services, the common offices of humanity.

She died uncom

plaining; and this young maid, this untaught Rosamund, might have given a lesson to the grave philosopher in death.

CHAPTER X.

I was but a boy when these events took place. All the village remember the story, and tell of Rosamund Gray and old blind Margaret.

I parted from Allan Clare on that disastrous night, and set out for Edinburgh the next morning, before the facts were commonly known-I heard not of them-and it was four months before I received a letter from Allan.

"His heart," he told me, 66 was gone from him for his sister had died of a phrensy fever!"-not a word of Rosamund in the letter-I was left to collect her story from sources which may one day be explained.

I soon after quitted Scotland, on the death of my father, and returned to my native village. Allan had left the place, and I could gain no information whether he were dead or living.

I passed the cottage. I did not dare to look that way, or to inquire who lived there. A little dog, that had been Rosamund's, was yelping in my path. I laughed aloud like one mad, whose mind had suddenly gone from him—I stared vacantly around me, like one alienated from common perceptions.

But I was young at that time, and the impression became gradually weakened as I mingled in the business of life. It is now ten years since these events took place, and I sometimes think of them as unreal. Allan Clare was a dear friend to me-but there are times when Allan and his sister, Mar

garet and her granddaughter, appear like personages of a dream

-an idle dream.

CHAPTER XI.

-I seem scarce

STRANGE things have happened unto meawake-but I will recollect my thoughts, and try to give an account of what has befallen me in the few last weeks.

Since my father's death our family have resided in London. I am in practice as a surgeon there. My mother died two years after we left Widford.

A month or two ago I had been busying myself in drawing up the above narrative, intending to make it public. The employment had forced my mind to dwell upon facts, which had begun to fade from it—the memory of old times became vivid, and more vivid-I felt a strong desire to revisit the scenes of my native village—of the young loves of Rosamund and her Clare.

A kind of dread had hitherto kept me back; but I was restless now, till I had accomplished my wish. I sat out one morning to walk-I reached Widford about eleven in the forenoon-after a slight breakfast at my inn-where I was mortified to perceive the old landlord did not know me again -(old Thomas Billet-he has often made angle rods for me when a child)-I rambled over all my accustomed haunts.

Our old house was vacant, and to be sold. I entered, un molested, into the room that had been my bedchamber. I kneeled down on the spot where my little bed had stood-I felt like a child-I prayed like one-it seemed as though old times were to return again-I looked round involuntarily, expecting to see some face I knew-but all was naked and mute. The bed was gone. My little pane of painted window, through which I loved to look at the sun when I awoke in a fine summer's morning, was taken out, and had been replaced by one of common glass.

I visited, by turns, every chamber-they were all desolate and unfurnished, one excepted, in which the owner had left a harpsichord, probably to be sold-I touched the keys-I played some old Scottish tunes, which had delighted me when a child. Past associations revived with the music-blended with a sense of unreality, which at last became too powerful -I rushed out of the room to give vent to my feelings.

I wandered, scarce knowing where, into an old wood that stands at the back of the house-we called it the wilderness. A well-known form was missing, that used to meet me in this place-it was thine, Ben Moxam-the kindest, gentlest, politest of human beings, yet was he nothing higher than a gardener in the family. Honest creature, thou didst never pass me in my childish rambles without a soft speech and a smile. I remember thy good-natured face. But there is one thing, for which I can never forgive thee, Ben Moxam-that thou didst join with an old maiden aunt of mine in a cruel

plot, to lop away the hanging branches of the old fir-trees. I remember them sweeping to the ground.

I have often left my childish sports to ramble in this place --its glooms and its solitude had a mysterious charm for my young mind, nurturing within me that love of quietness and lonely thinking which have accompanied me to maturer years.

In this wilderness I found myself after a ten years' absence. Its stately fir-trees were yet standing, with all their luxuriant company of underwood-the squirrel was there, and the melancholy cooings of the wood-pigeon-all was as I had left it— my heart softened at the sight-it seemed as though my character had been suffering a change since I forsook these shades. My parents were both dead-I had no counsellor left, no experience of age to direct me, no sweet voice of reproof. The LORD had taken away my friends, and I knew not where he had laid them. I paced round the wilderness, seeking a comforter. I prayed that I might be restored to that state of innocence in which I had wandered in those shades.

Methought my request was heard-for it seemed as though the stains of manhood were passing from me, and I were relapsing into the purity and simplicity of childhood. I was content to have been moulded into a perfect child. I stood still, as in a trance. I dreamed that I was enjoying a personal intercourse with my heavenly Father-and, extravagantly, put off the shoes from my feet-for the place where I stood, I thought, was holy ground.

