"Well, uncle," said the broker, bitterly, "the game's up. I have been ruined, stock and fluke, by letting my wife have her own way, and to-morrow I shall be a bankrupt."

"No you won't," said uncle Richard.

"Yes I shall," said the broker, angrily. "And Julia, abandoned by her lover, will be broken hearted."

"No she won't," said uncle Richard.

"Who's to prevent it?" asked the broker.

"Uncle Richard," replied that personage. "What's the use of a friend, unless he's a friend in need. I've got plenty of money, and neither chick nor child in the world. I'll meet your liabilities with cash. Young Merton loves Julia in spite of her temporary alienation—he will gladly take her back. The rogues will get their deserts. Your wife, sick and ashamed of her fashionable follies, will gladly gin' up this house and the servants. You'll buy a little country seat on the Hudson, and I'll come and live with you."

As every thing turned out exactly as uncle Richard promised and predicted, we have no occasion to enlarge on the fortunate subsiding of this "sea of troubles."

ACTING CHARADES.

Acting charades generally turns a house topsy turvy; wardrobes and garrets are ransacked for costumes and properties; hats, canes, umbrellas, and firearms are mustered, and old dresses that haven't seen the light for forty years are rummaged out as disguises for the actors in these extempore theatricals.

In a certain circle in this city there was a knot of clever young people, of both sexes, strongly addicted to acting charades, and very happy in their execution. But they were unfortunately afflicted by an interloper,

one of those geniuses who have a fatal facility for making blunders. Yet, with a pleasing unconsciousness of his deficiencies, he was always volunteering his services, and always expected, in this matter of acting charades, to be intrusted with the leading parts.

One evening the usual coterie was assembled, charades were proposed, as usual, and the little knot of performers retired to the back drawing room, dropping the curtain behind them, and prepared for their performance, congratulating themselves that Mr. Blinks, the name of the marplot, was not on hand to spoil their sport. They selected the word catastrophe, and the curtain went up.

A very pretty and lively young lady, who had been abroad, gave a very happy imitation of the almost inimitable Jenny Vertpré, in the French vaudeville of the "Cat metamorphosed to a Woman," in that scene where she betrays her original nature. She purred, she frolicked, she pounced on an imaginary mouse, caught it, tossed it up in the air, and went through all the manœuvres of a veritable grimalkin. When the curtain fell, amidst roars of laughter and applause, the first syllable—cat—was whispered from mouth to mouth, among the audience.

At this moment the hated Blinks arrived in the green-room.

"What are you up to? Acting charades—eh? By Jove! I'm just in time. You must give me a part—can't get along without me. What's the word?"

"No matter," said the young lady who had played the cat, with a wicked smile of intelligence. "Prompter, ring the curtain up. All you've got to do, Mr. Blinks, is to walk across the stage."

"But where's my dress?"

"What you have on. Appear in your own character."

The curtain went up, and Blinks stalked across with his accustomed air of intolerable stupidity. Amidst smothered laughter, the audience guessed the second syllable of the charade—ass.

The curtain went up for the third time. A group of Indian chiefs were located in a wigwam. A young brave entered, distinguished by the eagle plume and wampum belt, the bow and hatchet, and threw down at the feet of the eldest warrior a bundle of the scalps he had brought back from battle. A hum of approbation rose from the assembly. The curtain fell. The word trophy had been thus indicated. The whole word was then represented by an appropriate scene from the close of a popular tragedy, and the spectators, cheering the performance, called out catastrophe to the actors.

"Well, they made out to guess it," said Blinks, when the curtain had fallen, for the last time. "But now it's all over, you made one confounded blunder."

"What was that?" asked the wicked young lady.

"You didn't act the second syllable."

"No?"

"No! indeed!" said Blinks, with a look of intense cunning. "You had cat and trophy—but where was the ass?"

"O, indeed!" said the young lady.

"You see, ladies and gentleman," said Blinks, enjoying his triumph, "you can't get along without me. If I'd been here in the beginning, you'd have had the ass."

"We certainly should," said the young lady, winking to her companions, who could hardly suppress their laughter.

"And I move we repeat this charade to-morrow night," said Blinks—"and mind, I'm the ass."

"Of course."

"I'll get a costume and disguise myself."

"Disguise yourself!" echoed his tormentor—"for Heaven's sake, don't do that—they'd never guess it."

