How mournful is it to realize the truth that Death, the slayer, has laid his cold finger upon the young and beautiful, and swept them from the earth forever. It is mournful at all times! but when his dread wing has been flapped over those with whom we were associated by the deep feelings of natural affection, or the tender ties of love, it is doubly mournful! How mournful and how bitter is it to enter the darkened chamber, and mark the awful change that has passed over forms which, perchance, on yesterday moved gaily and happily down the great stream of life-to behold the lip on whose words we lingered, mute and still-the heart, whose beatings were all in unison with our own, motionless and calm-the hand, with whose every touch we were familiar, dull and heavy-the pulse that swelled in warmth and freedom, throbbing no more the eye, whose glance had often met our own, glazed and fixed-the smile that once interpreted our lightest wish, departed—the brow cold—the breath choked, and the frame pressed in the mouldering coffin, where the worm will feed upon it, and where the cold damp earth will rot and decay it. will know no voice until awakened in a brighter world. Peace to that young heart-rest to that fair form! The wife and the mother sat there. She was so no longer. Many trials had she gone throughthese were the heaviest,-many afflictions had she passed by-these were the bitterest. The window at which Mrs. Morton sat, commanded a view, which at that hour might well have attracted her attention. But her thoughts flowed in a far different channel. The themes on which she mused, were dark and melancholy; and as they, one by one, glided before her, and gave way but to new doubts and fears, the tears of affliction gushed from her eyes, and swept, drop by drop, down her pale cheeks. There comes an hour to all, when hope, though an evergreen, blooms in vain-or blooming, as it springs up is withered by the hot winds of despair! It was the morning of the day on which she was to witness the remains of her husband and her daughter placed in the grave. Many were already gathered around the house. As she sat in the recess of the low window of the room, and looked forth upon the people beneath, their words reached her ears. They were speaking of the child's death, and alluding to its guiltless murderer. "Of what country was he?" inquired one. "What was his name?" asked another. Mrs. Morton heard no more. At the mention of that name, a sudden dizziness came over her, and she swooned away. ciated, came next, with slow and measured tread. Next came a great number of little children, the ac chanting, as they walked along, a low and plaintive song, and at moments changing the air to one thrillingly sweet and touching, which sounded like tones of hope bursting on the despairing mind; then could be seen an immense multitude of citizens drawn together in sympathy for the survivor. The funeral procession swept on. First came the bier, drawn by two black horses, and surmounted by dark and gloomy plumes; then followed the principal mourner, with the relatives of the deceased. The There was sorrow and death in the dwelling of Mor-venerable clergy, with whom Morton had been assoton. It was a strange contrast between the joy and brightness of the outward scene, and the gloom and sadness of that house of mourning. Sweetly and beauti-quaintances and schoolmates of the deceased daughter, fully had the light of another day trembled from the distant portals of the east upon the earth. That light streamed through the closed curtains of the chamber, and fell upon a bed on which lay the unconscious dead-the father and the child. Though the death of the former had been a violent one, he seemed to have passed away without much pain. His features were calm and settled-the hands, that had performed many kind deeds, hung heavily at his side-the eyes, that had looked love and affection, were dull and rayless-the form, that had moved among the living but a few hours previous, in manly pride, had returned to senseless clay and the young girl, that Francis Armine had innocently robbed of life and sent to her long resting place ere the world had withered her affections, seemed That funeral train was a melancholy spectacle. The as though she had fallen into a gentle slumber. How dreary bier with its death-like plumes—the mourners— many sweet thoughts went down with that beautiful the clergy-the children, and the long line of citizens, child to the voiceless grave! Thoughts of home-of as well as the perfect silence that reigned around, renhappiness-of joy, and peace,--thoughts, that may not dered it sacred and solemn to the most unfeeling specyet have burst forth, and awaited but some genial tator. The song of the children had ceased-the cry of touch, to