wards, passing by his bed-room, the door of which was open, we could not help pausing to look at him. He was well worth looking at the beau ideal of a mad Englishman; a man of taste even in sadness-a fashionable lunatic; but there was something deeper than fashion in his looks and manner; he seldom spoke, perhaps he was too proud-more probably he had a consciousness of his state,—his eye seemed to say so,-and there is nothing so appealing, so painful as the look of a man who knows that his intellect is departing. He was seated on a chair, a looking-glass was on the table beside him, in which he was contemplating his own features in a fixed attitude as he reclined in the chair. Perhaps those features awakened thoughts of the past, of his own better state, or of those who had loved to gaze on that face and trace a resemblance there: he had a wife and two children in England in an affluent home. Is it possible that, even in derangement, there is not some communion of the spirit with those to whom it has cleaved, and still cleaves, in every interval of light and mercy that returns to it? He turned and looked fixedly at us: what proud sorrow was in that look! There was firmness mingled with its loneliness; gradually another expression came of a more equivocal kind‍—a sad, dark, and malignant expression, as if he hated to be thus gazed on, and we were injuring him deeply. We understood afterwards that he was slowly recovering from his malady, was solitary, yet fastidious in his habits: would play chess for hours by himself, yet was evil-disposed, and of a gloomy temper. In some of the rooms are pianos for the more musically-disposed patients, on which they often amuse themselves for hours. There was another department in this interesting establishment which we also saw, and under the immediate guidance of its chief, on whose valuable time we had already trespassed too long. The dinner hour to all Paris drew near, but not to these unfortunate inmates, who have no fixed hour for their repast, which they never take in company, but separate, each at the hour he fancies. We next visited the edifice appropriated to the mad ladies, respecting which and its inmates an account may hereafter be given.

SONNET.

BY THE RIGHT HON. THE LADY CHARLOTTE BURY.

YE chosen lab'rers of th' Almighty Lord,

Who in his sacred vineyard, patient toil,
To save his fruitage from the threaten'd spoil;
What, though by impious spirits sore abhorr'd,
Because, from early dayspring, ye have warr'd,
To keep the trust committed to your guard,
Through heat and burthen of the sinful mire;
Quail not, nor faint-the wicked shall not foil
The Lord's anointed-though, aloft they bear
The rebel standard-threat'ning to assail
Our sacred altars-lay our priesthood bare,
The holy champions never must despair:
Unsheathe the Spirit's sword, it shall not fail,
Nor 'gainst our blessed Church shall gate of Hell prevail.

"THIS then is the chamber which has so long been closed," said Amine, on entering it the next morning, long before Philip had awakened from the sound sleep produced by the watching of the night before. "Yes, indeed it has the air of having long been closed." Amine looked around her, and then examined the furniture. Her eyes were attracted to the birdcages: she looked into them;-" Poor little things," continued she, "and here it was that his father appeared unto his mother. Well, it may be so,-Philip saith that he hath proofs; and why should he not appear? Were Philip dead, I should rejoice to see his spirit,— at least it would be something. What am I saying-unfaithful lips, thus to betray my secret? The table thrown over-that looks like the work of fear;-a workbox, with all its implements scattered,-only a woman's fear: a mouse might have caused all this; and yet there is something solemn in the simple fact that, for so many years, not a living being has crossed these boards; even that a table thus overthrown shall so remain for years, -it is not natural, and therefore has its power on the mind. I wonder not that Philip feels there is such a heavy secret hanging to it; but this room must not remain in this condition. It must be occupied at once."

Amine, who had long been accustomed to attend upon her father, and perform the household duties, now commenced her intended labours.

Every part of the room, and every piece of furniture in it, was cleaned; the cobwebs and dust cleared away; the sofa and table brought from the corner to the centre of the room; the melancholy little prisons removed; and, when her work of neatness was complete, and the sun shone brightly into the opened window, the chamber wore the appearance of cheerfulness.

Amine had the intuitive good sense to feel that strong impressions wear away when the associations are removed. Her object was to make Philip more at ease, for with all the fire and warmth of blood inherent in her race, she had taken his image to her heart, and was resolved to win him. Again and again did she resume her labour, until the pictures about the room, and every article looked fresh and clean.