The next night the charade was ass-ass-in, and Blinks went on for the first two syllables. He was perfectly at home—"Richard himself again!" and the wicked young lady, in complimenting his performance, declared it was "perfectly natural."

THE GREEN CHAMBER.

Fortunately for the rising generation, these tales have gone out of fashion, and though some attempts to revive the taste have been made—as in the "Night Side of Nature"—such efforts have proved deplorable failures. The young people of to-day make light of ghosts. The spectres in the incantation scene of "Der Freyschutz" are received with roars of laughter, and even the statue in Don Giovanni seems "jolly," notwithstanding the illusive music of Mozart. We were about to remark that the age had outgrown superstition, but we remembered the Rochester knockings, and concluded to be modestly silent.

One evening, many years since—it was a blustering December evening—the wind howling as it dashed the old buttonwood limbs in its fury against the parlor windows of the country house where a few of us were assembled to pass the winter holidays, we gathered before a roaring fire of walnut and oak, which made every thing within doors as cheery and comfortable as all without was desolate and dreary. The window shutters were left unfastened, that the bright lamplight and ruddy firelight might stream afar upon the wintry waste, and perhaps guide some benighted wayfarer to a hospitable shelter.

We shall not attempt to describe the group, as any such portrait painting would not be germane to the matter more immediately in hand. Suffice it to say, that one of the youngsters begged aunt Deborah, the matron of the mansion, to tell us a ghost story,—"a real ghost story, aunt Deborah,"—for in those days we were terribly afraid of counterfeits, and hated to hear a narrative where the ghost turned out in the end to be no ghost after all, but a mere compound of flesh and blood like ourselves.

Aunt Deborah smiled at our earnestness, and tantalized our impatience by some of those little arts with which the practised story-teller enhances the value and interest of her narrative. She tapped her silver snuffbox, opened it deliberately, took a very delicate pinch of the Lundy Foot, shut the box, replaced it in her pocket, folded her hands before her, looked round a minute on the expectant group, and then began.

I shall despair of imparting to this cold pen-and-ink record of her story the inimitable conversational grace with which she embellished it. It made an indelible impression on my memory, and if I have never before repeated it, it was from a lurking fear that—though the old lady assured us it was "not to be found in any book or newspaper"—it might have found its way into print. However, as twenty years have elapsed, and I have never yet met with it in type, I will venture to give the outlines of the narrative.

Major Rupert Stanley, a "bold dragoon" in the service of his majesty George III., found himself, one dark and blustering night in autumn, riding towards London on the old York road. He had supped with a friend who lived at a village some distance off the road, and he was unfamiliar with the country. Though not raining, the air was damp, and the heavy, surcharged clouds threatened every moment to pour down their contents. But the major, though a young man, was an old campaigner; and with a warm cloak wrapped about him, and a good horse under him, would have cared very little for storm and darkness, had he felt sure of a good bed for himself, and comfortable quarters for his horse, when he had ridden far enough for the strength of his faithful animal. A good horseman cares as much for the comfort of his steed as for his own ease. To add to the discomfort of the evening, there was some chance of meeting highwaymen; but Major Stanley felt no uneasiness on that score, as, just before leaving his friend's house, he had examined his holster pistols, and freshly primed them. A brush with a highwayman would enhance the romance of a night journey.

So he jogged along; but mile after mile was passed, and no twinkling light in the distance gave notice of the appearance of the wished-for inn. The major's horse began to give unmistakable evidence of distress—stumbling once or twice, and recovering himself with difficulty. At last, a dim light suddenly appeared at a turn of the road. The horse pricked up his ears, and trotted forward with spirit, soon halting beside a one-story cottage. The major was disappointed, but he rode up to the door and rapped loudly with the but of his riding whip. The summons brought a sleepy cotter to the door.

"My good friend," said the major, "can you tell me how far it is to the next inn?"

"Eh! it be about zeven mile, zur," was the answer, in the broad Yorkshire dialect of the district.

"Seven miles!" exclaimed the major, in a tone of deep disappointment, "and my horse is already blown! My good fellow, can't you put my horse somewhere, and give me a bed? I will pay you liberally for your trouble."

"Eh! goodness zakes!" said the rustic. "I be nought but a ditcher! There be noa plaze to put the nag in, and there be only one room and one bed in the cot."

"What shall I do?" cried the major, at his wits' end.