make them flow like cooling waters from the the mourners could not be heard, and the whisperings rock of old,-thoughts of love and affection, that had of the assembled multitude were hushed. All was not yet clustered around that pure mind—and that, alas! I still—awfully still-within the city of the dead. The And thus the procession moved on. It had swept through the streets of Paris-thronged with awestricken spectators--and wherever it moved, the gay laugh of life was stilled, and the hum of business was hushed. Already had it passed through the city and reached the heights of Charron, on which is situated that quiet resting place-the last and silent home of the illustrious and noble dead-Pere la Chaise. VOL. IV-88 mourners stood around the graves-the coffins were lowered the earth was dropped upon them, but its hollow sound could scarce be heard amid the loud and piercing lament that then went up as if from every lip. And now the vast crowd of carriages and foot passengers moved homewards-stream upon stream rushed from the heights of Charron, down towards Paris, and in a short time nearly all of that dense and serried crowd had disappeared. he would'nt make such a sorry spectacle of a friend who has served him like a brave fellow through all his little sprees, and so forth, on the road." "He would though. To be sure he was very easy, when our company first selected him; but splice me if he has'nt become the tightest rogue that ever backed a horse in the glance of old Oliver. He shot that great preacher the other night who was buried to-day; and, I'm told, has said that he intended to quit us. France is getting too hot for him, and he'd better leave it." The robbers became silent, for the person of whom they were speaking, had joined them. He was about the middle height, of a sinewy frame, and presented altogether a brave and chivalric bearing, well calculated for the situation of captain of the followers of Robin Hood. "Ha! Captain Montanvers." "Well, my merry men, how fares the lady since I left her?" "Better, far better, captain," replied Allen. "Hush! hush, man-not so loud. Go you Allen to the common yonder, and inform me when any traveller comes in sight. I have suspicions that some one has blabbed on us-go you-quick." And he departed, chanting such rude ditties as this, as he walked along But Mrs. Morton, overcome with fatigue and sorrow, sat in her carriage alone, and moved slowly towards the city. She seemed lingering to gaze upon that spot to which the living never turn save in sadness. At this time a change came over the scene. The clouds that had before passed along silent and unnoticed, now swept swiftly over the southern part of the sky. A low yet distant thunder was heard-the air, before refreshing, now became sultry and oppressive-and then suddenly the bending pines gave warning that the tempest would follow. And it did come. Masses of thickened clouds rushed in gloomy ranks up the heavens, and contended, like giant gladiators, in the savage and convulsive struggle-nearer and nearer shouted the thunder-swifter and swifter flashed the manyforked lightning, and darkness mantled the outstretched wall of heaven-above and about the earth it descended in one far-spreading intense banner of gloomwhen the spirit of the tempest moved abroad, and shook out his rainy shroud upon the earth, and fast and fiercely Some time elapsed ere Mrs. Morton was conscious of it poured and fell. It lasted but for a short time, and her situation. During the night she had talked and ere it came again, a horseman dashed by the carriage raved and suffered-she had, in her delirium, spoken of of Mrs. Morton. As he passed, the whole earth was events and named names, which none but the captain lighted up with an intense and brilliant glare. That of whom we have spoken knew, and which of course light enabled Mrs. Morton clearly to see the horse-none but him understood. When she awoke, daylight man. As she did so, a gladness beamed upon her was streaming into the window of a room of which she melancholy countenance. Her heart was in her eyes; was the only occupant. She looked around, and wonand as they gazed, the warm tears of joy fell uncon-dered where she was, and then her recollection returned, sciously from them. "Do I dream? No-no! It is and all the grief that had weighed upon her spirit again him! That form, I could never forget it! Would that came rushing back like the chilling waters of some he were nearer! Would that I could again hear his mighty stream. voice! I will!