her husband play deep, and she feared that he played deeper when she saw him not. Of his intrigues she knew nothing, and suspected nothing. She was too innocent to suppose it possible that her husband would forget his vows, and plight his faith to others; but she saw that he too often preferred to hers the society of others; and she wished that she possessed their charms, or that she had never left Frankenthall. Ermance," said Renstern to her one morning, "we must leave Vienna." Ermance was delighted to hear the intelligence. "I have no desire to remain in Vienna," replied she; "I love Frankenthall better." "But we shall not go to Frankenthall," said he; "Frankenthall is no longer mine." The truth flashed upon Ermance; but her looks expressed affection and resignation, not reproach. Renstern was for a moment touched by her charms and her goodness, and fondly took her hand, and called her his dear Ermance, and embraced her. It is strange how mysteriously pain and pleasure are sometimes mingled. In the moment of learning her ruin, Ermance tasted a moment of perfect happiness; and Renstern, in communicating it, forgot in that moment that he was ruined. There is a certain point at which the human mind gathers strength from its calamity; it grasps, as with giant strength, the very shaft that pierces; and, in the consciousness of its power, rises for a time above humanity, and consequently above that calamity which is human. But Renstern had told the truth: the lands of Frankenthall had passed into other hands. Renstern, however, like all gamblers, thought it possible that his fortune might be regained, and therefore made it a condition of the sale, that he should have a power of redeeming his possessions within one year. In a few days after this communication, Renstern and Ermance left Vienna, and retired to the village of Holt in Swabia, in the neighbourhood of which his uncle resided, who had offered Renstern a house upon his property. The Comte Font-barre was a man of immense fortune, of retired habits, and of a philosophical turn of mind; he had been long a widower, and his only son had, a few years before, married contrary to his father's wish, and gone abroad under his displeasure: but Font-barre often talked of forgiving him, and of recalling him, to cheer the evening of his days. It was impossible that Renstern's uncle should not disapprove of the conduct which had brought his nephew to ruin; but he felt so much interest in Ermance, that he would not wound her feelings by looking cold upon her husband; and it may be also, that he was too happy to have a philosophical companion, to dwell much upon the cause which brought about the event. For some time after Renstern arrived at Holt he was silent and gloomy, seeming to enjoy nothing, and to exist without interest. He had joined in pleasures whose enjoyment is a fever, but which leaves an apathy and a void more insupportable than the agonies which attend it; and he had tasted of unholy joys, which had left the memory of their intoxication. Renstern, in the village of Holt, was differently regarded by the world from Renstern in the castle of Frankenthall; and he knew not that the world's homage was sweet, until it was refused to him. One pang, the severest of all, his principles spared him,— the consciousness that his misfortunes were the fruit of his own misconduct. He laid them at the door of destiny; but he had forgotten to acquire that philosophy, the most important of all, which teaches man to accommodate himself to the lot which that destiny shall point out. Suddenly a change was visible in the manners of Renstern -he was often more cheerful than he was ever remembered to have been. He was still sometimes thoughtful, but he was no longer gloomy or morose; and at times there was a playfulness in his manner which reminded Ermance of happier days. It would have required a deeper discerner of human character than Ermance, to have discovered that it was like an occasional ripple upon deep water, which hinders its profundity from being seen. She was rejoiced at the change:-she had more of Renstern's company than she had had since the first year of their marriage; and though she was somewhat surprised at its suddenness, it was not the less agreeable on that account, and she fondly flattered herself that former times were about to be renewed. She could not, however, help remarking one circumstance as somewhat extraordinary; it was, that when Renstern was with his uncle his gaiety was unbounded, and even unnatural to his character; but that before and after his visit he was always thoughtful, gloomy, and absent. The circumstance would have remained unnoticed by Ermance had it not been that these occasional reminiscences of former days were painful to her. They were all that she had now to complain of; and as her husband's change of manner had restored to her almost all her former familiarity, she determined to ask the reason. "Otto," said Ermance one morning, extending to him in sweet confidence her fair hand, "how I rejoice to see your spirits so much improved!" She paused a moment, and then timidly added, There is now only one occasion on which you are gloomy." 