"I'll tell 'ee, zur," said the rustic, scratching his head violently, as if to extract his ideas by the roots. "There be a voine large house on the road, about a moile vurther on. It's noa an inn, but the colonel zees company vor the vun o' the thing—'cause he loikes to zee company about 'un. You must 'a heard ov him—Colonel Rogers—a' used to be a soger once."

"Say no more," cried the major. "I have heard of this hospitable gentleman; and his having been in the army gives me a sure claim to his attention. Here's a crown for your information, my good friend. Come, Marlborough!"

Touching his steed with the spur, the major rode off, feeling an exhilaration of spirits which soon communicated itself to the horse. A sharp trot of a few minutes brought him to a large mansion, which stood unfenced, like a huge caravansery, by the roadside. He made for the front door and, without dismounting, plied the large brass knocker till a servant in livery made his appearance.

"Is your master up?" asked the major.

"I am the occupant of this house," said a venerable gentleman, making his appearance at the hall door.

"I am a benighted traveller, sir," said the major, touching his hat, "and come to claim your well-known hospitality. Can you give me a bed for the night? I am afraid my four-footed companion is hardly able to carry me to the next inn."

"I cannot promise you a bed, sir," said the host, "for I have but one spare bed in the house."

"And that——" said the major.

"Happens to be in a room that does not enjoy a very pleasing reputation. In short, sir, one room of my house is haunted; and that is the only one, unfortunately, that I can place at your disposal to-night."

"My dear sir," said the major, springing from his horse, and tossing the bridle to the servant, "you enchant me beyond expression! A haunted chamber! The very thing—and I, who have never seen a ghost! What luck!"

The host shook his head gravely.

"I never knew a man," he said, "to pass a night in that chamber without regretting it."

Major Stanley laughed as he took his pistols from the holster pipes. "With these friends of mine," he said, "I fear neither ghost nor demon."

Colonel Rogers showed his guest into a comfortable parlor, where a seacoal fire was burning cheerfully in a grate, and refreshments most welcome to a weary traveller stood upon a table.

"Mine host" was an old campaigner, and had seen much service during the war of the American revolution, and he was full of interesting anecdotes and descriptions of adventures. But while Major Stanley was apparently listening attentively to the narrative of his hospitable entertainer, throwing in the appropriate ejaculations of surprise and pleasure at the proper intervals, his whole attention was in reality absorbed by a charming girl of twenty, the daughter of the colonel, who graced the table with her presence. Never, he thought, had he seen so beautiful, so modest, and so ladylike a creature; and she, in turn, seemed very favorably impressed with the manly beauty and frank manners of their military guest.

At length she retired. The colonel, who was a three-bottle man, and had found a listener to his heart, was somewhat inclined to prolong the session into the small hours of the morning, but finding that his guest was much fatigued, and even beginning to nod in the midst of his choicest story, he felt compelled to ask him if he would not like to retire. Major Stanley replied promptly in the affirmative, and the old gentleman, taking up a silver candlestick, ceremoniously marshalled his guest to a large, old-fashioned room, the walls of which being papered with green, gave it its appellation of the "Green Chamber." A comfortable bed invited to repose; a cheerful fire was blazing on the hearth, and every thing was cosy and quiet. The major looked round him with a smile of satisfaction.

"I am deeply indebted to you, colonel," said he, "for affording me such comfortable quarters. I shall sleep like a top."

"I am afraid not," answered the colonel, shaking his head gravely. "I never knew a guest of mine to pass a quiet night in the Green Chamber."

"I shall prove an exception," said the major, smiling. "But I must make one remark," he added, seriously. "It is ill sporting with the feelings of a soldier; and should any of your servants attempt to play tricks upon me, they will have occasion to repent it." And he laid his heavy pistol on the lightstand by his bedside.

"My servants, Major Stanley," said the old gentleman, with an air of offended dignity, "are too well drilled to dare attempt any tricks upon my guests. Good night, major."

"Good night, colonel."

The door closed. Major Stanley locked it. Having done so, he took a survey of the apartment. Besides the door opening into the entry, there was another leading to some other room. There was no lock upon this second door, but a heavy table, placed across, completely barricaded it.

"I am safe," thought the major, "unless there is a storming party of ghosts to attack me in my fastness. I think I shall sleep well."

