most unanimity, and the old woman was quite overjoyed, whenever she came to see them,-for she could not be prevailed upon to give up her own house. Margaret, too, had presented her husband with a beautiful boy. She was sitting, one mild evening, before the door, waiting for Lorenz, who had gone out on public business, and the child was playing at her feet, when she observed a miserable vehicle, covered with red tent-cloth and drawn by one lean horse, jolting over the ill-repaired pavement. The boy, delighting, like his father, in horses and any thing connected with them, crept towards it; his mother sprang up in terror, and while she was carrying him to the side of the street, half-caressing, half-chiding him, she threw a cursory glance on the vehicle, and it was just stopping at her door. Margaret was so shocked, that she almost sank to the ground with the child in her arms; for the pale face which, shrouded by a deep-mourning veil, peered out from the linen cover, was the face of her proud and lighthearted friend Barbara. "Noble Countess," said Margaret, with a low courtesy," how have you happened to come with such an equipage?" But Barbara, with tearful eyes, descended from the conveyance; and as Margaret observed, that she wished to make some private communication, she conducted her hastily into the house, after instructing her servants to unload the little baggage and to satisfy the demands of the driver. Long and dismal was the tale which Barbara had to relate. In Vienna, the Count had sunk deeper and deeper into all the miseries of gaming and drinking, and when he had exhausted his own fortune and Barbara's dowry, he had absconded. Sorrow had brought her parents to a premature grave; and she had contrived, though with much difficulty, to return to Magdeburg, as there was no one to whom she could look for assistance except that friend whom she had once despised. "Happy indeed am I," said Margaret," that you have arrived here in safety;" and she immediately prepared for her a handsome room in the upper storey, taking care to render it as agreeable as she could. When Lorenz Falk returned and heard of his new inmate, he seemed not to be altogether pleased; but he instantly controlled his feelings and received Barbara with the utmost hospitality. Under the influence of retirement and affectionate attention, Barbara's cheeks bloomed once more-her eyes began to glisten anewand the same buoyancy of temperament, which had formerly brought misfortunes upon her, now led her to forget them. But others were besetting her steps. A pang shot through her heart whenever she looked on the brave, the intelligent, the universally-respected Lorenz Falk, as he sat opposite her at table or by her side in the domestic circle; for she could not divest herself of the thought, that he was destined for her. It was he who had entered the room, on St. Andrew's Eve, as her allotted husband; and only an incomprehensible delusion, which at best was to be ascribed to magic, had deprived her of him. At last Christmas approached, and a Weiknachtslust (a Christmas feast) was to be prepared for the child's amusement. One afternoon, it had been sent over to its grandmother, and the happy parents were so busily employed in gilding the apples and nuts which were designed to glitter, at the approaching festival, between the lights of the green Christmas-tree, that Barbara, who was just beginning to sing and accompany herself on the harp, was quite overlooked. Dejectedly she placed the instrument in a corner, and hastened up stairs. As she sat alone in the gathering darkness, her thoughts reverted to years long past; and she recollected that this was St. Andrew's Eve, the anniversary of that day when the noble Lorenz Falk had come into her presence under such unhappy circumstances. Transported into a sudden burst of tears, she covered her face with her hands and exclaimed," He was mine-he was destined for me." And hark! the stair-case echoed with the sound of foot-stepsthey were heavy and firm like a man's-the door creaked-a face peered into the room. Barbara might rather be said to be dead than alive, for every thing, from that moment, appeared to be a repetition-only a far more hideous one-and a fulfilment of the emblematic prophecy. In his shrunk hand, the monster carried a lantern, which gleamed on his shaggy hair, his rolling eyes and his foaming lips. "Art thou my bride?" he exclaimed, opening his mouth convulsively. But, instead of hopping round her, like Lorenz Falk on St. Andrew's Eve, this more horrible visitant, singing and laughing, lifted her up, and bore her to the door. Barbara uttered a scream of terror which brought her brave landlord to her assistance. The monster, quitting his prey, now attacked Lorenz with fury; but the latter soon perceived, that he was struggling with a maniac, and that it would be impossible to overpower him; so, with a half-stifled voice, he called for his servants. After many efforts, they at last bound the frantic stranger, and threw him -for he had now fainted on a servant's bed. But when all the people of the house were gazing upon him with looks of curiosity, and the glimmering light fell upon his wild countenance, pale as death,— Lorenz Falk, shuddering, commanded every one to leave the room. All obeyed him, except Barbara; she remained alone with him and the horrible prisoner. "My lady," said Lorenz, after a pause, "it would be as well for you to go out before he revives, as the scene will be more than you can bear." "Lorenz," she replied, with a tone of solemnity altogether unusual to her, "it would be more proper for you than for me to leave him. You are not aware who he is." "Well do I know him," said Lorenz; "he is the bloody Würfler, whom I fought with in the Hartz-mountain." Barbara turned pale, and a visible shudder passed over her. At last she said with a deep sigh, "I might easily have conceived that his fate would be a dreadful one; yes, I was confident that it would. But notwithstanding all this, your words fall like lead on my heart, for you must know, Herr Lorenz Falk, that the bloody Würfler is my unfortunate husband. Alas! the prediction is now completely fulfilled." Barbara never moved from