66 rous to his cousin,-she was sure he would: but is it to be wondered at, that she was pleased at an event which restored her husband to the rank which she thought him so worthy to hold? The year was about to expire within which Renstern had the power to redeem his lands. The gold was told out, and Renstern was "What is that, my love?" demanded Ren- again lord of Frankenthall. stern. Do you hear how merrily the bells of Ran "Before and after visiting your uncle; and stadt are ringing? Children strew flowers on you are always so gay when with him." Before Ermance had finished the sentence, Renstern had risen, and walked across the room; but he immediately returned, and said "I am not aware, Ermance, of my being either gay or sad on these occasions; but is it not natural to be gay when with our friends, and sorry when we leave them?" Ermance asked no further explanation, and hardly thought more of it. It passed rapidly across her mind, indeed, that one ought not to be sad before visiting one's friends, and that quitting those whom we are to see next day is hardly a cause for sadness,-but the thought passed away. About the commencement of Renstern's change of manner, a circumstance occurred which it is necessary to notice. One evening, when Renstern and Ermance were with Fontbarre, he addressed his nephew thus: Renstern," said he, "I feel that I can forgive my son; but the overture must come from him. Do you write to your cousin, and say you have reason to think that, if he would ask his father's pardon, it would be granted." Renstern promised; and often since, the good man had expressed his disappointment that there was yet no answer from his son. It was now ten months since Renstern had left Vienna. He had gone to Ulm on account of some little affair, and returned upon the day which he and Ermance were in the weekly habit of passing with Font-barre. Ermance," said he, "I have some business to talk over with my uncle to-day, and I have brought you some baubles from Ulm to amuse you in my absence." Renstern returned late from his uncle's, and found Ermance reading her prayers. Next morning Font-barre was no more. An early summons informed Renstern of his loss. Being the nearest relation on the spot, he acted as executor; and a will was discovered, by which Font-barre's son was disinherited, and Renstern made heir to his uncle's wealth. Ermance trusted that her lord would be gene the streets; and the sound of welcome and rejoicing fills the air, as the magnificent equipage drives under the Munich gate. Six horsemen, upon richly-caparisoned Hungarians, ride before, blowing silver trumpets; six horses in magnificent trappings lead rapidly on the chariot, where sit the Baron of Frankenthall and the fair Ermance; and twelve of the chief vassals upon prancing steeds bring up the rear, arrayed in the colours of the house, and bearing its trophies. Sweetly did Ermance smile, and kiss her hand to the people who adored her, as she passed along the streets; and often did the Baron bow in affable dignity. It was a beautiful May day: the sun looked out joyfully, and the gaiety of external nature seemed to invite happiness to harmonize with it. Never had the abode of Renstern looked more lovely. The trees were covered with leaves and blossoms; the earth was full of flowers, the last of the spring, and the firstborn of summer; the perfumes of the hawthorn and the violet mingled together, and made harmony of sweet smells, as the birds made harmony of sounds. Ermance was happy. There was a great feast that day at Frankenthall all Ranstadt and Eindort were invited to partake of it, and many nobles came from far to renew their friendship with its possessor. The feast was loud and joyous, and long after the vassals had retired the hall resounded with the mirth of the nobles; but at length it was past, and all was silent, and Renstern walked forth to taste the cool of the night air. He looked down upon Ranstadt and Eindort: the fires yet blazed on the neighbouring heights, the illuminations were not quite extinct, and the sound of distant mirth occasionally broke upon the silence:— around and above all was calm and still. It had been intended that Renstern and Ermance should remain a short time at Frankenthall, and then repair to Vienna. Sad as were Ermance's associations with Vienna, she looked forward to the time with eagerness and she threw herself upon her husband's neck, and sobbed bitterly. Renstern did not repulse her. 66 'Ermance," said he, "my kind one, I shall be less gloomy to-morrow, and then you will be happier." The morrow came, and Ermance perceived a change in his manner: he remained at Frankenthall all day, and spoke more, and looked with more kindness upon her than she had remembered for a long time. joy; for, alas! she was miserable at Franken- | longer hide her wretchedness and her tears: thall. Renstern was hardly ever with her, and his presence brought no comfort with it. All day long he would walk or ride over the country, and it was only when day closed that he returned to Frankenthall. When Ermance spoke to him, he seemed hardly to hear her: he was in a state of constant restlessness: the least noise seemed to alarm him; and if at night a knock was heard at the gate, he would | start from his chair. He invited the