He threw himself into an arm chair before the fire, and watching the glowing embers, amused himself with building castles in the air, and musing on the attractions of the fair Julia, his host's daughter. He was far enough from thinking of spectral visitants, when a very slight noise struck on his ear. Glancing in the direction of the inner door, he thought he saw the heavy table glide backwards from its place. Quick as thought, he caught up a pistol, and challenged the intruder. There was no reply—but the door continued to open, and the table to slide back. At last there glided into the room a tall, graceful figure, robed in white. At the first glance, the blood curdled in the major's veins; at the second, he recognized the daughter of his host. Her eyes were wide open, and she advanced with an assured step, but it was very evident she was asleep. Here was the mystery of the Green Chamber solved at once. The young girl walked to the fireplace and seated herself in the arm chair from which the soldier had just risen. His first impulse was to vacate the room, and go directly and alarm the colonel. But, in the first place, he knew not what apartment his host occupied, and in the second, curiosity prompted him to watch the dénouement of this singular scene. Julia raised her left hand, and gazing on a beautiful ring that adorned one of her white and taper fingers, pressed it repeatedly to her lips. She then sank into an attitude of repose, her arms drooping listlessly by her sides.

The major approached her, and stole the ring from her finger. His action disturbed, but did not awaken her. She seemed to miss the ring, however, and, after groping hopelessly for it, rose and glided through the doorway as silently as she had entered. She had no sooner retired than the major replaced the table, and drawing a heavy clothes press against it, effectually guarded himself against a second intrusion.

This done, he threw himself upon the bed, and slept soundly till a late hour of the morning. When he awoke, he sprang out of bed, and ran to the window. Every trace of the storm had passed away, and an unclouded sun was shining on the radiant landscape. After performing the duties of his toilet, he was summoned to breakfast, where he met the colonel and his daughter.

"Well, major, and how did you pass the night?" asked the colonel, anxiously.

"Famously," replied Stanley. "I slept like a top, as I told you I should."

"Then, thank Heaven, the spell is broken at last," said the colonel, "and the White Phantom has ceased to haunt the Green Chamber."

"By no means," said the major, smiling; "the White Phantom paid me a visit last night, and left me a token of the honor."

"A token!" exclaimed the father and daughter in a breath.

"Yes, my friends, and here it is." And the major handed the ring to the old gentleman.

"What's the meaning of this, Julia?" exclaimed the colonel. "This ring I gave you last week!"

Julia uttered a faint cry, and turned deadly pale.

"The mystery is easily explained," said the major. "The young lady is a sleep-walker. She came into my room before I had retired, utterly unconscious of her actions. I took the ring from her hand, that I might be able to convince you and her of the reality of what I had witnessed."

The major's business was not pressing, and he readily yielded to the colonel's urgent request to pass a few days with him. Their mutual liking increased upon better acquaintance, and in a few weeks the White Phantom's ring, inscribed with the names of Rupert Stanley and Julia Rogers, served as the sacred symbol of their union for life.

HE WASN'T A HORSE JOCKEY.

He had a business call to make on the widow Stebbins, who lived about three miles off, in a very old, unfinished, shingled house, of immense extent, in the centre of an unfenced lot, the chief products of which were rocks, brambles, and barberry bushes.

"Keep much stock, Miss Stebbins?" said he, as, having transacted his business, he prepared to resume his journey.

"Why, no," said she; "I'm a lone woman, and hain't got no help; so I keep only a cow and that 'ere colt. I wish I could sell him, for I ain't got nobody to break him in properly."

Zebulon looked at the colt. He was a limpsey, long-legged, shaggy animal, with a ewe-neck, drooping head, and little, undecided tail, completely knotted up with burs; but then he was only five years old.

"Heow'll yeou trade, Miss Stebbins?" asked the agent. "I've a mind to take the critter, if you'll trade even, though I don't know the pints of a horse. I ain't a horse jockey. Heowever, you're a lone woman, and I want to oblige you. You hain't got nobody to break the colt for you, and here's my hoss would suit you to a T. He's a nice family hoss."

"Heow old is he?" asked Mrs. Stebbins.

"He's risin' six years," said Zebulon, and so he was.

"He looks pretty well along," said the widow. "How much boot will you give me?"

"Boot!" exclaimed Zebulon. "O, if you talk about boot, I'm off. I ain't no horse jockey, but I know I'm flingin' my hoss—good old hoss—away by tradin' even. But generosity and consideration for widders—specially good-lookin' ones—was allers a failin' in my family."