Not only the birdcages, but the workbox, and all the implements were removed, and the piece of embroidery, of which the taking up had made Philip recoil, as if he had touched an adder, was put away with the rest. Philip had left the keys on the floor. Amine opened the beaufets, cleaned the glazed doors, and was busy rubbing up the silver flaggons when her father came into the room.

"and is all that silver,

"Mercy on me!" exclaimed Mynheer Poots; -then it must be true, and he has thousands of guilders; but where are they?"

"Never do you mind, father, yours are now safe, and for that you have to thank Philip Vanderdecken."

* Continued from page 499, No. cxcvi.

"Yes, very true; but as he is to live here-does he eat much-what will he pay me? He ought to pay well as he has so much money." Amine's lips were curled with a contemptuous smile, but she made no reply.

"I wonder where he keeps his money; and he is going to sea as soon as he can get a ship. Who will have charge of his money when he goes ?"

"I shall take charge of it, father," replied Amine.

"Ah-yes-well-we will take charge of it; the ship may be lost." No, we will not take charge of it, father, you will have nothing to do with it. Look after your own.'

Amine replaced the silver in the beaufets, locked the doors, and took the keys with her when she went out to prepare breakfast, leaving the old man gazing through the glazed doors at the precious metal within. His eyes were riveted upon it, and he could not remove them. Every minute he muttered, “Yes, all silver.”

Philip came down stairs; and as he passed by the room, intending to go into the kitchen, he perceived Mynheer Poots at the beaufet, and he walked into the room. He was surprised, as well as pleased, with the alteration. He felt why and by whom it was done, and he was grateful. Amine came in with the breakfast, and their eyes spoke more than their lips could have done; and Philip sat down to his meal with less of sorrow and gloom upon his brow.

"Mynheer Poots," said Philip, as soon as he had finished, "I intend to leave you in possession of my cottage, and I trust you will find yourself comfortable. What little arrangements are necessary I will confide to your daughter previous to my departure."

"Then you leave us, Mr. Philip, to go to sea. It must be pleasant to go and see strange countries-much better than staying at home. When do you go?”

to

"I shall leave this evening for Amsterdam," replied Philip, make my arrangements about a ship; but I shall return, I think, before I sail."

"Ah! you will return. Yes-you have your money and your goods to see to; you must count your money-we will take good care of it. Where is your money, Mr. Vanderdecken ?"

"That I will communicate to your daughter this forenoon before I leave. In three weeks at the furthest you may expect me back."

Father," said Amine, " you promised to go and see the child of the burgomaster. It is time you went."

"Yes, yes-by-and-by-all in good time; but I must wait the pleasure of Mr. Philip first-he has much to tell me before he goes."

Philip could not help smiling when he remembered what had passed when he first summoned Mynheer Poots to the cottage, but the remembrance ended in sorrow and a clouded brow.

Amine, who knew what was passing in the minds of both her father and Philip, now brought her father's hat, and led him to the door of the cottage; and Mynheer Poots, very much against his inclination, but never disputing the will of his daughter, was obliged to depart.

"So soon, Philip?" said Amine, returning to the room.

"Yes, Amine, immediately. But I trust to be back once more before I sail; if not, you must now have my instructions. Give me the keys."

Philip opened the cupboard below the beaufet, and the doors of the iron safe.

"There, Amine, is my money; we need not count it, as your father would propose. You see that I was right when I asserted that I had thousands of guilders. At present they are of no use to me, as I have to learn my profession. Should I return, some day, they may help me to own a ship. I know not what my destiny may be."

"And should you not return ?" replied Amine, gravely.

"Then they are yours--as well as all that is in this cottage, and the cottage itself."

"You have relations, have you not?”

"But one, who is rich; an uncle, who helped us but little in our distress, and who has no children. I owe him but little, and he wants it There is but one being in this world who has created an interest in this heart, Amine, and it is you. I wish you to look upon me as a brother-I shall always love you as a dear sister.”

not.

Amine made no reply. Philip took some more money out of the bag which had been opened for the expenses of his journey, and then locking up the safe and cupboard, gave the keys to Amine. He was about to address her, when there was a slight knock at the door, and in entered Father Seysen, the Priest.