This state of mind could not last long-and I returned with languid feelings to my inn. I ordered my dinner-green peas and a sweetbread-it had been a favourite dish with me in my childhood-I was allowed to have it on my birthdays. I was impatient to see it come upon the table-but, when it came, I could scarce eat a mouthful-my tears choked me. I called for wine-I drank a pint and a half of red wine-and not till then had I dared to visit the churchyard, where my parents were interred.

The cottage lay in my way-Margaret had chosen it for that very reason, to be near the church-for the old lady was regular in her attendance on public worship-I passed onand in a moment found myself among the tombs.

I had been present at my father's burial, and knew the spot again-my mother's funeral I was prevented by illness from attending-a —a plain stone was placed over the grave, with their initials carved upon it-for they both occupied one grave.

I prostrated myself before the spot-I kissed the earth that covered them-I contemplated, with gloomy delight, the time when I should mingle my dust with theirs-and kneeled,

with my arms incumbent on the gravestone, in a kind of mental prayer for I could not speak.

Having performed these duties, I arose with quieter feelings, and felt leisure to attend to indifferent objects. Still I continued in the churchyard, reading the various inscriptions, and moralizing on them with that kind of levity which will not unfrequently spring up in the mind in the midst of deep melancholy.

I read of nothing but careful parents, loving husbands, and dutiful children. I said jestingly, Where be all the bad people buried? Bad parents, bad husbands, bad children—what cemeteries are appointed for these? do they not sleep in consecrated ground? or is it but a pious fiction, a generous oversight, in the survivers, which thus tricks out men's epitaphs when dead, who, in their lifetime, discharged the offices of life, perhaps, but lamely. Their failings, with their reproaches, now sleep with them in the grave. Man wars not with the dead. It is a trait of human nature for which I love it.

I had not observed, till now, a little group assembled at the other end of the churchyard; it was a company of children, who were gathered round a young man, dressed in black, sitting on a gravestone.

He seemed to be asking them questions-probably about their learning and one little dirty ragged headed fellow was clambering up his knees to kiss him. The children had been eating black cherries-for some of the stones were scattered about, and their mouths were smeared with them.

As I drew near them, I thought I discerned in the stranger a mild benignity of countenance, which I had somewhere seen before I gazed at him more attentively.

It was Allan Clare! sitting on the grave of his sister.

I threw my arms about his neck. I exclaimed "Allan”—he turned his eyes upon me-he knew me-we both wept aloud -it seemed as though the interval since we parted had been as nothing I cried out, "Come and tell me about these things."

I drew him away from his little friends-he parted with a show of reluctance from the churchyard-Margaret and her grand-daughter lay buried there, as well as his sister-I took him to my inn-secured a room, where we might be privateordered fresh wine-scarce knowing what I did, I danced for joy. Allan was quite overcome, and, taking me by the hand, he said, "This repays me for all."

It was a proud day for me-I had found the friend I thought dead-earth seemed to me no longer valuable, than as it contained him; and existence a blessing no longer than while I should live to be his comforter.

I began at leisure to survey him with more attention. Time and grief had left few traces of that fine enthusiasm which once burned in his countenance-his eyes had lost their original fire, but they retained an uncommon sweetness, and, whenever they were turned upon me, their smile pierced to my heart.

"Allan, I fear you have been a sufferer." He replied not, and I could not press him further. I could not call the dead

to life again.

So we drank, and told old stories-and repeated old poetry -and sang old songs-as if nothing had happened. We sat till very late-I forgot that I had purposed returning to town that evening-to Allan all places were alike-I grew noisy, he grew cheerful-Allan's old manners, old enthusiasm, were returning upon him-we laughed, we wept, we mingled our tears, and talked extravagantly.

Allan was my chamber-fellow that night-and lay awake, planning schemes of living together under the same roof, entering upon similar pursuits-and praising God that we had

met.

I was obliged to return to town the next morning, and Allan proposed to accompany me. "Since the death of his sister," he told me, "he had been a wanderer."

In the course of our walk he unbosomed himself without reserve told me many particulars of his way of life for the last nine or ten years, which I do not feel myself at liberty to divulge.

Once, on my attempting to cheer him, when I perceived him over thoughtful, he replied to me in these words:

"Do not regard me as unhappy when you catch me in these moods. I am never more happy than at times when, by the cast of my countenance, men judge me most miserable.

"My friend, the events which have left this sadness behind them are of no recent date. The melancholy, which comes over me with the recollection of them, is not hurtful, but only tends to soften and tranquillize my mind, to detach me from the restlessness of human pursuits.

"The stronger I feel this detachment, the more I find myself drawn heavenward to the contemplation of spiritual objects. "I love to keep old friendships alive and warm within me, because I expect a renewal of them in the world of spirits.

"I am a wandering and unconnected thing on the earth. I have made no new friendships that can compensate me for the loss of the old-and the more I know mankind, the more does it become necessary for me to supply their loss by little images, recollections, and circumstances of past pleasures.