cherubim, or the still deeper music of the silently-adoring seraphs.

Every effort to arouse her of course failed; Burton when assured of the result merely said, "Poor Helen! I had no idea she cared for him so much;" there was no outward token of his having received a shock; once only his self-command forsook him. As I left him (for I could not go till everything had been tried without success,) he gave me a ghastly look which haunted me for weeks: I would not have had the mind which spoke in that scowl for a thousand-fold his wealth and power. It was as though some fiend were struggling to burst the bars of his beautiful prison and run riot through the world.

Eighteen months later I saw him again, and again by his own invitation. He asked me to come and stay some while with him at his place in Staffordshire, and as the tone of his letter was more earnest than was usual with him, I consented at once, and went down to him. I found him greatly altered. His surpassing beauty was something marred, his person very feeble and emaciated, but his voice and manner were the same as ever, though when he read prayers, as he always did night and morning, I thought I perceived that the former had lost somewhat of its clearness and sweet strength; I could not but see that he had suffered long and severely, though his buoyant and easy talk conveyed the impression of firm health and complete tranquillity. He was evidently sinking into the grave, but whether or not he knew his state I could not divine; he gave no intimation from which I could infer one way or the other.

Some people disbelieve in broken hearts, you shall often hear men, especially young men, sneer and scoff at the very notion; they prove it to be absurd by all manner of

logic; it is contrary to philosophy, to experience, to common sense. "And then they talk-good gods-how they will talk"-it is a "sentimental" view; and that is enough for its condemnation. If forced upon the evidence of facts to admit its occasional reality they set it down to affectation and folly. Sometimes, (which is a deeper scandal) women, in the hope of gaining favour with our sex, will descend to laugh at the weaknessess of their own; to such doubtless of either sex this sketch will appear untrue and foolishI cannot argue with them-I never could reason, I must be contented to assert. I say then, that in compound creatures such as we are, made up of soul and body, of mind and matter, it is the higher part of us which has the greatest influence for good or for evil-that the mind can more easily support itself against all the ills of the body, than the body remain unhurt amid the agonizing tortures of the soul; depend upon it, it is not true that our being can remain insensible to assualts upon its nobler and immortal portion. Banish such a belief as heartless, untrue, unphilosophical: believe that men have hearts, that hearts may be broken, and that if they are broken, men will die.

Nature was proving her resistless power before my eyes in the case of Burton. Here was a man who had outraged her in life, but whom she, and she alone was bringing prematurely to his end. As I thought over the evening I had spent with him, I could not for some time realize to myself his state of mind; I found that I should have great difficulty if I ever tried to make others comprehend it, for every man must colour from himself, and no one can describe a feeling without having in his degree felt it; to know evil without experiencing it belongs to One alone. We however must always for the time be

(so to say) the persons we paint, and hence it is that people who forget this, so often accuse others of drawing from themselves, who have either not done so at all, or done it quite unconsciously. In Burton's case however I felt as I say great difficulty-I could not be Burton-I could be the broken-hearted brother. I could be the daringly and intensely wicked man. But the combination of them remained an insoluble problem, an inscrutable mystery. However I have nothing to do with reflection, I have but to narrate.

The next day, as he was talking to one of his servants, Burton broke a blood-vessel, and though he recovered from the accident, his days were numbered. A day or two afterwards he expressed a wish to see me alone. "I wish to say a few words to you before I go," he said, " and my strength will not allow them to be many, about myself and my own character, which I am vain enough to think is rather curious." He then told me that very early in life he had admired the character of Count Cenci in Shelley's drama, and brooded over it, until he felt a desire to reproduce it, with such modifications as the nineteenth century rendered necessary. It must be delightful, he thought, to feel, not like a man, but like a fiend, appointed to chastise the world. The times rendered an assumption of gentleness indispensable to his plan. Under this mask he had gone about doing evil, and every fresh instance of folly and wickedness which he made people commit, added to his scorn and contempt for mankind, and his wish to plague such despicable beings. Some of his details were appalling. Crawford and Helen he had destroyed, not because he peculiarly disliked them, but because love was folly, and to have relented on the ground that one of them was his sister, would have been pitiable

K

weakness. "I am myself an instance," he said, "of the perfect justice of my feelings-I am falling a victim to a sorrow I despise. Count Cenci was a fine fellow, but I am only a poor imitator. I hope I know how to scorn myself for having these feelings, but he really had them not. I am dying broken-hearted, an object, for that very reason, of my own utter hatred, and contempt, and scorn."

"If," he continued, "you should ever mention me, I have no objection to your adding that I can hardly recommend others to follow my example. I can hardly say that I have experienced perfect felicity. I do not know that it has been quite so pleasant as I expected. I do not mean to imply that I think other lines of life would have been better, but I rather suspect that this one has turned out a failure."-" And now, Churchill," he said, after a pause, "you must go. I am obliged to you for having listened so long to words, with which I can hardly think you have much sympathy. I must not exhaust myself with talking--not that it much matters, perhaps, when I die, yet still I would not unnecessarily shorten my stay-good evening to you-I hope my servants make you comfortable." He died the same night.

Did he repent then? I cannot tell. It may be so. I hope he did. I believe he did not-at all events, "he died and made no sign."

Crawford died some years afterwards in Australia. He bore a high character there, and his letters evinced a beautiful spirit. Of course I cannot say farther, as I never saw him again.

The three lie buried many miles away from each other. Burton in Staffordshire, Helen in London, Crawford in Australia. But they will meet one day together, and supreme authority will decide upon their merits. I shall

not anticipate that judgment. Each one may do it for himself if he pleases -I shrink from it.

So ends my tale. The characters will hardly be recognized, yet the record is simple and true. May it not have been told in vain.

THE CHRISTENING OF THE PRINCE OF

WALES.

1.

God speed thee! noble child,

On whom the church hath smiled

Her hopeful smile of stern encouragement;

Now by this festal rite

Panoplied for the fight

In the world's battle-field, go pitch thy tent.

2.

Hard is the spirit's strife,

Deep is the love of life,

And few be they that fathom their own being;

But be thou early wise,

And in thy people's eyes,

Bear arms of faith with this thy cross agreeing.

3.

We would not have thee shame,

Prince of a princely name,

The golden memory of those men of old,