took a second view of her visitor. She wore a black veil over her bonnet, and, as her face was turned towards the bed of the invalid, she could not in that gloomy chamber perceive her features, but she saw that the shape and turn of her head and neck were graceful and elegant in the extreme; the rest of her person she could not so well discern, as it was en

veloped in a green silk gown, and the fashion at that period was not so favourable to a display of figure as now. It occurred to her that it must be some intimate female friend who had called in; but then the woman had told her that no visitors had ever come before: altogether, she could not well understand the matter, but she thought she would observe whether she went off as gently as she had entered; and for that purpose she altered the position of her chair so as to command a view of the door, and fixed herself with her book on her knees; but her eye intently set upon the lady in the green gown. In this position she remained for a considerable time, but no alteration took place in the room; the stranger sat evidently gazing on the face of the sick gentleman, whilst he heaved and sighed and breathed in agony as if a night mare were on him. Nurse a second time moved towards him, in order to hold him up in the bed, or give him some temporary relief; and a second time the mysterious visitant motioned her to remain quiet; and unwillingly, but by a kind of fascination, she complied, and again commenced her watch. But her position was a painful one, and she sat so long and so quietly that at last her eyes closed for a moment, and when she opened them the lady was gone; the young man was once more composed, and, after taking something to relieve his breathing, he fell into a gentle sleep, from which he had not awakened when her colleague arrived in the morning to take her place; and Nurse returned to her own house about daybreak.

She

The following night she was again at her duty; she came rather beyond her time, and found her companion already muffled and waiting impatiently to set out. She lighted her to the stairs, and heard her close the halldoor behind her; when, on returning to the room, the wind, as she shut the door, blew out her candle. relighted it, however, from the dying embers, roused up the fire, and resumed, as before, her seat and her volume of Prophecies. The night was stormy, the dry crisp sleet hissed on the window, and the wind sighed in heavy gusts down the spacious chimney; whilst the rattling of the shutters, and the occasional clash of a door in some distant part of the house, came with a dim and hollow echo along the dreary silent passages. She did not feel so comfortable as the night before; the whistling of the wind through the trees made her flesh creep involuntarily; and sometimes the thundering clap of a distant door made her start and drop her book, with a sudden prayer for the protection of Heaven. She was thinking within herself of giving up the engagement, and was half resolved to do so on the morrow ; when all at once her ear was struck with the heavy throes and agonized breathing of her charge, and, on raising her head, she saw the same lady in the green gown seated in the same position as the night before. Well, thought she, this is unusually strange ; but it immediately struck her that it must be some inmate of the house, for what human being could venture out in such a dreary night, and at such an hour?— But then her dress: it was neither such as one could wear in the streets on a wintry night, nor yet such as they would be likely to have on in the house at that hour; it was, in fact, the fashionable summer costume of the time. She rose and made her a curtsey, and spoke to her politely, but got no reply save the waving of her hand, by which she had been silenced

before. At length the agitation of the invalid was so increased, that she could not reconcile it to her duty to sit still whilst a stranger was attending him. She accordingly drew nearer to the bed, in spite of the repeated beckonings of the lady, who, as she advanced, drew her veil closer across her face, and retired to the table at the window Nurse approached the bed, but was terrified on beholding the countenance of the patient: the big drops of cold sweat were rolling down his pale brow; his livid lips were quivering with agony ; and, as he motioned her aside, his glaring eyes followed the retreating figure in the green gown. She soon saw that it was in vain to attempt assisting him; he impatiently repulsed every proffer of attention, and she again resumed her seat, while the silent visitor returned to her place by his bed-side. Rather piqued at being thus baffled in her intentions of kindness, but still putting from her the idea of a supernatural being, the old woman again determined to watch with attention the retreat of the lady, and observe whether she resided in the house, or took her departure by the main door. She almost refrained from winking, in order to secure a scrutiny of her motions-but it was all in vain; she could not remember to have taken off her glance for a moment, but still the visitant was gone. It seemed as if she had only changed her thoughts for an instant, and not her eyes, but that change was enough; when she again reverted to the object of her anxiety, the mysterious lady had departed. As on the foregoing night, her patient now became composed, and enjoyed an uninterrupted slumber till the light of morning, now reflected from heaps of dazzling snow, brought with it the female who was to relieve guard at the bed of misery.