the maniac's side. Compunction for her numerous errors appeared suddenly to have come upon her, and at the same time, an active sense of duty. Lorenz Falk, who, in all this, recognized the mysterious hand of an over-ruling power, founded an hospital, to which the unhappy Count was conveyed. Poor Barbara did not scruple to become the superintendant of the institution; and a few years afterwards, the Count departed to the invisible world in a moment of light and hope. She continued, however, to discharge the duties of the solemn office on which she had entered, and was honoured far and wide, in town and country, under the name of the kind lady Barbara.' Lorenz Falk and Margaret, on the contrary, had many children, and lived long and happily together, with their little ones. They often visited the hospital and brought from it feelings of solemnity and devotion; behind them, however, there remained the bright beams of a blessing which had already risen to refresh lady Barbara in her toilsome occupations of piety. WE MET! BY DELLA CRUSCA. WE met and I did hear, Ianth, To that which once was mine, When Hope its wild enchantment threw The being of thy heart's fond pride And led thee where I stood, and plac'd But where had fled the answering glance The bright lost past in freshness rush'd And pent-up streams of feeling gush'd Perchance along the downcast lid For though hope's foam-bells all have burst, Yet still thou knowest not, Ianth, Thine every glance recalls A buried grief, while on the heart And images from memory's gloom I saw thee on thy bridal morn But ah! my tongue would fail to tell I do not think thou'rt bless'd, Ianth, The shadow of a mental pang Is passing o'er it now, Where erst calm thought did softly gleam, Thine eyes have learn'd the way Since last I met with thee, to weep And joy and love, thy young heart's guides, Yet seldom is the sorrow trac'd, That lays the wounded spirit waste. We're parted-and I name thee not And sullen pleasure thence doth flow It is a fearful thing, Ianth, To love, as I love thee, For I have thought a thousand times, That pale insanity Would reach my fever'd brain at last And shed oblivion o'er the past. HOSPITAL CASES THE OLD SOLDIER. INNUMERABLE and intricate are the paths of misery which men are destined to tread, and rarely does the wretched wayfarer meet with sympathy or relief from his more fortunate brethren. If sickness has fallen on one of the wild beasts of the desert, or the bolt of the hunter struck a deer among the herd, his companions with a savage kindness gore him to death;-but man too often looks with cool barbarity on the misery of his fellow-man, and suffers him, unaided and unheeded, to linger out his existence in agony. Of systematic charity, -of patronized benevolent institutions we have more than enough,but the obscure and retiring wretchedness which is without the pale of these, and of which the great mass of the misery in this world consists, is passed by unrelieved, because it is the peculiar charge of none. How many instances of this have I met with in the course of my hospital practice !-for it is to these haunts that worn-out misery retires to die, and after having struggled through nameless sufferings during an obscure existence, to heave its last groan unheard amid the louder exclamations of living woe. It was during my residence in a town in the north of England, during the year 1820, on account of ill health, that I obtained the particulars of the following affecting story. Dr. M—, the consulting surgeon, had politely given me leave to visit the wards under his care, and as I was otherwise unoccupied, I frequently took advantage of the invitation. There was one poor fellow, who was to undergo the operation of lithotomy, that particularly attracted my attention. He was constantly attended by a very beautiful young woman, who appeared to watch him with the most anxious solicitude, but who always retired when I approached the bed; on enquiry, I found she was understood to be the patient's daughter, and had been allowed to remain with her father, (though contrary to the rules of the house), at her own earnest supplication. By frequent conversations, in a few days I became quite familiar with the old man, and drew from him the history of his life. He was descended of a respectable family in Westmoreland, and was intended for the church, but having been a party in some unfortunate affair at Cambridge, he was expelled from the University; and ashamed to return home, he enlisted in a Cavalry troop then recruiting in the neighbourhood. After various adventures, in the course of which he had taken a part in seven engagements and been four times severely wounded, he fought his last action at Mont St. Jean, where he had lost an arm and been deprived of the sight of an eye. By some of those culpable oversights which often occur in this country, he was left, without pension or means of existence, to crawl about the country for which he had bled; and now being afflicted with a horrible disease, was obliged to crave the shelter of the Hospital. Such was his story, as briefly told by himself, for remorse on account of his youthful indiscretions seemed to combine with his actual pain in preventing him from dwelling on his misfortunes. There was a calmness and fortitude in his manner very different from the generality of hospital patients, and his knowledge of the world gave an interest to his conversation I have rarely seen equalled. The girl, too -who could she be? In all his wanderings he had never spoken of being married, and from the dark eyes and tresses, which gave a peculiar lustre to her brunette complexion, she could not have had an English mother. I had not enquired concerning her of himself-fearing to awaken some chord of past suffering, which haply had ceased to vibrate. Chance gave me the information I desired. One hot summer afternoon, I was passing through the ward, with a book I had brought for the old soldier. His back was turned towards me, and his arm was thrown over the neck of his daughter. She had sunk to sleep, exhausted with heat and watching. Not choosing to disturb them, I sat down on the chair by the side of the bed, and look VOL. I. 2 H |