-I will!" At that instant the carriage struck violently against a huge rock in the road, and suddenly overset. The boy driver, escaping unhurt from the vehicle, hastened to assist Mrs. Morton, and found her thrown some distance from the seat and senseless. "Softly, softly-here approaches the captain. Should he witness your mutinous arm raised so high, be sure he'd tear it off and beat you to death with the bloody stump," said a little man, evidently of the lowest order, to one of the same stamp, as they stood in the door of a small house on the road side, near Paris. "Hist!" returned the companion, looking at the captain, who was near the house; and sinking his voice, "Allen, you sly dog, the captain may be tyrannical, but "Much sweeter than honey "Where am I?" cried she, rising from the bed. "My brother-my brother--surely I have seen him. No!-it was but a dream!" A man entered-it was Allen. "Your service, madam,” said he, bowing low. The captain asked me to thank you for your condescension in honoring his humble roof, and says your carriage is now at the door, which, thinking you might wish to return to your home early, he had sent to the village and repaired." "Thanks--many thanks--it is already late, and I will start immediately. To whom do I owe this hospitality." 'Why, madam, it was nothing but right-seeing that the night was dark and stormy, and your carriage broke down. I hope your ladyship was not hurt, although you looked awful pale when we found you. This is captain Montanvers' house, and I am sure that any one in distress is welcome here." "Could I see that gentleman, and thank him personally for his kindness?" asked she. “Oh! no, madam: the captain is-is unwell;" and as he spoke he walked towards the door. The lady folI ⚫ The moon. lowed, and was soon in her carriage and on her way | hypocrisy. At that age, when the flower of the heart back to Paris. Montanvers stood in a side door where he could not be seen, and watched the receding form of his guest, until the carriage moved away. "I would not see her," muttered he, "fearful that she would know me. Now for Paris. My brave men," said he, addressing some dozen men who were lolling on the green sward before him, "I am about leaving you for a short time, and when I again join you I trust that all suspicions, which have arisen of late from our bold manœuvres, may be lulled, and that I may return, favored by that fortune which always favors the brave and the bold." So saying, he took up his way towards the city. had not been cropped by the influence of debased associates, he had displayed a cunning, which at school won for him a reputation among his classmates, which, with the natural bent of his mind, tended to unfit him in after life for that straight path which alone leads to happiness and peace. Was there an orchard to rob, or a bird's nest to plunder, or an "affair" to manage, Henry was the chosen one. In his eye was the subtle fire-in his tongue was the oily eloquence-and in his arm was the ready movement, which suited well the leader of a band of reckless schoolboys. At twentyone he had grown prodigiously vain--swore that youth was the time for pleasure-old age the time for repentance and soberness--that England was too small for an ambitious gentleman--that the world--the great and boundless world, was the fit arena for any but a coatless curate, or a simple squire; for such as him, the drawing-room of the world, and the huzzas of crowds, the only scene, and the only triumph. He accordingly scorned all occupations, wherewith to gain an honest independence, and travelled. As a matter of course his purse grew as light as his conscience, both of which were melting away very fast. In a little time he was seen in Florence, without money, and of course, from his former habits, without friends. Every day his situation was becoming more unplea sant. He was in the midst of plenty, and lived from hand to mouth, until starvation stared him in the face. One evening, at the solicitation of his only remaining acquaintance, (the rest had cut him-Oh, money, thou god!) he was induced to enter a well known roulette club in Florence. He sat down, and lost and lost again; and borrowed and lost again. He was now in debt several hundred pounds. To extricate himself he borrowed again, and again lost. He was not only bankrupt; he was deeply involved, and in a strange and Behold Montanvers in the full flush of Parisian life! Full of crimes and vices he had again been elevated to that station which he had before forfeited. His brightest hopes had been realized, and encased as was his conscience in a hardy stoicism, which even the sharp tooth of remorse sometimes fails to penetrate, he again moved among the great herd and seemed above them. Again in the society of the refined--respected by the men-sought after by the women, we turn to contem-friendless city. What was he to do? He looked plate him. And some will ask, did none of those crimes that stood out boldly on the pages of the past-crimes of manifold