The following morning Nurse went to the house of the physician who had engaged her, with the determination of giving up the task in which she was employed. She felt uneasy at the thoughts of retaining it, as she had never been similarly situated before; she always had some companion to speak to, or was at least employed in an inhabited house; but besides, she was not by any means comfortable in the visits of the nightly stranger. She was disappointed, however, by not finding him at home, and was directed to return at a certain hour; but as she lay down to rest in the mean time, she did not wake till that hour was long past. Nothing then remained but to return for another night, and give warning of her intention on the morrow; and with a heavy discontented heart, she repaired to the gloomy apartment. The Physician was already there when she arrived, and received her notice with regret; but was rather surprised when she informed him of the attentions of the strange lady, and the manner in which she had been prevented from performing her duty; he, however, treated it as a common-place occurrence, and suggested that it was some affectionate relative or friend of the patient, of whose connexions he knew nothing. At last he took his leave, and Nurse arranged her chair and seated herself to watch, not merely the departure but the arrival of her fair friend. As she had not, however, appeared on the former accasions till the night was far advanced, she did not expect her sooner, and endeavoured to occupy her attention till that time by some other means. But it was all in vain; she could only think of the one mysterious circumstance, fix her dim gaze on the blackened trellis-work of the

as,

ceiling, and start at every trifling sound, which was now doubly audible, as all without was hushed by the noiseless snow in which the streets were imbedded. Again, however, her vigilance was eluded, and wearied with thought, she raised her head with a long drawn sigh and a yawn of fatigue, she encountered the green garments of her unsolicited companion. Angry with herself, and at the same time unwilling to accuse herself of remissness, she determined once again that she should not escape unnoticed. There hung a feeling of awe around her whenever she approached this singular being, and when, as before, the lady retired to another quarter of the room as she approached the bed, she had not courage to follow her. Again the same distressing scene of suffering in her unfortunate charge ensued; he gasped and heaved till the noise of his agony made her heart sicken within her; when she drew near his bed, his corpselike features were convulsed with a feeling which seemed to twist their relaxed nerves into the most fearful expression, while his ghastly eyes were straining from their sunken sockets. She spoke, but he answered not; she touched him, but he was cold with terror, and unconscious of any object save the one mysterious being whom his glance followed with steady, fixed intensity. Nurse was naturally a woman of very strong feelings, but here she was totally beside herself with anxiety. She thought that the young gentleman was just expiring, and was preparing to leave the room, in search of farther assistance, when she saw the lady move towards the bed of the dying man; she bent above him for a moment, whilst his writhings were indescribable; she then moved stately towards the door. Now was the moment! Nurse advanced at the same time, laid her one hand on the latch, whilst with the other she attempted to raise the veil of the stranger, and in the next instant fell lifeless on the floor. As she glanced on the face of the lady, she saw that a lifeless head filled the bonnet; its vacant sockets and ghastly teeth were all that could be seen beneath the folds of the veil. Daylight was breaking the following morning, when the other attendant arrived, and found the poor old woman cold and benumbed, stretched upon the floor beside the passage; and when she looked upon the bed of the invalid, he lay stiffened and lifeless, as if many hours had elapsed since his spirit had shaken off its mortal coil. One hand was thrown across his eyes, as if to shade them from some object on which he feared to look; and the other grasped the coverlit with convulsive firmness.

The remains of the mysterious student were interred in the old Carlton burying ground, and I remember, before the new road was made through it, to have often seen his grave; but I never could learn his name, what connexion the spirit had with his story, or how he came to be in that melancholy deserted situation in Edinburgh. I have mentioned, at the commencement of this narration, that I will vouch for its truth as far as regards myself, and that is, merely, as I heard the poor old woman herself tell all the extraordinary circumstances as I have recited them, a very few weeks before her death, with a fearful accuracy. Be it as it may, they cost her her life; as she never recovered from the effects of the terror, and pined and wasted away to the hour of her death, which followed in about two months after the fearful occurrence. For my part,

I firmly believe all she told us; and though my father used to say it was all a dream or the effects of imagi nation, I always saw too many concurrent circumstances attending it to permit me to think so.— New Monthly Magazine."

THE WANDERER.

FLOAT on, float on, thou lonely bark,
Across the weary brine;

I know not why I load thee with
Such cheerless freight as mine.

I know not why I wander forth,
Nor what I wish to see;

For Hope, the child of Morn and Mist,
Has long been veiled from me.

Little reck I for ruined towers-
They may be very fair-
Let poet or let painter rave,
I see but ruin there.

I think upon the waste above,
And on the dead below;

I see but human vanity-
I see but human woe.

And cities in their hour of pomp,
The peopled and the proud-
What are they? mighty sepulchres
To gulf a wretched crowd.

Where wealth and want are both accurst,
Each one the worst to bear ;
Where every heart and house are barred
With the same solid care.