neighbouring gentry to the castle; but they liked not the visit, and seldom came. Renstern, they said, was changed; he seemed absent and uncourtly, and looked upon his guests suspiciously. Sometimes he would drink deep, Ermance the only witness; and then he would laugh loud, and speak of the pleasures of Vienna, and call her his sweet mistress, and declare that life must be enjoyed. Remorse is like a cancer: it eats life away; the mind, becomes a volcano. The flame may burn low; | but the fire lives on; and, beneath an outward calmness, there is hell. All was mystery to Ermance; but she was miserable. How changed was her smile! They came, like unlooked for strangers, to those lips, where, in former days, they lay enamoured, like the golden clouds that worship around the sun. They came suddenly, as if to keep tears down in the fountain of sorrow; they were like sunbeams falling upon thick mists, or like the lamps which illumine a sepulchre. Often would her tears choke the utterance of her prayers; and then she would raise her streaming eyes to heaven, and think of the goodness of God, and the misery of her husband; that misery which, though hidden from her, was no mystery to the Eternal. Often would she wander slowly among the beautiful environs of the castle, to try if the beauty and calmness of nature would communicate tranquillity to her soul. Alas! the charm of nature can soothe that sorrow alone whose pangs would yield to time; but the sorrows which are mingled with uncertainty the calmness of nature cannot still. Sometimes she was on the point of telling her misery to Renstern,-of throwing herself into his arms, and asking leave to console him; but his looks were forbidding, and she feared to learn evil. At last the misery of uncertainty triumphed over her diffidence and her fears. "Otto," said she, fearfully and with a trembling voice, "when we drove through Ranstadt I thought we should be happy at Frankenthall." Renstern made no reply; but she could no It was the evening, and they were sitting to gether, and alone; a bright fire blazed on the hearth, and Ermance felt that a ray of hope and happiness had entered her heart. "Ermance," said Renstern to her, "I will tell you a story. There was once a Silesian, and this Silesian was an atheist. You know, Ermance, what an atheist is?" "Yes," replied she, "but I do not wish to hear a story about atheists." "This Silesian," continued he, "inherited great possessions; but they passed from him, no matter how. The Silesian had a rich relative, who had an only son; but the son was in a foreign land; and what do you think the Silesian did?" "I know not," said Ermance. Nay, but guess," said he; the sequel is the best of it.” "Indeed I cannot; but look less wildly, Otto." "He forged a will in his own favour, and poisoned his uncle." His uncle, did you say!" interrupted Er mance. "I know not," continued he; "his relative; but it matters not: the Silesian recovered his lands, and he thought he should then enjoy himself." 66 Enjoy himself!" interrupted Ermance: "how could a murderer hope to enjoy himself?" "But I have told you," continued Renstern, "that the Silesian was an atheist. He knew that the deed could not be discovered in this world; and as he did not believe in any other, he thought he had nothing to fear." "He had his conscience to fear," said Ermance. "I know not," continued Renstern; "but the Silesian was deceived. He became the slave of fear, and he knew not of what, but yet he was miserable. He was afraid to look around him, lest he should see his uncle; but his fear was foolish, for he knew his uncle could not rise from his grave. He heard for ever a silent talking in the air-a horrid silence, which was not silence. The most common things became in his eyes objects of terror; even the implements of household use took, in his imagination, shapes of hideous deformity, which he dared not look upon. The least noise would alarm him." Ermance trembled: the traits of resemblance had produced no suspicion;-still the resemblance affrighted her; and an undefined horror thrilled through her. Renstern, Otto," said she, "finish this dreadful tale." "Presently," continued he. "The Silesian dreaded his sleeping hours the most; and he tried to keep himself awake. His dreams!but they were too dreadful to tell you. He thought of requesting his wife to awake him when he slept.' "Alas! he had a wife then?" said Ermance. "He had," continued Renstern; "but she knew nothing of his deeds until the day when he poisoned himself." "Alas! his poor wife!" said Ermance. "The Silesian found existence insupportable; and he knew that death would terminate his misery. It might be in the evening, about this time, that the Silesian entered the room where his wife was, after he had drunk poison, and he said he would tell her the story of a Bavarian who-" Renstern stopped-death was upon his cheek -his eyes closed. "Mercy!" cried Ermance,-and she sprung to him. But death kept his prey. He was buried at the old churchyard of Ranstadt, and Ermance lived a life of sorrow, loved and lamented by all, and said daily masses for the soul of Renstern. FANCY IN NUBIBUS, OR THE POET IN THE CLOUDS. O! it is pleasant, with a heart at ease, To make the shifting clouds