natures, which the mind would shudder to contemplate-did they never arise before him to check the full tide of his longings, or sweep away the aspirations of a reckless and a darkened heart, and a rayless and perverted mind? They did! Vice is, has been, and ever will be, pursued by that unpitying monitor, memory, or haunted by that scourging avenger, conscience. When we err for once, we err forever. When we commit one dark crime, we secure to ourselves a doom more terrible, a fate more awful than he who signed the death-bond with his reeking blood. And why is this? Because the memory is undying, and the images which it brings up, for good or for evil, are its only "still small voices" to comfort or to damn the possessor-to the one, it brings sweet incense--on the other, it inscribes in every lineament, as with the fangs of scorpions" Beware." Montanvers had passed the Rubicon of crime, with a bold and daring stride, and was now an outlaw of virtue, to be shunned by man kind, as the brave mountaineer shuns the evil shape of the omened wraith. around the room and all shunned him. Delirious from his many losses he left the club, sought his own room, and opening his pistol case, loaded one, with which he was about to blow out his brains, when it was wrested from his hands. He turned, and beheld in the intruder, his acquaintance of the club. "Montanvers," said he, "I have come to relieve you. You are deeply in debt-you want money. An old gentleman of wealth has just been informed of his wife's illness in a neighboring town, and starts to-night to see her. He carries a large quantity of money with him-the night is dark.” He consented to accompany him, and share the spoils. He went-the robbery was committed-the old man, who had once been an intimate friend of his, recognized him, and threatened him with exposure—it cost him his life; and with that deed commenced a long series of crimes too appalling for narration. And now behold him moving among the polished and the refined. Success had crowned his villanies, and he was again enabled to throw aside the costume of the outlaw robber, and assume that of the humble citizen-his former mode of life unknown and unsuspected, save by one-and to silence that one, was one of the objects of his present disguise. Henry Montanvers had been reared in the midst of opulence. He was an only child, and was remarkable, On the day succeeding the date of our last chapter, when a boy, for quickness of invention and consummate Henry Montanvers (we will not trouble the reader with his various aliasès,) was to be seen moving | proceeded back to Paris. Who can tell the fearful through the most solitary part of the suburbs of Paris. thoughts that came over that stern man, as he threaded The path which he had selected was private and secluded, and passed through a thick and dark wood. He had strolled alone for some time, with seeming carelessness, and was then near the centre of the wood, when he espied a hat hanging on a bush-he approached with a slow and noiseless tread, and beheld through the thick clustering trees the object of his search, Lucien Andeli, laying on the grass, in so deep a study as not to notice his approach. Andeli was alone, and was unconscious of every thing but his own thoughts, when suddenly a ball aimed by an unseen hand, whirled by him and lodged in the trunk of a tree by his side. He turned to the place from which he heard the report of the pistol, as it was discharged at him, and beheld a tall athletic figure, but the place was so dark that he could not recognize the features, and could scarcely see the face of his foe. He did not wait for a deadlier aim, but sprang forward, and in another instant that foe staggered from the effects of a heavy and well directed blow, and fell to the earth. A glance sufficed to show Andeli that he stood before Montanvers. "I spare you, sir,” said Andeli, in a tone that went to the heart of his foe-"I spare you, sir, as much as you deserve death, to reflect, ere you again stain your hands with blood. From me you have nothing to fear; but I warn you now to urge me no more to arrogate to myself that diviner power which sooner or later must overtake you. Great Heavens! I pray that this unhappy man may have atoned for his many errors and crimes, ere he enters the presence of an awful but a just GOD! Go, Montanvers! go, and search the dark labyrinths of crime and sin, through which you have already passed, and pause amid the desolation and the ruin that you have wrought, and be warned by one who was once your best friend, of the miserable doom that awaits you in another world. Pause and reflect, if but for an instant, and you are saved!" "Lucien Andeli," was his only reply, spoken in a harsh and hoarse voice, as he glared upon him, “I