"I don't know as I had orter," said the widow, thoughtfully; "if Mr. Stebbins was alive, you wouldn't get the colt so cheap, for he sot every thing by him. He's sot his pedigree down in the births, deaths, and marriages, in our family Bible. He allers said, poor man, he was goin' to make a great hoss."

"That 'ere was an optical delusion," said the agent; "he warn't never a goin' to make a great hoss, and he won't never be a great hoss. I know so much, if I ain't a horse jockey. Come, now, what say? Shall I ungear, and leave my critter, or put on the string and be a travellin'?"

"You may have the colt," said the widow, bursting into tears, and retiring, unable to witness the consummation of the sacrifice.

"Come, young Burtail," said Zebulon, addressing the colt. "It's time you was sot to work. I don't know whether you ever had a collar over your darned ewe-neck or not. I don't see how any thing short of a crooked-neck squash could fit it; but I'll try mine on." And with these words he harnessed up the colt, and leaving his old "hoss" with the widow, drove on his way rejoicing.

About fifteen miles farther east, he stopped and put up at a tavern, where he made an arrangement to leave the colt for a week, hiring the landlord's horse to pursue his journey. He gave directions to have the colt fed high in the interim, to have his tail nicked and put in pulleys, his head checked up, and his coat carefully shaved according to the new practice. A very astute hostler promised that every thing should be done according to his directions, and to his perfect satisfaction.

Accordingly, in a week's time, when Zebulon came back, he hardly knew his bargain. The colt was fat as a hog. His sides shone like silver; his mane was neatly trimmed; his tail was crimped, and rose and fell in a graceful curve; and he carried his head as proudly as an Arabian.

With the metamorphosed animal in the fills, the agent drove back to the Spread Eagle, and put up for the night. In the morning, he ordered his team, and paid his bill. Major Spike, who was great on horses, standing at the front door, was struck with the appearance of his guest's "cattle."

"Been buying a new hoss?" said the major.

"Yes; I thought I'd try one, though I ain't a horse jockey," answered the agent, making an excuse to examine the buckles of his harness.

"Don't want to sell him, do you?" said the major.

"Why, no, major, I reckon not. I expect he'll suit me fust rate. I'm doin' pooty well, now, and can afford to hev' somethin' nice. I calklate to keep him."

"I don't like his color," said the major.

"Well, I do," said Zebulon, getting into his wagon. "Good mornin', major."

"Hold on," said the major. "I've got a hoss I want to show you. Jake, bring out the bay, and let Mr. Smith have a squint at him."

The hostler brought out a square-built, chunky, bay horse, in fine condition, and looking like a capital roadster.

"What do you think of that hoss, Mr. Smith?" asked the major, triumphantly.

"Pretty fair hoss," said the agent. "But I tell you I'm no judge of horses; I ain't a horse jockey."

"Well, now, I tell you what," said the major; "I'm a darned fool for doin' of it; but when I take a fancy, I don't mind expense to gratify it. I'm willing to swap hosses even with you."

"Even!" screamed the agent. "Now, major, that's a good one. I ain't a horse jockey. I don't know the value of the critters; but I ain't altogether a reg'lar, soft-headed, know-nothin' fool; and if I had a mind to part with this 'ere splendiferous animal, I should want boot."

"You're a hard one," said the major; "but as fur as twenty dollars——"

"Twenty dollars! get out," said the agent, indignantly. "G'lang, Bob!" and he actually started his team.

"Hold on!" roared the major. "What do you want?"

"Say forty, and I'll do it—no, I won't," said the agent.

"You said you would. It's a bargain. You said forty, didn't he, Jake?"

The hostler could not deny it.

"Well, you're the hardest customer I ever see!" muttered the agent, as he got out of the wagon. "This is the wust mornin's work I ever did. Let me have your old bay, and be a travellin'. You'd hev' a fellur's eye teeth afore he knowed it, ef you wanted 'em."

The major chuckled as he counted out forty dollars and handed them to the agent. He eagerly assisted the hostler to ungear the coveted horse; and when the bay was harnessed up, did not urge the agent to stop, and the latter drove off, looking as melancholy as if he had buried all his relations.

The major drove out with his new purchase that very day; but his performance did not equal his expectations. However, as an experienced horse jockey, he knew that great allowances are to be made for a green horse, and he promised to train him up to "2.50," at the least. But before one week had passed over his head, his expectations were all dashed. There was no "go" in the animal. His nose dropped to the ground, his tail slunk, and his toes dug into the gravel as if he was boring for water. The major had to confess that he had been completely taken in.