And fairer scenes-the vine-wreathed hill,
A gold and ruby mine,

Grapes, nature's jewels, richly wrought
Around the Autumn's shrine:

The corn-fields' fairy armory,
Where every lance is gold,
And poppies fling upon the wind
Their banner's crimson gold..

The moon, sweet shadow of the sun,
On the lake's tranquil breast,-
Too much these gentle scenes contrast
My spirt's own unrest,

And must I be what I have been,
And not what I am now,

Ere these could call a smile, or chase
One shadow from my brow.

1 must lay in some nameless sea.
The ghosts of hopes long fled;
Efface dark memory's scroll, and leave
A shining page instead.

I must forget youth's bloom is fled,
Ere its own measured hours;

I must forget that summer dies,
Even amid its flowers.

And give me more than pleasure's task—
Belief that they can be;

Then every spreading sail were slow
To bear me on the sea.

But now I care not for their course;
Wherever I may roam,

I bear about the weariness
That haunted me at home.

I may see all around me changed,
Beneath a foreign sky;

I may fly scenes, and friends, and foes-
Myself I cannot fly.

L.E. L.

1

6

LOUISE.

-

WHILE I was travelling on the continent, I was one afternoon detained by an accident, which happened to the vehicle in which I was journeying. Having vented a little of my spleen, by grumbling at the vile rough roads which had occasioned this mishap, I went into a small auberge by the road side; but, instead of being thankful that I had been within reach of even this shelter, I was in no very enviable humour when I had seated myself in a small but very neat room. What with the jolting of the carriage, and the bruises I had received from the accident, in addition to my succeeding illtemper, I was really far from well; so having ordered some coffee, I tried to sleep, but tried in vain; and, therefore, inquired of the landlord if he could lend me a book. He said, he would ask his daughter Marion, who, he thought, had one or two; but, for his own part, he never did, and, moreover, scarcely could, read. In a short time, the spruce Marion-by the bye, a pretty, simpering, arch-looking, bright-eyed creature brought me three or four by no means clean or wellconditioned volumes. Out of these, I selected the one most thumbed and dogs-eared,' because it, if I might judge from those symptoms, was, probably, the most. interesting. Marion approved of my choice, saying that it was a very tender and mournful, and she had no doubt a true, narrative: after this summary critique she continued lingering about the room; so I asked her to sit down, and read it tenderly to me, accompanying my request with a kiss, which she half-pettishly denied, and half-bashfully received. She then while I was taking coffee, which she consented to share with me, read a history, which made so deep an impression on my mind, that I even now recollect it sufficiently well to be able to give my readers an idea of its leading features. The characters are taken from humble life; but, although it may be the fashion to imagine that the peasantry have less sensibility, because they have less refinement, than their more accomplished superiors in station, still there is no paucity of instances among them of greater real feeling, sympathy, and affection, than exist in the higher classes in the former, almost all is unadulterated, because there is no incentive for display in the latter, the greater part springs from affectation, and the longing after notoriety. But to my tale..

A mutual affection had existed from their childhood between Henri Merville and Louise Courtin; their res spective parents were near neighbours, and on very friendly terms with one another; they, therefore, watched the infantile attachment of their children with great pleasure, and with more self-congratulation did they perceive that growing with their growth, and strengthening with their strength, it had ripened into. an ardent and deep-rooted passion. When Henri, however, had attained his twentieth year, Louise being also, only seventeen, it became necessary that he, should leave. the humble village of Verny, and perfect himself in his trade as a cabinet-maker, by visiting and working in some large and opulent towns. The lovers, amid their increasing happiness, had never, thought of this long separation; so that when Henri was told by his father that he must leave home, and be away three years, and Louise informed by her mother of the same circumstance, the intelligence came upon them like an earthquake.

Woman's feelings are more easily excited, and Louise felt as if Verny would be a desert without her dear Henri; he too was sad enough, although the preparations for his journey occupied the greatest portion of his time and prevented him so continually thinking of the separation as she did. Grief and regret were useless; the parting hour arrived, and the now miserable pair were left to themselves. Henri was endeavouring to console the wretched girl, but she remained pale and motionless; the roses of delight had faded beneath the tears that trickled down her cheeks, and her slender form trembled within the arm of her lover. Three

