of you no more, and he declaring that his love of you should accompany him beyond the grave. But I perceive that your eyes are swimming in tears; you will just allow me to intrude only so far as to ask what could induce you to make his life so miserable; and why you refused one, who entertained so violent an affection for you, the consolation of seeing you once more?"

The heart is not to be controlled, replied I. M. de S― was deserving man, and had many good qualities, but his temper was vindictive, melancholy, and absolute, so that I dreaded his love, as much as I disliked his company. To have satisfied him I must have renounced all human society, and must have given up my profession; I was as proud as I was poor; it was ever my maxim, and I hope it will continue to be so, to be under obligations to no one, and to depend for support upon my own industry. I had a partiality for him, and therefore I strove what I could to make him entertain principles more consistent with propriety and justice; but it was all in vain, I could not prevail with him; so that, finding his infatuation to proceed rather from violence of temper than the force of his passion for me, I came to the determination, which I resolutely kept, of breaking off all connexion with him. The reason why I refused to visit him in his last moments, was, because the sight would have overpowered my feelings, and because, had I after that persisted in my former resolution, I should but have appeared the more cruel and inexorable; and, had I complied with his wishes, I should have made myself the most miserable of women. You have now, madam, heard the motives of my conduct, which I flatter myself is not altogether so blame worthy.

"I am far from blaming it," rejoined the old lady. “I should think myself guilty of great injustice if I did; we owe no sacrifice of ourselves but to our vows, to our parents, or our benefactors; and, in this last respect, I know well it is not you who were under obligations, for I have heard him express how greatly he was in your debt on that score; but his overbearing disposition, and his love tyrannized over him; he was not master of himself, and your last refusal to see him certainly hastened his end. When his servant returned with the message, exactly at half an hour past ten o'clock, (for he counted every minute as it passed after he had sent him to your house,) and told him that you were positively determined never to see him more, he remained silent for a minute or two, then, taking me by the hand, he pressed it in an agony which alarmed me, pronouncing these words at the same time, 'Oh the cruel woman! She shall suffer for this refusal—I will haunt her as long after death as I have followed her whilst living!' I endeavoured to sooth him, but he was no more.'

I believe, my dear friend, I need not tell you what I felt when the old gentlewoman pronounced these last words; the correspondence betwixt them and the noises I had so repeatedly been tormented with, instantly rushed upon my mind, and filled me with terror and astonishment. I at first imagined that all the powers of Heaven and Hell had combined to render my life wretched; but the quiet I afterwards experienced, and time, with the aid of reason and reflection, restored calmness to my breast. I thought within myself, that, as the course of things continued to be always the same in the universe, so was it not possible that a dead body should be restored to life; that, as the existence of a God was discoverable in every thing around us, he must be just and merciful; and, that when He, in his appointed time, thought proper to summon any living soul to quit this earth, there could be no return to it. And, I said to myself, who am I that I should suppose I am become an object of Almighty vengeance? Though He might judge proper in his wis dom to discover, by some alteration of the usual progress of nature, either his wrath or his beneficence, and thereby shew that the race of man is the object of his care; yet that any individual of mankind, who, compared to the whole of the human race, is but as a grain of sand to this globe of earth which we inhabit, should become the marked victim of his chastisement, seems neither probable nor consistent. Let us praise him, let us merit his divine protection, and let us not be presumptuous.

Reasoning in this manner, scrutinizing into my own conscience, and finding nothing in whatever had happened that could tend either to my edification or correction, I have been inclined to think the whole of what I have related to be the effects of chance. I know not the nature of chance; but this I can venture to believe, that what is so termed, has the greatest influence over all that is passing in this world.

I

You are now released. This is the whole of my history, and of my observations on it. Make what use of them you please. If it be your intentions to communicate this letter to any one, beg of you only, in that case, to use the initial of the name; I have sent it to you at length, that you may judge by such confidence, as well as by the labour which this letter has cost me in penning, under my present weakness of body and mind, the perfect attachment and very high esteem, with which I am, &c.

VOL. I. New Series.

POETRY.

THE first part of the following quaint poem is an old composition by an un known hand; the second part was written by the celebrated Mr. Ralph Erskine, heretofore minister in Dunfermline, and one of the most active leaders of that class of Presbyterians, known even to the present times by the name of Seceders from the established church of Scotland. The good man had been of opinion, that smokers, while they were indulging their appetite for the fumes of tobacco, might be worse employed than in occasionally directing their minds to subjects of a serious nature.

[From the European Magazine for September, 1812.]
SMOKING SPIRITUALIZED.