have failed this once, but your doom is fixed! Look-look! I swear it!" Montanvers had arisen, and was retracing his steps from the wood, when he turned and gazed in the face of Andeli. "Remember, Lucien Andeli," he said, in a voice almost choked with passion, "your doom is fixed. By Hell! I will have your heart's best blood! I have sworn it!" his way through the streets of that city? Who can say what were the elements that then struggled in that fierce heart? Who can paint the terrible passions that nerved that fore-dooming hand? None should try it. Those fiery and savage passions were raging within, concealed by a mighty effort, and traced not on a haughty brow and a reckless lip. "Andeli, Andeli !" muttered he, as he walked along. "Curses on him! He knows me well, and has already upbraided me. Ever since that fearful deed, that be alone knows of, that accursed name has been a dark cloud upon my life-the blighter of my sweetest dreams-the destroyer of my brightest aspirings. Andeli! how the very name festers upon my tongue-it rings in my ear like a death knell! It must not be. He dies! Another, and yet another, to the long list, and I can live undisturbed. To kill him-to take with his own another's life-psha! it were easier to-down, conscience! He must die! Will I do the deed? And she— ha! I will have most sweet revenge! If he lives I am forfeited to eternal disgrace. I'll crush him—but the means-the means." He entered one of the news-rooms, to be met with in almost every street of Paris, and had scarcely seated himself, when the Evening Courier, one of the best papers of that day, was thrown into the door. He snatched the paper up-in those times as in the present, newspapers were the only link that connected mankind with the great, tumultuous, ever-changing world-and had glanced over the columns, when the following words met his eye: "ARRIVAL OF FRANCIS ARMINE. "Most of our readers are, perhaps, aware that this distinguished gentleman has arrived in our city. For a more complete notice of his arrival, we refer them to an editorial in yesterday's paper, detailing all the circumstances that occurred to him, as well as the accident near L'Etoil, which, at that time, created the deepest sensation amongst our citizens. We are, however, happy to learn, that the excitement then evinced has passed away, and sincerely trust that it shall not become our painful duty to notice, as public journalists, any further outbreak of our citizens against the innocent offender, whom, with a complete knowledge of all the circumstances of the accident, we do not hesitate to pronounce entirely guiltless. "Postscript. Since the above was in type, we have learned from a secret source that the object of the preAnd he moved away. His hatred towards Andeli sent visit of this talented gentleman is, if possible, to had not been of a moment's growth. They had in hear of a sister whose mysterious disappearance from early life been rivals, and Andeli the successful. It her home we recorded some five years since. It was was a hatred that one day will not bring forth, but like then supposed by some that she had been murdered, the poisonous flower that grows in the east in the dark-and that measures had been taken to thwart all endeaest caves, requiring years to unfold, slowly, but surely, vors to find out her fate. We trust, however, that its deadly leaves. It had sprang up in the lonely those suppositions were incorrect, and that the brother recesses of a morbid heart, and was kept there uncon- and the sister may yet be united." sumed and nourished in the general wreck, as the mother might nourish her youngest idol in the darkness of a remorseless pestilence, Andeli knew this, and despite his bravery almost shuddered as he heard that voice. The day was drawing to its close when Montanvers Montanvers read this over several times, and with the names and events spoken of by Mrs. Morton, during her delirium at his house, revolved over, he arose from his seat. When he did so it was with a prouder tread. A sudden hope had flashed across him-the dark frown departed from his brow, and his whole countenance was animated with a glow of triumph. | too, had he loved so wildly as he did now-never, as Fate did indeed befriend him! the young painter-boy, had he dreamed over a gentler or a warmer feeling than that which now intoxicated him! "Ha! well counselled," thought he, gliding from the room into the open streets again. "The means 1 have. Andeli, from you I will indeed have nothing to fear. I crush that one, and the vine that has twined its tendrils around it, falls too. Tremble thou, Andeli, for now thou art doomed." Plot on-plot on-dark man! Weave the web around the innocent, but be sure that thou art not thyself caught! Fly swiftly on the wings