years!' at length said she, sobbing, three years! I, who could never bear to be three days without seeing you; dear Henri, what will become of me?'-"You must think of me-of your friend-of your devoted Henri,' replied he, affecting a firmness which the faltering tone of his voice belied; you must say to yourself, Henri loves me he is thinking of me-he is counting every moment previous to that of his return. That sweet delightful moment will arrive, my darling Louise; I shall come back a more skilful workman, and, my girl, think of this-better able to increase our comforts, and to render you happy.' Louise bowed her head: she would have preferred less skill, less prospective happiness, so that her Henri could have remained with her; but their parents' wishes must be attended to, and their orders obeyed. They mutually made vows of eternal constancy and fidelity; as is the custom in the provinces, they exchanged rings, and became rather more resigned to their unavoidable separation. Louise on her part, promised to employ this long interval in preparations for rendering their household neat and comfortable, and he, with a kiss, said, 'This ring, while reminding me of my love, will make me more attentive to my business. Their projects respecting occupations which concerned their future union soothed their parting, inasmuch as it made him think of a time when they might meet to part no more.

Henri at last departed, and was ten miles from Verny before he could comprehend how he had summoned up resolution enough to leave it. Louise, shut up in her little room, was weeping bitterly, and felt no inclination to go out, since she could no longer meet Henri; but, in a short time, both of them, without feeling less regret, bethought themselves of making the wearisome interval useful to their future prospects. She, faithful to her sorrow, and yet intent on her 'promised preparations, was scarcely ever idle, and never felt so happy as when at her work, or on gazing on the ring her lover had given her, with the passionate devotion attendant on a first and deep affection:

'Oh! only those,

Whose souls have felt this one idolatry, Can tell how precious is the slightest thing Affection gives and hallows!'

in

but, above all, did she feel a pensive pleasure in saying to herself every evening, another day is gone!' Henri, also, counted the days passed afar from his beloved, but did not give up all his time to sadness; separations, the person who goes is always the most quickly consoled; he had never been far from his native village; he was gratified at the sight of new countries, and busied in observing fresh manners and strange cosDuring the first eighteen months, he travelled about from town to town; but at last, in Lyons, made

tumes.

an engagement with a person who had a very extensive business, of the name of Gerval, for the remaining period. His master preferred cards and the bottle to work, and finding Henri honest and attentive, was anxious to retain him in his situation. He had a daughter, named Annette, a quick, lively, and fascinating girl, frequently in the workshop with him. Gerval observed, and by no means discouraged, this, thinking that, even after all, his assistant would become neither a bad partner for Annette nor himself, and that their intercourse, at all events would keep away Louis, a former workman, who had affected a great regard for his daughter, but possessed very little inclination to use the saw or plane. Annette therefore, while Henri was working, bore him company, and read or sang to him, doing her best to make his time flit away; in the evening, when work was over, she would, with blended bashfulness and pertness, take his arm, and show him the most pleasing walks; or play with him at battledore and shuttlecock in front of the house. All this attention was very delightful to Henri, particularly as it proceeded from so interesting a creature as his present companion. Are, then, Verny and the sorrowful Louise quite forgotten? It must be confessed, that they almost escaped his memory, when thus employed with Annette; but, to do him justice, in the solitude of his chamber he experienced feelings almost akin to remorse; often in his dreams did he behold Louise, ever tender, ever affectionate, as in their infancy; this vision was recalled when he awoke, and he rose, vowing that she should never have a rival in his heart: but Henri was young, Louise two hundred miles off, and Annette only two steps.

Gerval, to keep away all aspirants, gave it out that they were betrothed, and especially informed Louis, the dismissed swain, of this engagement, who, in consequence thereof, immediately left Lyons. Henri's time, meanwhile, was passing away; he had received some very tender letters from Louise, and had written to her, but less frequently than he would have done if Annette had not occupied his leisure hours. Having, however, received no intelligence from Verny for more than three months, he began to be disquieted, and determined to leave Gerval, notwithstanding all Annette's attractions. To be sure, he found her very pretty and agreeable-he had romped and flirted with her-but had never, for a moment, thought of marrying her, and had, strictly speaking, been faithful to Louise. Judge then of his surprise, when, one night, Gerval returned home, halfdrunk, caught and threw away the shuttlecock, and asked them if they were not beginning to think of a more serious game, Well, children!' said he, 'when's the wedding to be? Here, spring's come, so it's just the time for it. Master Henri, your engagement's up; you must enter into another, for life, with Annette. Why don't you answer? and you, you little stupid thing, come and embrace your old father, instead of twisting and twirling your apron about in that foolish way.' Annette threw herself into her father's arms; Henri, pale as death, hid his face with his hands, and knew not how to articulate a refusal; and Gerval, at the sight of this confusion, burst into an uncontrolable fit of laughter, 'You put me in mind,' said he at last, of one of those ninnies of lovers on the stage, who throw themselves on their knees before their mistresses, as if they were idols. Come, my lad, embrace your