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wished to see? I communicated my thoughts to him. He answered,

“ All times are alike to me, and a spiritual existent knows not the distinction of light or darkness. We will therefore postpone it; speak when you wish me to fulfil my promise; and, in the mean while, we will pass the time by looking over a few of ny favourite authors;" and he unlocked, as he spoke, the glass-doors that sheltered his volumes. He spoke of the authors that we opened like a scholar and a man of feeling. I was delighted with his remarks, and had almost forget the object which had led ine there, when the deepening tinge of the sunbeams shining through the casement warned me of the approach of evening. I was ashamed of having so delayed, fearful of the imputation of irresolution. I shut the book I held, and looked at my unknown acquaintance. A look was enough for him.

“Be it so," said he; “name the individual, and he shall

appear."

We were arrived at a crisis—a fearful one I felt it. The firmness, which a moment before I flattered myself that I possessed, vanished at the near approach of the moment which should place me in contact with a being of another nature, one, too, whom, of all the creatures of the earth, I had known, and loved, and cherished. I felt a fearful oppression of the heart, my limbs were chill and trem-' bling, and the power of speech well nigh deserted me.

My conductor observed my confusion, and begged to defer the experiment, or to abandon it, if I wished, altogether. I refused to postpone it, and summoning all my strength, I loosed the bonds that enchained my tongue, and spoke the name of the dead.

Oh God! I spoke her name, and she sat before me as when on earth—as beautiful, and those eyes so deeply dark, shining upon me with all the gentle fire, the fond affection that illumined them in her days of youth and early blessedness. I strove in vain to touch her hand, to feel if what I saw was indeed my I dare not write the word-or but a dream--a vision; and the face smiled a melancholy smile, and the eyes shone, and the lips moved-she spoke !—I felt that voice again; I shrieked her namemy eyes were blind my limbs were nerveless, but my ears still for a moment drank in the heaven of that sound, as I fell, void of sense and consciousness, to the earth.

I was still lying on the spot where I had dropped down, when I recovered, and found myself alone. Of the stranger who had conducted me there I could perceive no trace, and I endeavoured in vain to remember what part he had taken in the scene which had so strongly affected me. I had some recollection of his raising his hand to his eyes, and moving his lips like a man absorbed in deep meditation; but of the time or manner of his exit I could form no conjecture.

I left the room, and descended into a garden by which the house was almost surrounded. The blush of the sky above me, deepening, as it neared to the skirts of the horizon, to a glow as of a burning furnace, that lent to every pale-leafed flower and wandering rivulet a tinge of its own rich hue~the mellow song of lingering birds--and the full, cool, exquisite freshness of the air, all spoke the eloquence of evening, and cast a veil of melancholy placidity over the troubled feelings with which I was agitated.

I leaned against a lime-tree, and looked round on the peacefulness of Nature. My thoughts were with other and happier times, my meditations were sad, but not bitter,--there was one image that had been painfully recalled to my memory, and a thousand fond associations started up and played around the recollection. I was startled from a reverie like this by the sound of an approaching footstep. It was a servant of the house, who delivered me a letter, which was as follows:

"I have performed my undertaking ; do you remember the obligation of my promise? It is near to impossible that we shall ever meet again. If it should happen otherwise, remember you are to make no enquiries. Speak no word of this to any one, forget what has been, and be content. Your friend

I was dissatisfied and uneasy. I inquired after him, but could obtain no information of his name, occupation, or residence. The people with whom he lodged either knew or would discover nothing. He came occasionally, they said, for a month or two, and then departed. His books and furniture remained there, but he dwelt in the house not more than a third part of the year. Mystery seemed completely to enshroud him,-a mystery which remained uncleared to this time, for I have neither seen nor heard tidings of the stranger since

I left Mantua the day but one following, and returned to England.

[Strange and improbable as this narrative may appear, and impossible as may seem the conjuring up of the dead, we are acquainted with more than one individual in England, who place implicit belief in its possibility: and these are not ignorant or illiterate men, but persons of education, and moving in a highly respectable sphere of society. One gentleman, indeed, is an old lieutenant in the navy, and adds to his other accomplishments, no small knowledge of astrology casting nativities with great facility, and unerring accuracy. The instrument, through which, our friend, aforesaid, “calls up spirits from the vasty earth,is the Beryl, or magic mirror,-aided of course, by the necessary incantation. It is unnecessary to add, that we have never had the courage to put his power to the proof.--EDITOR.]

THE GIFT TO MARY,
When o'er the fading earth chill winter throws

The dusky border of his kingly robe
Thro the deep forest, hark, the north wind blows,

As if 'twould read in twain the trembling globe.