of mighty mischief! Make sure thy footsteps on the topmost crag of the precipice; for if thou fallest, farewell ye laurels, and a long farewell ye myrtles! CHAPTER X. They met, all innocence-and hope--and youth: "Mine own Meta-my beautiful-my adored," whispered Andeli, drawing her small and snowy hand within his own. "Your song is sweeter than when you sang it in the golden past." "Why should it not be? It is sung to you-and saving you I have none to cling to in the wide world." "None-none! Your's may be a bitter fate, Meta." "Not while you are with me." "And have you never tired of me?" "Ask the flower if it wearies of the light." "I am happy indeed." "And I am doubly so." "But come, dearest, let's to yon shadowy banks and enjoy the hour." And they sallied to the spot that Andeli had re And all their words were thoughts,their thoughts pure truth: marked. The sun was sinking in the west, and poured Every new day that pass'd, pass'd them the fleeter, And hours though sweet, were chased by hours still sweeter: "Making sweet music while the young leaves danced;" and those green, green leaves, were vocal with the hum of insects and the song of birds. Far, far away, opened one of the richest landscapes of that lovely clime, valley and plain, and woods and waters, bounded by a faint, blue outline of numerous vine-clad hills, which lay in quiet relief against a most brilliant sky. And that sky, that unrivalled, deep blue sky, was without a mist or color-save where in the far west it touched a bed of clear and limpid water-and there it was glowing with those purple and golden tints, which, reflected over that enchanted earth, add much to the beauty and loveliness of a sweet summer evening. On such an evening Meta sat with Andeli in their cottage. The little fountain still threw up its sparkling waters, that fell in showers upon the rich and odorous turf near the door of the cottage, and the bright stream still swept through woods and vales, and groves, and wending gracefully around the home of the lovers-as if it too desired to sweeten the moments of such pure and hallowed loves-wandered on to yield its tribute of waters to the imperial Seine. its golden light along the tops of the tall and noble trees, leaving the mossy turf beneath shadowy and pleasant. "What a delightful evening is this!" said Andeli, "how calm-how lovely! There-there, by that light you look younger than ever." They had seated themselves on the fresh turf under the shadow of the old trees. Before them was the little white cottage-the cottage of love. Ah! if those walls had tongues, how sweet the tales they'd tell. Around them arose the murmur of nature, sweeter than love's first whispered tones-the breath of leaves-the tinkling sigh of the sparkling waves-what music for the young lovers was here! "Meta," said Andeli, drawing that slight and beautiful form nearer to him, "I remember that on such an evening as this, some two months gone, you promised me your history-I fain would hear it now, sweetest." "Yes, Lucien, yes! it is right that you should hear it," replied Meta, "and now, even on this lovely spot, and by this softened light, I'll tell you. I will not dwell long, dear Lucien, upon such painful memories-my life is all sunshine now." She looked sweetly up from the breast of her lover, on which she had cast herself, and thus began: META'S HISTORY. "I was born on the borders of Tuscany. You might have traversed all Italy for a more beautiful spot in vain. Nature seems to have enriched that region with the loveliest objects in her great store-house-bright, green earth-perfumed air-transparent water-dreamlike skies. "After a youth spent in travel and dissipation, my father returned to his home, and married the daughter of a noble house, whose lands adjoined his own. Some two years after their marriage they left their first residence, and chose for their retreat the spot on the borders of Tuscany, where I was born. At my birth my mother died, and my father-who desired that the first Her lover sat at Meta's feet, and gazed up to that sweet and child-like face, whose every feature seemed yet breathing the song, which a voice marvellously clear and sweet, had just warbled to the accompani- of his children should be of his own sex, and enterment of a harp. Ah! those were happy, happy tained, from the moment that I saw the light, the most moments! They were both young-both the children bitter feelings for me-was plunged still deeper in his of the summer. And that fair, bright creature, how dislike by her death. Never after that event did he deeply, how fondly she loved-how breathlessly shewed another, but living in seclusion and privacy, strove hung on every tone of that voice! Never-oh, never! to forget that world in which he had once mingled as |