And ancients told, 'twas the requiem dread, for the holy spirits gone: And never might cease, till a mortal bold kept watch on that night alone. O, those bells rang slowly once in a year, And none could list to the sound without fear. Maud-chapel farm was a haunted spot,-to fulfil that dread behest A maiden fair, by the old grey ruin, had once taken up her rest: What befel there on that stormy night, was never to mortal told; The fitful silvery chimes were heard—the maiden was dead and cold. O, those bells rang slowly once in a year, And none could list to the sound without fear. THE RETURNED PICTURE. BY MRS. EDWARD THOMAS. C. A. M. W. "Thy mother's picture I have kissed, "Dear saint! how much to her I owe: "Such treasure I should envy thee, Her image e'en more striking drew. D D "Within my heart it is encased, For me and angels to adore; Oh! never more to be effaced, Till that fond heart can love no more." "I bring the picture back to thee, To learn where thy sweet lips did rest; "Wondrous that e'en th' insensate shade, That warm, resuscitating kiss "Would me awaken-me revive, Dissolve cold dissolution's chill; Oh, ev'ry pulse become alive, Beneath its tenderness to thrill. "Those lips will never condescend "Pardon the hope-forgive the thought; "O, heav'n! upon it there's a tear! As happiness approaches near, I faint upon its flow'ry brink. "I deemed that nothing could increase "Hath gemmed the shade, its kiss had made "Yet, lavish all not on the dead, One tear-if not a kiss-but one; As kindly, as benignly shed, For that mourned mother's living son. How rash we grow in our despair, Oh, let me, for my mother's sake!" Look down from heav'n, sweet mother, now; Didst learn my young heart's truest vow." They almost consciousness destroy, "And this was one. Her tear, her kiss, No more denied, but freely granted; Confirmed the too seraphic bliss, For which my heart so long had panted." THE SECRETARY. A NOVEL. BY THE AUTHOR OF THE ROCK,' GUARDS, HUSSARS, AND INFANTRY, THE BEAUTY OF THE RHINE," ETC., ETC., ETC. 99 66 CHAPTER I. 66 Alas, poor Yorick! I knew him, Horatio, a fellow of infinite jest, of most excellent fancy. Where be your jibes now? your gambols? your songs? your flashes of merriment, that were wont to set the table in a roar?"-HAMLET. It was a cold, dreary night, in the latter end of November; the wind and sleet rattled at short intervals sharply against the windows of the dismal looking houses, and the water, rushing impetuously down the channels on either side the streets, easily overcame all obstacles placed to impede its progress. The faint glimmer from the lamps on Westminster bridge flickered feebly in the storm, as though undetermined whether to continue the unequal contest with the elements, or to expire without further struggle. A thick fog was rapidly obscuring the few objects yet distinguishable through the gloom; the pavement was nearly impassable, and, altogether, the night exhibited every appearance of wretchedness, cold, and discomfort, which the uncongenial season of the year could possibly furnish. But few individuals were visible in the streets, and those whom business or necessity forced abroad, glided swiftly to the place of their destination, muffled to the utmost of their ability, in hopes of being thereby protected against the inclemency of the weather; and, frequently, the loud slamming of distant doors, as the halfdrenched persons regained their houses, proclaimed the willingness with which they exchanged the exposure to the shower for the comfortable blaze of their own firesides. Nevertheless, there were some poor sufferers, to whom the luxury of a plentiful repast and sufficient clothing had been long denied, and who might-at the period of which we are writing-have been observed crouching beneath the insufficient protection of a doorway, which trifling shelter proved but a poor alleviation to their miseries. Huddled together, their teeth chattering with cold, these unhappy creatures would ofttimes gaze upon the windows of the opposite mansions, from whence issued the reflection of the cheering fire, while ever and anon a slight figure glided by the casement, and for an instant obscuring the light, involuntarily caused them to draw the heartrending comparison between the happy lot vouchsafed to their fellow mortals, and that which their miserable destiny had decreed them to undergo. The clocks had just struck eleven-the shops were closedand as the wind rather increased than otherwise, there seemed but small prospect of the usual noise and excitement—which, in that populous district, commonly prevail-being resumed during the night. Now and then, the sound of approaching carriage wheels was borne indistinctly on the blast; and from amid the hazy atmosphere, the outlines of two miserable looking horses, impelled by a half drowned coachman, passing on their homeward career, gave indication that the causeway was not wholly deserted. But as the night advanced, the appearance even of a hackney coach, drawn sluggishly along by its poor jaded animals, became less frequent; and at length, the rumbling of the crazy vehicles was heard no more, and all sound of mortality died away. As the wind rose, the dark clouds partially separated, and occasionally the moon, struggling to cast her light through the dense atmosphere, for an instant shed a sickly beam on the cold, deserted pavement, and immediately sunk into her former obscurity. It was during one of these intervals, when the storm was temporarily lulled, as if to gather fresh strength for a renewal of its fury, that a person was seen to issue from a gloomy passage, leading out of Green-street, and wrapping the shawl which she carried, closely around her, hurried towards the broader thoroughfare of Higlers Lane. Now and then the figure stopped, as if irresolute how to proceed, and frequently on approaching a door, which apparently she had been anxious to reach, she turned away with a gesture of impatience, which clearly demonstrated the disappointment she experienced, at finding the habitation closed for the night. More than once the figure raised the ponderous brass knocker which ornamented one of the most conspicuous houses in the street, but as it fell from her hand, the dismal echo of the noise reverberating through the neighbourhood, was the only result of her exertion. Wearied with fruitless endeavours to obtain admission where she had sought it, she hurried across the Borough-road, when observing a light in Market-street, she instantly directed her steps thither. Fortunately for the wanderer, the light proceeded from a window, in which were displayed bottles and jars of various shapes and sizes, containing liquids, of all colours imaginable, and in fact, at that hour, it would have been as hopeless as vain to have expected to find any, save an apothecary's abode, illuminated and open; nor would this lucky chance have occurred, had not the worthy disciple of Esculapius been but recently returned from some professional occupation, which he had found more in accordance with his duty than his inclination to attend to. The gentleman in question was in the act of divesting himself of a large coat, thoroughly saturated with rain, when a knock at the street door speedily dissolved all the anticipations of immediate comfort, which his blazing fire, and ready prepared repast, seemed to promise. It was therefore with no complacent feeling, or benevolent intent, that he proceeded to question his midnight visitor, as to the cause of being summoned at so unseasonable a time; and had his sense of duty permitted, he would most gladly have retired further into his domicile, and allowed the unwelcome applicant to seek for medical aid at the hands of some other practitioner; but in the present case this was not to be thought of, for, owing to the neglect of his assistant in not having closed the shutters of his dwelling, he well knew that the before-mentioned |