the midnight hour would never arrive; never had the moments appeared so tedious to him. At length St. Mark's bells chimed the threequarters past eleven, and Di Moralvidini, with a throbbing heart, rushed from the castle, and with hasty steps traversed the intervening space with lay between that and the Carthusian Priory. In the long dark avenue which led to the latter, and which was thickly planted with high trees, so as almost to exclude even the light of day, no one was discernible, and with little difficulty he gained the interior of the building. The high arched roof, the long intricate passages, the faint and trembling light cast from one solitary taper, which served only to make darkness visible, inspired the duke with a degree of solemn awe which he could not shake off.

He

listened with breathless impatience for a single footstep, or ought which would serve in any degree to ac. count for the disappearance of his child. Nothing, however, was heard but the echo of his own steps, or the throbbing of his own agitated heart. He had just reached the termination of one of the dark passages, when in loud and solemn tones the hour of twelve reverberated through the lofty dome, and in the same moment a low and hollow voice distinctly uttered "Antonio di Moralvidini!" "Who calls on di Moralvidini?" he replied in hurried accents. "Follow me," responded the voice, and from behind one of the pillars issued the tall figure of a monk, bearing in his hand a small lantern, which faintly glimmered through the musky gloom. "Tell me of Correlia," exclaimed the duke anxiously; "shall 1 see her?" "You shall see her," replied the monk, "but now be silent." Difficult as it was to comply with this demand, the duke obeyed, and followed the monk through what appeared to him a passage of intermi

ninable length. It terminated at the foot of a flight of stairs. There they ascended, and again a gloomy passage presented itself. The monk paused, and, raising up a stone, disclosed a trap door. "I will go no further," said the duke, stopping. "Return, then," said the monk, with a sneer; "return, and lose Correlia." "Merciful Father!" uttered the duke, "of what mystery am I the sport? I have never injured you," he continued; "why. then, seek to deprive me of my child?" The monk answered not, but pursued his way, followed by the duke. They now arrived in a low stone chamber, when, on a sudden, the monk disappeared, leaving di Moralvidini in total darkness.

The departure of the monk was so quick and unexpected, that the duke was unable to tell in what manner he had gone; he called, but no answer was returned; he groped round the walls of the chamber, but not an outlet appeared, not even the one by which he had entered. The agitated duke execrated both the monk and his own folly in being guided by him, and in all the dreadful agony of suspense, an hour, long and terrible to him, elapsed. At length a faint light issued from a fissure in the wall, and di Moralvidini, springing from his recumbent posture (for in the agony of his mind he had thrown himself on the ground), darted towards it. He found that the light streamed from a panel in the wall, which had been a little drawn back, and he soon succeeded in opening it sufficiently to admit himself into a large and splendidly furnished apartment. An elegant chandelier hung suspended by a chain of gold from the beautifully painted ceiling, and threw a soft and silvery light around. Couches, ottomans, and superb sofas, were placed in niches round the room, tastefully decorated. At the upper end of the chamber a screen

of gilt net-work ran across the room, a few feet on the inside of which a long curtain of pale pink taffety, fancifully spotted and embroidered with silver, hung in graceful drapery to the ground. Paintings by the most eminent masters decorated the walls, and the richest perfumes scented the apartment, " Is it possible," exclaimed the Moralvidini, "that such a fairy palace can be concealed within the precincts of a monastery?"

But not long was di Moralvidini allowed to admire this magnificent and voluptuous apartment. The curtain was slowly withdrawn, and the scene beyond it chilled his blood with horror. The room behind was spacious as the one he was in, but the hangings presented nothing but a funeral appearance; even the floor was covered with the same sombre hue. At the father end was erected a small altar, the steps leading to which were of black marble; and in candlesticks of the same material, finely polished, three tapers shed a glimmering light, But di Moralvidini scarcely cast a glance beyond the middle of the place; for there, on a sable couch, and fast asleep, lay the beautiful and innocent Correlia. Her robe of pale green silk was fastened round her slender waist by a string of diamonds, and on her fair long waving hair was affixed a magnificent cross to correspond; her dress, slightly open, displayed the whiteness of her beautiful neck, and was surmounted by a ruff of rich lace; and her exquisitely fine turned arm glittered with the richness of the bracelets which claspsed them. The splendour of her attire, and her angelic beauty, formed a striking contrast to the gloomy appearance of the apartment. At the head of the couch, his hand resting on it, and still enveloped in his garment, stood the mysterious monk. "Correlia! dear Correlia!" exclaimed the duke,

as he sprung to the net-work which divided them; "awake, my child! thy father calls." "You call in vain," returned in solemn accents the deep-toned voice of the monk; "an opiate, administered by my hand, steeps her senses in happy unconsciousness. Duke! your Correlia awakes but to breathe her last sigh! This night your daughter dies! Behold the instrument of death:" and he produced from the ample folds of his vestment a dagger, whose bright and shining blade he held close to the bosom of the sleeping maid. "Fiend! monster!" shrieked the duke, "would you murder my child? Forbear! Oh in mercy forbear! Retract your words; put up that dreadful weapon; strike not at the life of my child. Nor she, nor I have injured you." "Not injured! not injured me!" replied the monk quickly: "Antonio, rememberest thou not