"That infernal rascal!" said he; "I wish I could catch him here again."

"You ain't very likely to," remarked Jake, the hostler, dryly.

"Why so? Do you know any thing about him? Did you ever see him before?"

"Ever see him! why, he came from the same place that I did."

"Where's that?"

"Meredith Bridge."

"Meredith Bridge!" exclaimed the landlord. "And he said he wasn't a horse jockey. O, what an ass I was."

"Very true," said the hostler.

"Any how, you never saw the horse before?" said the landlord.

"Never see the horse before!" exclaimed Jake. "Why, Lord bless you, I know'd him soonsever I sot eyes on him. He's Miss Stebbins's colt."

"And you never told me of this, you scoundrel!"

"I want a goin' to spile a trade," said the hostler. "And then I've heard you say so often that nobody could take you in on a hoss, that I thought it warnt no use."

"The cussed swindler!" said the major. "After havin' shaved every body he came across, he went and shaved a hoss, and put him off on me—me, the greatest hossman in the State of Maine. The next chap from Meredith Bridge that comes into these diggins, I'll get a fight out of and lick him, jest as sure as my name's Elnathan Spike!"

FUNERAL SHADOWS.

The painter lit a lamp, and then a huge meerschaum filled with fragrant tobacco, his nightly solace and daily inspiration. While the smoke wreaths slowly ascended to the ceiling, he wove his Gothic fancies, and saw, in the blue clouds that hovered over him, embryo designs and groups that he afterwards transferred to canvas.

Malise Grey was an artist of great but peculiar talent—a fine draughtsman, an admirable colorist, but his imagination was of a Gothic cast, and he delighted in strange, fantastical, and supernatural subjects. He had travelled much in Germany, and his mind was imbued with the superstitions and legends of that storied land. These he loved to illustrate with his pencil, and his walls were covered with German scenes and subjects, from the "Witches' Sabbath" to the "Castled Crag of Drachenfels." Portraits he painted from necessity, not choice; but he was too true an artist for the million. The sleek hypocrite wore not on his canvas the deceptive look of holiness that bore him on through life to wealth and honor, but the crafty, sensual smile, the libertine eye, and lips that indicated the secret phases of his character. Imbecile beauty saw her index in the painted mirror. Folly stood convicted by the pencil. It was frequently remarked, that you might learn more of a man from a glance at his portrait than from months' companionship with the original. Malise Grey was not popular—but he lived for his art, and bread and water satisfied his earthly cravings.

The meerschaum fairly smoked out, the artist drew from a dusty pile of canvases one on which he had painted a family group. It was a fancy piece. An old man lay upon his death bed, over which bent a weeping wife and a sorrowing and lovely child. The face of the latter was one of unearthly beauty, and Raphael or Titian might not have disdained the painting of those glistening blue eyes, and the falling sunbeams of that golden hair. The painter had poured out his soul upon that angelic countenance and perfect figure.

"It is my ideal," said the artist, "and, by the mystic whisper of the heart, by the bright teaching of the star that rules my destiny, by the forbidden lore of which I have drank deeply, I know that the ideal of each mind is the reflex of the actual, and with the true artist fancy is existence!"

The meerschaum was again filled, and Malise Grey contemplated his picture. The smoke wreaths rolled around it, but it shone out luminous and starlike. Its harmony was like the silent melody of the spheres, and its musical radiance dispelled the remembrance of all his sufferings, and lulled him like the melody of falling waters. When, at length, he drew his poor couch from its recess, and threw himself upon it, he left the picture full in sight, and continued to watch it by the fading firelight till its last luminous point disappeared with the blaze, and slumber closed his lids to make its memory brighter.

The next morning was clear and sparkling; the first rays of the sun were like fiery rubies on the walls of the studio.

The painter sprang to his feet. "The dream!" he cried. "My heart did not deceive me. The spirits are at work for its accomplishment."