See the fierce lightning's flash from pole to pole ;

While distant yet, the coming tempests moan-
I heed them not, nor hear the thunders roll;

For every thought is fixed on thee alone.
Oh misery! oh grief! that heart's decay

Which gnaws and cankers most in solitude,
Where the despairing soul to quiet may

With most intensity o'er sorrow brood;
Oft have I writhed beneath thine iron hand,

Oft hast thou wrung from me the bursting groan-
One thought o'er every ill yet held command,

That thought was fixed on thee, on thee alone.
Pale sickness on my frame hath laid her spell,

Pain yet hath added to my gathering care ;
From my lone head the uneasy pillow fell,

And not a hand again to place it there:
Yet rose my soul, superior to all

The ills which cling around me as a zone;
On thy loved name I still essayed to call,

On thee my thoughts were fixed, on thee alone.
Blest ray of heayenly light, which fits across,

The murky surface of the bruised soul,
Relieves the sick, who groaning, restless toss

Unsoothed by skill, unlulled by drugged bowl;
Daughter of Heaven ! Fair Hope! look down on me,

Deign to be mine awhile, make me thine own;
Mary! let me transfer the gift to thee,

My hopes and wishes--all are thine alone.

TYRO.

FORGIVENESS.

Sweet is health restored
Sweet to the mariner his native shore
And sweet the lotus-dew that saves from death
The in Columbian wilds ;--
But o ! more sweet is mercy's pardoning glanco
To him who has offended and who sorrow's!

The very act of reconciliation is holy-has a most consoling reference to the divine tragedy-proclaims with an eloquent though “a still small voice,” the triumph of human tenderness over the infernal malignity of revenge—and justifies anticipations the most blissful ;-for we are instructed to invoke compassion in the ratio that we extend it, and Heber beautifully announces, in one of his inimitable hymns, “ Forgive, and thou shalt be forgiven." The author may truly add, that one of the most exquisite luxuries he ever knew, was that of pardoning a man by whom he had been deeply injured. And even now, after an interval of fifteen years, the remembrance of it is delightful! How different, however, are those enjoyments in which the sensualist indulges? They are indeed TRANSIENT blisses : which—(as brilliant but impermanent dew-drops on the violet melt into thin and intangible vapour before the orb of day,)-recede into distance and become critemptible, when contemplated through the optics of reflection.

T.

TO BARTHOLOMEW THOMKINSON.

Second Mate to the East India ShipPeggy."

From Betsey

No! no! no joy will I be at
No balls for me, without my Bat-

My heart I think will burst one!
And must you, Bat, submit to fate,
And be the Peggy's second mate,

Instead of Betsy's first one ?

And you must leave your home again,
For seas that rage “ with might and main,"

And gales all wild and windy ;
You must give up your Margate trip,
And go in that tremendous ship,-

And all the way to Indy!

And this for money !-dirty dross !
A rolling stone collects no moss,"

As Sisyphus can tell you :-.
Well, well, good-bye! my little man,
Write me as often as you can

Of every thing befell you.

You first must to Madeira go-
0! apropos ! do let me know,

In case the compass varies,
And takes you to Canary Isles,
(The map don't make it many miles :)

Are all the birds Canaries?

Be careful how you pass “ the line”—
Though now it must be quite a twine,

So many vessels trouble it!
And mind you clear “the Cape"-(what stuff!
As if the Cape were'nt large enough,

That you must go and double it!)

If you would stop there, where the wine,
You must be sure is genu-ine,

Of course you'll buy a dozen;
Next parcel that you're sending home,
Please let one nice pint bottle come,

For Mrs. Smith--my cousin.
Dear Bat! take care, when you

embark
At Indy, of that nasty shark

That steals, so sligh and stealthy ;
For Dr. Shaw, the traveller, writes,
A full-grown shark's enormous bite's

Peculiarly unhealthy!

Do crocodiles there squeal and squall ?
And those great elephants-are all

Cut up for Indy-rubber?
And do the whales, big babies! cry
Fountains of tears from either eye

When you produee their blubber?
Alas! I fear when you arrive
At Indy (if you do alive),

Your love will soon grow duller ;
Ah! you yourself, I'm certain, you,
Chameleon-like, will change your hue,

And catch the copper-colour!
Oh! Bat! for your Betsey's sake,
Keep clear of tiger, jungle, snake,

Heat, cholera, and river !
“ Live and let live"—is sage advice,
My dearest boy, you'll not live nice

When you've destroyed your liver !
Soon may you bring, across the seas,
Peru's whole treasure in rupees,

And come back fresh and fat, love ;
But should you die (perhaps you will),
Better lie quiet there, and still,

Do'nt be a vampire, Bat, love.

MEMOIRS OF THE TOWER OF LONDON.

Ushered into the world with the following apposite line from Shakspeare, “I am come to survey the tower this day,” the volume before us is calculated to afford much rational amusement and information to the general reader. Not confined to the topographer and antiquary only, it is addressed to every class of persons; for the Tower of London has peculiar claims on the attention and curiosity of Englishmen. The young, the old, the rich, the poor, the citizen, and the countryman, have all read or heard something

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