The promise, like the pipe, inlays,
And, by the mouth of faith, conveys
What virtue flows

From Sharon's Rose.

Thus think, and smoke tobacco.

In vain th' unlighted pipe you blow;
Your pains in outward means are so;
Till heavenly fire

Your hearts inspire.

Thus think, and smoke tobacco.

The smoke, like burning incense, towers,
So should a praying heart of yours,
With ardent cries,

Surmount the skies.

Thus think, and smoke tobacco.

Glasgow, September, 1812.

K.

THE DUKE'S FEAST.

[From Mr. Elton's Tales of Romance.]
THE moon had sunk in clouds; a storm was nigh,
And eddy leaves came scattering on the blast;
The merchant round him turn'd an anxious eye,
As yet scarce half the forest length was past;
While mingling with the gloom a deeper dread,
The passing thunder roll'd in murmurs o'er his head.
The steed shook wild his ruffled mane; around
The oak-trees old rock'd roaring in the gale;
And pines their branches stoop'd with crashing sound;
Drear clos'd the darkness on the lightning pale;
When through the forest breaks a light from high
Shone distant, as it seem'd, a watch-tower in the sky.
With livelier cheer the traveller wound the glade,
Till climbing slow the dark hill's hanging steep,
Th' illuminated turrets he survey'd,

Whose light had glimmer'd thro' those forests deep;
Beneath a stately castle's walls he stood,

That, flank'd with lofty towers, o'ertopp'd th' inferior wood.

Beside the gate was hung a brazen horn;

The pediment was grav'd with golden scroll;
"Here food and shelter wait the wretch forlorn,
"Who owns the treasure of a grateful soul."
The merchant to his lips that horn applied,
The hollow mountain-glens re-echoed far and wide.
Straight quivering streaks illume the granite walls,
From many a gliding torch reflected bright;
Shrill ring the gates; expand the tapestried halls,
And blooming pages guide his steps aright;
With busy hands disrobe the way-worn guest,
And lave in tepid streams, and clothe in downy vest

Up sprang the trav❜ller when the morning broke,
And left the chamber with a beating breast;
The Duke encountering smil'd, and gracious spoke,
And ask'd if sweet his fare, if soft his rest;
Basilius bow'd the knee, but frankly said,

How that his breast was scar'd, and terrified his bed.

Stern smil'd his host, and led him where a room
Was rich with painting, gold, and ebony:
Without the casements roses wreath'd their bloom,
And woodbines droop'd in cluster'd canopy:
Its blossom'd boughs the myrtle green entwin'd,
And orange-trees with sweets impregnated the wind.
Rare needle-work the colour'd hangings wove,
The silken scene did loyal loves display:
Knights in their helmets wore the gage of love,
Or at the feet of damsels courteous lay:
But all was stilly gloom; what seem'd a bed
Rose underneath an arch, with sable pall o'erspread.

Unseen the harp is touch'd; the whilst they taste
The luscious fruit, and drink metheglin sweet,
Slow to the Merchant's thought the moments waste,
Till rose the Duke in silence from his seat;
That sable pall he rais'd, and pointing stood;

The azure couch blush'd red-it was the stain of blood!

Then pray'd the trembling merchant to depart,
The gorgeous misery sicken'd on his brain;
The mystic drinking-skull; th' embalmed heart,
The purple horror of the secret stain!-
"Lo! here," Onulphus cried, " my bridal bower!
"And here my consort clasp'd her guilty paramour.

"Like thee, my guest, he caught the roving glance
"Of Rosimund, and lur'd her to her shame;
"I saw; I found them in their sinful trance,

"And quench'd in blood the barb'rous ingrate's flame; "It is the will of heaven that I should be

"The still-avenging scourge of her inconstancy.

"This carbuncle that on my finger glows

"Was once a living serpent's precious eye: "Thus did an Arab sage his night's repose "Requite, of necromantic potency:

"For still, when woman's faith would go astray,
"This modest jewel pales its bright and sanguine ray.

"And still, whene'er her thoughts to vice incline,
"That cup is brought to med'cine her offence;
"And tears of rage then mingle with her wine,
"Would they were chang'd to tears of penitence!
"I may not dare, till she be chaste and true,
"So warn'd by holy dreams, remit the penance due.
"Now go in peace!" he said, and clasp'd him round
With courteous arms; the gates unfolding rang;
A barb with golden bit there paw'd the ground,
The grateful Merchant to the saddle sprang
Pensive he left the castle walls; but thence
He bore a wiser heart, and firmer innocence.