be what you please, Or let the easily-persuaded eyes Own each quaint likeness issuing from the mould And cheek aslant, see rivers flow of gold From mount to mount through Cloudland, gorgeous land! Or list'ning to the tide, with closed sight, Be that blind bard who, on the Chian strand By those deep sounds possess'd, with inward light Rise to the swelling of the voiceful sea. S. T. COLERIDGE. THE NIGHTINGALE'S COMPLAINT. BY SHAKSPEARE. As it fell upon a day, In the merry month of May, That to hear her so complain, Senseless trees, they cannot hear thee; All thy friends are lapp'd in lead: If thou sorrow, he will weep; HOUSE-HUNTING. BY ALARIC A. WATTS. Next to the election of a lady as "a companion for life," there is, perhaps, nothing on earth so perplexing as the choice of a house. The requisites admitted, by universal consent, to be indispensable both for the comfort and convenience of persons of even moderate ambition, are of so multiform and diverse a nature, that it is next to impossible to find them united in any one tenement (however eligible it may appear on a first "view") under the canopy of heaven. It is in vain that you fortify your memory with all the desiderata which the most experienced House-hunter may have it in his power to suggest for your information; for, although the eligibilities turn out to be ever so numerous and important, there is always some little piddling nuisance to weaken and impair the freshness of a "first impression"--some objection which, to borrow the language of the law, is sure to be "fatal," and to overturn all our plans of colonization. Sometimes, indeed, the point is "reserved" for the opinion of that most righteous of all "judges," a discreet wife: but one trifling evil in posse, in such cases at least, is uniformly allowed to counterbalance a whole host of conveniences in esse. Now, as I have the good fortune to be united to a woman who is allowed by all her neighbours to be one of the best managers in the country, and whose opinion on every question | of domestic economy is (according to her own belief) infallible, it will readily be believed that the vexations and disappointments which I have been called upon to endure, in the course of my various changes of domicile, have been such as no ordinary foresight could have averted. Blessed with an adviser of surpassing clearness of perception, I must inevitably have escaped all inconvenience, had not my perplexities been of a very peculiar character. But I am anticipating the disclosure of my miseries. Some few months ago, a maiden aunt of my wife, from whom we had, in reality, no reasonable expectations (although my penetrating | spouse has repeatedly declared, that she should not be surprised if aunt Grizzy were to leave us something comfortable), died, and be queathed us two thousand pounds in the three per cents. This God-send, for such indeed it was to us, occasioned a good deal of discussion in our little circle. The point in debate was not whether we wanted such an accession to our fortune-for it was admitted, nem. com. that nothing could have been more seasonabl -but to what purposes it should be applied! After repeated deliberations, it was proposed by my daughter Monimia (a lively girl of sixteen), and seconded by her mother, that we should straightway remove to a larger and more commodious residence. They both affected to feel convinced, that the difference of rent between a small and what they were pleased to term a respectable house, would be more than compensated for by the increased convenience to papa, for whose fatiguing walks to and from town they had just then begun to feel the most poignant concern. Independently of this, and other weighty reasons which I was not prepared to controvert, the dearness of all the necessaries of life at our distance from the great city, and the impossibility of passing a social evening with a friend, or of witnessing a new play, or a new opera, with out a most grievous taxation in the shape of coach-hire (not to mention the shoe-leather destroyed, and dresses dilapidated in wading through suburban mire), were all thrown inte the scale; no wonder, therefore, that it should have kicked the beam in the twinkling of an To say the truth, although I affected to object to our removal, I was by no means inclined to oppose it à l'outrance. So far from it, indeed, that I had a strong inclination to locate in a more agreeable neighbourhood myself, and was only restrained from giving expression to my sentiments by the apprehension, that my too ready acquiescence might produce an unfavourable alteration in my wife's opinions; who, notwithstanding that she is possessed of innumerable good qualities, is not without the common failing of her sex. Perhaps, too, I was the more anxious that the matter should appear to originate solely with herself, as I was well assured that if it did not turn out quite so favourably as we anticipated, she would lay the whole burden of the failure entirely at my door:-for, although I am allowed a very limited share in the credit of any new scheme that may happen to be successful in its results, of which I am the author, I am pretty secure of bearing the full brunt of the odium, should it chance to miscarry. eye. |