the once - lovely, once - innocent Blanche?" "Remember Blanche! remember her!" uttered the astonished duke. "Ah! could I ever

forget her?" "No!" replied the monk sternly; "Conscience, that never-fading, never dying, silent monitor, would not allow of your ceasing to remember her. Even on the bed of death will the remembrance haunt you. Then will the form of the injured Blanche demand of you her father; call on you to restore to her the life of her onceloved friend Jeannette, and her spotless innocence. Oh, she was innocent!" exclaimed the monk, in a voice of agony; "she was the only treasure of her father's heart, his only hope, his only idol; and she became his murderer! But you, you planted the thorn in his bosom; you were the despoiler of his happiness; you bereft him of his only daughter. And you, because I have raised my hand against the life of your child, you have dared to apply to me the appellation of fiend and monster. If such am I, what, di Moralvidini, what art thou?" The duke groaned. " Your proaches are just," he answered, vainly endeavouring to appear calm;

our re

yet every reparation"-" Reparation!" wildly shrieked the monk ;--"what reparation can restore to Bianche her unblemished honour, her spotless innocence? What restore her murdered father's life? What will appease the restless spirit of Jeannette? Mark me, duke, nothing will calm the perturbed spirit of Blanche but your sustaining the pangs which rend a doating parent's heart. Ah, not as you have inflicted them, will you feel, for your child dies in all the purity of her spotless innocence !" "Liar! blasphemer!" exclaimed the duke with energy; "my injured Blanche would pity and would pardon her repentant Antonio. Oh spare my child!" he continued, as he beheld the arm of the monk preparing to strike the blow; spare her, I implore you, even thus humbled," and he cast himself on his knees. "I supplicate for mercy. Destroy not, oh destroy not my innocent Correlia. Nay, lift your murderous arm against my life if you needs must have a victim, for I alone am guilty. But Correlia, guileless and innocent, spare her, and my dying breath shall bless you." "Thy prayers are vain, Antonio," cried the monk; "prayers. and to me!" he continued, laughing wildly with horrid exultation. "Oh, this is ecstacy! Night and day, sleeping and waking, have I prayed for this. For this have I dragged on a life of wretchedness and misery; and now the hour is arrived in which my long laid plans of vengeance are complete. Revenge will yet be mine. This is the only moment of exultation I have experienced for these seventeen years." "Who art thou, man of mystery?" interrupted the almost frantic di Moralvidini, as he endeavoured to

dislodge the net-work which divided them, but in vain, for it was too firmly fixed. "Behold!" exclaim

ed the monk, throwing back the cowl, and dashing off the vestment, "behold, obscured in this disguise, the wretched Blanche!"

It was Blanche indeed-but ah, how altered! Her once long-waving tresses now hung disordered and neglected on her shoulders; her once blooming cheek was now pale as death: her form was attenuated; and her dark eyes gleamed with a wild and fearful brightness. "Well," she continued, "well mayest thou start! well stand amazed! Soon, oh! how soon, were thy vows forgotten, false deceitful man! Another lived thy happy honoured wife; while Blanche, deceived, was left to perish with her infant child-while this," (and she pointed to Correlia,) "thy acknowledged heiress, was brought up in luxury and splendour. But not long shall she live the idol of your heart. Now, now, spirit of my murdered father, nerve my arm to revenge thy injuries and my own!" "Blanche, hold! Strike not, Blanche! Correlia is thy child; she is thine!" he shrieked. The upraised arm of Blanche sunk nerveless by her side. "Mine! mine!" she wildly uttered. " Speak, speak again, Antonio! Swear!" "I do swear," he cried with energy, "Correlia St. Valori is the child of Blanche De La Valois and Antonio di Moralvidini." " Merciful God!" uttered Blanche, "had I so nearly murdered my own child?" Her voice gradually grew fainter, and she sunk senseless to the ground.

(To be continued.)

MEMORY.

M. La Motte, a celebrated French poet, was remarkable for a most retentive memory, of which this story is a striking instance.

A young author read a tragedy to him, which he heard quite through, and with expressions of great satisfaction. He assured the writer, that the piece was excellent, and must be successful; "but," added he, "you have been guilty of a little plagiarism, and to prove it, I will repeat to you the second scene of the fourth act of your play." The young poet assured him that he was mistaken, for he had not borrowed a line from any person. La Motte said, that he asserted nothing which he could not prove; and immediately repeated the whole scene, with as much animation as if he had been the author of it. The company present were astonished, and the author himself was quite disconcerted. La Motte enjoyed their embarrassment for same time, and then said: "Gentlemen, recover yourselves from this surprise." Then addressing himself to the author, he said: "The scene, sir, is certainly your own, as well as the rest of the play; but this part appeared to me so beautiful and affecting, that I could not help getting itby heart while you were reading it to me."