He went forth to take his daily walk. There were times when an appalling dread of insanity smote his heart, and once the expression of a friend at the recital of one of his wildest fantasies led him into a train of reflection and self-examination which shook his very soul. For a time he forsook his studio, and went abroad into the gay world and formed fashionable acquaintances; but he went back to his lonely room and his hermit life at the expiration of a few weeks, convinced that the madness of art was preferable to the madness of society. And it was a painful thing for him to go abroad, for no one sympathized with him. His mind dwelt either on the shadowy past, or the yet more shadowy future. He held no communion with the present. So, on the occasion we have referred to, after a hurried walk, he returned to his room, the door of which he had left unlocked. A veiled lady sat before his easel. She rose upon his entrance. His heart beat high with anticipations. The lady thus addressed him:—

"Malise Grey, we have known each other in the land of dreams!" and removing her veil, she pointed with her left hand to the picture, while she extended her right to the painter. The ideal and the actual stood before him. A strange light gleamed upon the painter's mind, and he spoke as if prompted by some unseen power.

"Esther Vaughan, by this token do I know you." He took her hand, and added, "By the mystic spell that drew us to each other, I conjure you here to plight your troth to me for weal and woe."

"My father died shortly after that picture was painted," replied the maiden, "and my mother—my poor mother—soon followed him. The spirit summons commanded me to seek you out. I have obeyed."

A strange marriage was solemnized in the Old King's Chapel. The bride wore no rose or orange flower in her braided hair, and a long, black veil enveloped her from head to foot. In fact, her entire raiment, and that of the bridegroom, was of the same ghastly hue; and the ceremony was performed beneath the light of torches, which threw their funeral glare upon the mortuary tablets and reliefs that decorate the interior of the sacred edifice. As the newly-married pair were about to step into the carriage at the door, a thin figure in black approached the bride, and laid its hand upon her arm. The countenance was not visible. The bride uttered a sharp cry of pain and terror, and the figure instantly stepped back.

"Hold up your torch, there, sexton," cried the painter; "some one has insulted the bride."

A tall figure was seen stealing away through the tombstones in the churchyard, to which he had probably gained access through a breach in the wall, at that time wholly ruinous.

It is not our intention to describe the happiness of Malise Grey and his strangely-found and strangely-wedded bride. Enough to say, it was like all the circumstances that composed his existence—dream-like and strange. So vivid were his dreams and reveries, that he often wondered whether they were not the actual, and his marriage life the imaginary, part of his existence. He could not give himself up to enjoyment; and sometimes, when his young wife would have lavished on him the wealth of her innocent caresses, he turned from her moodily, and muttered, "What have I to do with a spirit bride? When the sun rises, these shadows will disperse."

Esther Grey had often solicited her husband to paint her portrait, since the likeness in the family picture showed her under the influence of grief. She wished a record of her happiness. Grey set about complying with her request. He assumed the task in a moment of inspired and fresh feeling, and went to work with heart and soul. His sketch was instantaneously executed, and then

Suddenly he threw down his pencil, and paced the apartment to and fro with rapid strides. "The doomed look!" he muttered, "the doomed look! Esther, I can paint no more to-day."

But the morrow found him early at his task. A few hours' work completed a portrait which, for fidelity of likeness, harmony of accessories, and felicity of coloring, was almost unsurpassable. Yet the painter refused to have it framed, and concealed it from view behind a curtain in his studio.

A day or two afterwards, a stranger called upon the artist. He was a tall, thin man, attired in a threadbare suit of black bombazine. He was frightfully pale. His jaws were prominent, and the sallow, shrunken skin clung close to every muscle of his countenance. His dark, sunken, and glossy eyes had an unearthly expression, and his air was melancholy in the extreme. A nameless chill came over the painter as he surveyed the aspect of his unknown visitor. The stranger coldly surveyed the productions of the artist, and honored them with a few brief comments. At length he paused before the veiled picture, and said, "This picture of your wife belongs to me."

The painter was so strong a believer in the supernatural, had been subject to so many inexplicable influences, that he felt no surprise at the stranger's naming the subject of the veiled picture without uncovering it. But he repeated, sternly, "Belongs to you? What mean you by that remark?"

"I mean it is, or will be mine, by purchase."

"Not so."

"Then you will not sell it?"

"I will not part with it at any price."

The stranger smiled, but not sneeringly or sarcastically The expression of his countenance was mournful in the extreme, and likewise unpleasant, because the parting of his shrivelled lips displayed his large, yellow teeth in unpleasant relief. He opened the door, but paused upon the threshold.

"You will not part with it?"

"Once more, no!" replied the painter.

"No matter; the original will soon be mine."

The door closed rapidly behind his noiseless steps. A vague terror shot through the soul of the artist.