"Save you, my son; and you, my child, whom as yet I have not seen. You are, I suppose, the daughter of Mynheer Poots."

Amine bowed her head.

"I perceive, Philip, that the room is now opened, and I have heard of all that has passed. I would now talk with thee, Philip, and must beg this maiden to leave us for awhile alone."

Amine quitted the room, and the Priest, sitting down on the couch, beckoned Philip to his side. The conversation which ensued was too long to repeat. The Priest first questioned Philip relative to his secret, but on that point he could not obtain the information which he wished; Philip stated as much as he did to Amine, and no more. He also declared his intention of going to sea, and that, should he not return, he had bequeathed his property-the extent of which he did not make known to the doctor and his daughter. The Priest then made inquiries relative to Mynheer Poots, asking Philip whether he knew what his creed was, as he had never appeared at any church, and report said that he was an infidel. To this Philip, as usual, gave his frank answer, and intimated that the daughter was anxious to be informed, begging the Priest to undertake a task to which he himself was not adequate. To this request Father Seysen, who perceived the state of Philip's mind with regard to Amine, readily consented; and, after a conversation of nearly two hours, they were interrupted by the return of Mynheer Poots, who, perceiving Father Seysen as he entered, darted immediately out of the room. Philip called Amine, and having begged her as a favour to receive the Priest's visits, the good old man blessed them both and departed.

"You did not give him any money, Mr. Philip ?" said Mynheer Poots, when Father Seysen had left the room.

"I did not," replied Philip; "I wish I had thought of it."

"No, no-it is better not-for money is better than what he can give you; but he must not come here."

"Why not, father," replied Amine, " if Mr. Philip wishes it? It is his own house."

"Oh yes, if Mr. Philip wishes it; but you know he is going away." Well, and suppose he is why should not the Father come here?

He shall come here to see me."

"See you, my child!-what can he want with you? Well, then, if he comes, I will not give him one stiver-and then he'll soon go away." Philip had no opportunity of further converse with Amine; indeed he had nothing more to say. In an hour he bade her farewell, in presence of her father, who would not leave them, hoping to obtain from Philip some communication about the money which he was to leave behind him.

Philip arrived in two days at Amsterdam, and made the necessary inquiries, and found that there was no chance of vessels sailing for the Fast Indies for some months. The Dutch East India Company had long been formed, and all private trading was at an end. The Company's vessels left only at what was supposed to be the most favourable season for rounding the Cape of Storms, as it has been designated by the early adventurers. One of the ships which were to sail with the next fleet was the Ter Schilling, a three-masted vessel, now laid up and unrigged.

Philip found out the captain, and stated his wishes to sail with him to learn his profession as a seaman; the captain was pleased with his appearance, and as Philip not only agreed to receive no wages during the voyage, but to pay a premium as an apprentice learning his duty, he was promised a berth on board as the second mate, to mess in the cabin; and that he should be informed whenever the vessel was to sail. Philip having now done all that he could in obedience to his vow, determined to return to the cottage; and once more he was in the company of Amine.

We must now pass over two months, during which Mynheer Poots continued to labour at his vocation, and was seldom within doors, and our two young personages were left for hours in company. Philip's love for Amine was fully equal to hers for him. It was more than love,—it was a devotion on both sides, each day increasing. Who, indeed, could be more varied, more charming, or more attractive than the highspirited, yet tender Amine. Occasionally the brow of Philip would be clouded when he reflected upon the dark prospect before him; but Amine's smile would chase away the gloom, and, as he gazed on her, all would be forgotten. Amine made no secret of her attachment; it was shown in every word, every look, and every gesture. When Philip would take her hand, or encircle her waist with his arm, or even when he pressed her coral lips, there was no pretence of coyness on her part. She was too noble, too confiding, she felt that her happiness was centred in his love, and she lived but in his presence. Two months had thus passed away, when Father Seysen, who often called, and had paid much attention to Amine's instruction, one day came in as Amine was encircled in Philip's arms.

"My children," said he, " I have watched you some time;-this is not well. Philip, if you intend marriage, as I presume you do, still it is dangerous. I must join your hands."

Philip started up.

"Surely I am not deceived in thee, my son," continued the Priest, in a severe tone.