THE MERCENARY LOVER.

"Oh! happy state, when souls each other draw, When love is liberty, and nature law!"

It would be well for the peace of society, and for the domestic felicity of individuals in general, if the control of parents over the inclinations of their children, in the grand article of marriage, were not carried to such a height of despotic rigour. Love, the pure love, at least, which Hymen justifies, spurns at every restraint which flows not spontaneously from the emotions of a virtuous sensibility; and though old people may, on such occasions, gravely reason from the impluses of avarice, ambition, or convenience, yet young people will still feel, and think themselves entitled to give a loose to their feelings. Where the heart is concerned, one soft whisper of na

ture shall overturn in a moment all that self-interest can preach up for months, in the language of prudence, of which, for the most part, it is only the specious image.

But, alas! the obstacles to matrimonial felicity are no longer confined to the cruel interposition of parents. The parties themselves have become accessary to their own undoing; nor need we wonder that there should be so few happy matches, when we consider that in these days, the laws of love are sacrilegiously, though avowedly, trampled upon by both sexes, at an age, too, when sensibility might be presumed to triumph with the most resistless sway in the human bosom.

In fine, dissipation-that accursed dissipation which accompanies the luxury inseparable from great cities, seems at length to have extinguished every spark of sentiment among our young people. Thus, in the preliminary arrangement of nuptial concerns, it matter not whether master or miss be born to move in the splendid circle of St. James's, or in the filthy purlieus of Wapping; for still the object of both is not, whether, delighted with each other, they shall be happy at home; but whether, exempted from parental restraints, they shall be more at ease in the pursuit of separate pleasures abroad.

Celadon and I are old friends. We are both of a philosophic turn, but with this difference, that he pretends, and perhaps with truth, to know more of the world that I. In moralizing with him one day, I could not help expressing a wish, that it had not been my lot to be shocked with a view of the depravity of manners which seems so universally to pervade the metropolis; and at the same time I scrupled not to give it as my firm opinion, that real love is known no where but in the country.

"Nor in the country neither,"

interrupted Celadon, smiling at what he was pleased to term my simplicity. "Real love, my friend," added he, is a real phantom every where; and as a proof of my assertion, I will relate to you an anecdote in rustic low life-that life you seem to think so happy-of which I witnessed myself some of the particulars, last summer, in the course of a tour I had occasion to make through the north.

"Happening," continued he, "to halt for a day or two at a village, in which, from a superficial view of it, one might have concluded that Innocence and Content had fixed their abode (if an abode they could be supposed to have upon earth), I found the whole conversation of the place engrossed with different opinions (all of them strongly seasoned with scandal) concerning the conduct of a young fellow who had lately deserted a beautiful girl, the pride of the parish, whom he had courted assiduously for above a twelvemonth, and from whom he had received every endearing acknowledgment of a mutual flame which virgin modesty would per

mit.

"The father of Maria (for that, I think, was the name of the young woman) had at length given his sanction to their union, and, in order to forward them in the world, it was settled, that the portion of the bride should be twenty pounds, with a small assortment of necessaries, as furniture for the cottage they were to occupy. The banns were accordingly published; the ring and the wedding garments were purchased; and the following Sunday was fixed for their appearance in bridal array at the altar.

"The artless Maria seemed now to have reached the very summit of her wishes: but how in the mean time was her lover employed? Not in figuring to himself scenes of happiness in the arms of a deserving

girl, who was herself a treasure, but in forming schemes to obtain a paltry addition to her little fortune, which, in fact, he required not, and which was destined to be eventually a source of misery to a whole family for life.

"The father, he had observed, was possessed of three cows; and the dæmon of mischief whispering into the ear of the rapacious clown, that he had a good right to at least one of them, he resolved to claim it as a portion of the bargain. He accordingly went to the old man, and, unacquainted with the refined language which a courtier would have used on a similar occasion, bluntly declared, no cow, no wife for him!

"Nay, stare not!" continued Celadon, (for, in truth, I did stare and smile also). "A cow, my friend," added he, " is to a humble peasant what we may suppose ten thousand guineas to be to a proud lord. The father, therefore, demurred; and the lover, determined not to recede from his demand, withdrew in anger,

"Recollecting, however, the next morning, that Maria had a sister, of whom the father would be glad to get rid of at any rate, he repeated his visit to him, and (though not without an express agreement that he should have the cow) offered to take her for his wife, leaving the other, as he himself significantly expressed it, to make her market as she might elsewhere.

"In this proposal there was too much of worldly convenience for the old man, to suppose him capable of resisting it. Hardly, indeed, could he conceal his joy upon the occasion; and the young booby, regardless of the tears of his quondam sweetheart, espoused in her stead a creature who was more than ten years older, and whose temper was as perverse as her person was deformed."