When Esther Vaughan came to the dwelling of the painter, she was radiant with a health which had triumphed over sorrow and long watching, but the seeds of disease now fastened upon her frame, and she sunk under its influence, growing daily feebler. The almost distracted husband employed the best physicians in the city, and under their efforts Esther, for a while, seemed to revive. One day, in solemn conclave, they decided that the patient would live, and announced the intelligence to the poor painter, as he sat in his lonely studio, with much pomposity and emphasis. At the time of this announcement, the painter was standing opposite the open door through which the physicians had just entered. At the moment when a smile of gratified love was lighting up his intelligent countenance, his eyes, looking beyond the group of visitors, caught in the corridor those of the strange bidder for the veiled picture. The unknown shook his head slowly and mournfully, then turned and retired.

"Stop him, gentlemen," cried the painter, bursting through the group of leeches; "he is a deadly enemy!"

The physicians looked at each other, smiled darkly, and shook their heads.

"Poor Grey!" said an old doctor.

"Mad?" asked the youngest of the group.

"The cell, the chain, and scourge would be a wholesome prescription," said the first speaker.

Such were the tender mercies of science to madness in the eighteenth century.

It was a hushed midsummer night. The hum of busy footsteps had long since died away, and the twinkling lights had faded, one by one, from the huge bulk of the metropolis. To the lonely night watcher, there was enough of light in the mild effulgence of the moon to distinguish whether the pale invalid woke or slumbered; whether the repose of the dead was inviolate, or invaded by noisome things that move abroad only in darkness. And midway between life and death, so motionless that you would say she belonged to the dark realm of the latter, so lovely that the former still seemed to claim her own, lay the earth-born love of the painter, with her ethereal essence yet hovering near the beloved of her soul. The painter sat by the bedside, with her thin, pale hand clasped in his. He had listened to her last accents; he had heard her call him, in the fervor of her affection, "her beautiful, her own;" and he knew that, ere the unseen clock had recorded the death of another hour, the feeble pulse that fluttered beneath his fingers would have ceased to beat. Yet, with all this, his eyes were tearless, and his heart less heavy than in those dark dreams which had foreshadowed this event. In weal or woe, his prophetic dreams seemed even more impressive than the realities which followed them.

It appeared as if there were a magnetic influence in the touch of the dying hand; that the soul of Esther, bathed in the dawning light of the better world, had communicated a portion of its brightness to his own. So the hours wore on; the feeble pulse yet beat, but fainter and fainter. At last, through the open window which commanded a view of the east, the brightening streaks of dawn appeared; in the leaves of a solitary tree, that stood amid a wilderness of brick hard by, was heard the faint, tremulous twitter of a bird waiting but a ruddier ray to launch forth upon his dewy pinions. A smile, like a ray of light, dawned upon the countenance of Esther. She pointed to a shadowy alcove in the chamber, and the painter's eye, following the indication, detected the figure of his mysterious and prophetic visitor. But the countenance of the unknown was milder, softer; a veil of brightness had fallen upon the more repulsive lineaments, and when the broad daylight beamed into the apartment, his image melted into the ray, like a rain-drop into a sunny sea. A thrill ran through the painter's frame; he gazed upon the face of Esther; it was that of death.

An unfinished painting rests upon an easel; it is a glimpse of paradise. In the centre is a focus of almost intolerable splendor, the luminous veil of the Inconceivable and Infinite; while towards it, as if drawn by a vortex of glory, yet held in suspense when too near, hovers a cloud of radiant forms and faces, their souls, pure and beatified, beaming from their countenances, all full of adoration, intelligence, and bliss. The painter sat before it, giving the last touches with a feeble yet graceful hand. A light seemed to stream upon him from the picture, and lit up his pale, inspired countenance.

The door opened, yet the painter turned not from his task; he heard no footstep, yet he knew that the messenger—no longer feared, but hoped for—was standing at his side.

"One touch more," he said, softly. "Thus 'tis done, and bravely done!"

He turned—the mysterious messenger was truly there. But as the painter gazed, the herald's form was transfigured; his poor garments had given place to shining raiments; his countenance beamed glory and goodness; effulgent wings expanded their snowy plumage from his glorious shoulders, and on his forehead shone a star like that of morning. He touched the mortal hand that throbbed to meet his clasp; the last film fell from the painter's eye, and he saw, with ecstasy, no horrid phantom, but Azrael, the Angel of Death, great, beautiful, and good.

THE LATE ELIAS MUGGS,