What! not yet?" And his eyes seemed like balls of fire as he cast them upwards. "Not yet? I call ye once! I call ye twice! Dare you deny me? Nay, then, as I call ye thrice, I'll wound mine arm, and as it drops, I'll breathe a spell, shall cleave the ground and drag you here!"

He held his left arm over the chalice, clutched it with his hand, and as if the talons of an eagle had infixed themselves, the blood spouted forth. While it dripped into the vessel, his lips moved convulsively, his eyes rolled, his limbs shook, and he gasped for breath like a strong man fighting hard with his last agonies.

Suddenly the tapers were extinguished, and there remained only the fearful glare that flickered horribly from the unhallowed torch. It reached not to the altar; so Frederick saw not Hermann. But he saw upon its lowest stepHIS MOTHER! even as he had seen her the day he returned without his brother, when he spoke not the word that would have spared those long hours of grief which the mystery of his absence caused; to be followed, at last, by all a mother's heart can feel for the untimely death of a beloved son. He bent his knee in reverential awe before the sacred shade; and his soul grew faint within him; for there was upon that maternal face a sad look of pity and of wrath. He had thoughts that burned for utterance, but he had no tongue to give them utterance. The form spoke:

"Why hast thou troubled me in death my son? Why hast thou in life arrayed thee in that garb of death? Why hast thou disturbed MY sepulchre, for the shroud that infolds thee?"

Shrieks of horror burst from him, as again he strove, but vainly, to tear off the sacrilegious spoil of his mother's grave. "Son! thou hast sought, unholily, the secrets of the dead; hear MINE! The canker that preyed upon my life was grief for thee. The forsaken of God, are they alone who forsake God. All sinners else may hope to be partakers of

his infinite mercies. THOU WERT GOD-FORSAKEN. Thou clothedst thyself in the pride of thy understanding-said there was no God—and lived as if thou didst believe in thy impiety. I loved thee, for I bare thee—thou wert my child; but the thorns planted in my heart by the knowledge that my child must perish eternally, wounded it to death!”

The shadow faded away, and again the laughing yell of exulting voices sounded in the affrighted ears of Frederick, as he lay prostrate on the cold damp pavement, shedding involuntary tears. They fell from his eyes like drops of molten lead. His brain seemed on fire. He groaned, and howled, and gnashed his teeth, and dashed his face furiously against the stones. He heard the voice of Hermann. Oh! the damning chuckle of that voice, as he joyously shouted, "Rare secrets! brave secrets! marvellous revelations for the living!" "Since when hath such a notion possessed you?" Since my mother died!' 'And she died-' 'Oh ask the doctor,' ha! ha! ha! he'll tell you 'twas of atrophy;' ha ha! ha! but my father died before her, Hermann; and had he lived, she were living too!' ha! ha! ha! 'I laughed amid my tears to hear them talk; and then it was I first thought how the dead would answer for themselves.' Ha! ha! ha! Laugh, man, laugh as I do! Laugh Now, amid thy tears, thou desperate fool!"

The next morning Frederick was found a corpse in the abbey church, at the foot of his mother's tomb, leading to the altar. Adolphine told what she knew of the compact between him and Hermann; but Hermann brought forward two fellow students with whom he had passed the preceding evening; and his own servant proved that he retired to bed at eleven, where he found him at the usual hour when he went to call him. Hermann himself, too, denied that he had ever entered into such a compact, wept

for the death of his friend, and triumphed over his accusers. Yet, had he been required to bear his left arm, there would have appeared upon it the fresh blood-marks of lacerated flesh, as if torn by an eagle's talons !

THE USE OF TEARS.

BY LORD MORPETH.

Be not thy tears too harshly chid,
Repine not at the rising sigh;—
Who, if they might, would always bid
The breast be still, the cheek be dry?

How little of ourselves we know
Before a grief the heart has felt;

The lessons that we learn of woe

May brace the mind, as well as melt.

The energies too stern for mirth,

The reach of thought, the strength of will,
Mid cloud and tempest have their birth,
Through blight and blast their course fulfil.

Love's perfect triumph never crown'd
The hope unchequer'd by a pang;

The gaudiest wreaths with thorns are bound,
And Sappho wept before she sung.

Tears at each pure emotion flow:
They wait on Pity's gentle claim,

On Admiration's fervid glow,

On riety's seraphic flame.

"Tis only when it mourns and fears

The loaded spirit feels forgiven,
And through the mist of falling tears

We catch the clearest glimpse of Heaven

MORNING CALLS.

"An, it is a sad thing, to be sure," said the fashionable Mrs. Lowton to her friend Lady James, as, after a few common-place inquiries on my entrance, she returned to the conversation I had interrupted ;-" I really wonder, after Emma's delightful match, that she could have been so imprudent."

"Heavens! my dear Mrs. Lowton! you do surprise me." "Yes, indeed, I think it has surprised every one ;--but you know, Lady James, she was always vastly opinionated."

"So I have heard; but really, I am very sorry,—she seemed such a nice young woman. Only four hundred ayear, did you say?"

Scarcely that, I am told,-it is a very poor living indeed. I really don't see how they are to exist; for you know, she had no fortune of her own, and he has nothing beyond his preferment."

"Dear, dear! it is a sad business."

“I can assure you it is a grievous disappointment to her friends, for she might have done so much better ;-you must have seen Lord S-'s attentions,-five thousand a-year there! But, Mr.-," she turned abruptly to me, "you must remember the Vernons,-you have often met them here?"

Now, it so happened, that I not only remembered them, but that the real purpose of my early call on the fashionable Mrs. Lowton, did not arise from any personal interest, as regarded the lady's self,—the mere compliment of a card, even after my six years' absence from England, would have amply satisfied that, but, to ascertain, through her means, where the said Vernons were to be found; for they were two

old and dear friends of mine. And though my long separation from my country had dissipated many of the associations of my earlier life, and destroyed most of its attachments. still, it had not in the slightest degree impaired my regard for this amiable family.

I had left them rich in beauty,-blooming in youth,smiling in loveliness;-six years had now passed away, and my uncertain pursuits had kept me but ill-advised of the events to them, at least-of those six years; - nor was I at all pleased, that my first intelligence should have been thus ungracious, as concerned the dearest of those dear sisters.

Promptly acknowledging my acquaintance, — although not all my acquaintance with them,—I asked with earnest anxiety the particulars of poor Alicia's sad fault.

"Fault, Mr.—!” exclaimed the lady, with evident surprise, and then turning to her friend, finished to her the interjection-" Why, Lady James, we cannot exactly call it a fault, you know."

No, my dear Mrs. Lowton," rejoined her ladyship," not exactly;-she has certainly thought proper to marry a poor man, when she had plenty of rich ones to choose from ;but that "

"Is a fault," continued her friend, "only as people choose to consider it."

"But surely, Mrs. Lowton," I inquired, "you do not regard wealth as the only good?-There may, I hope, be happiness without its abundance,—in some cases, perhaps, more, than with its greatest gifts?"

"Very likely, Sir." Mrs. Lowton did not look half pleased with the interrogatory;—I fear her admitted assent was only about equally sincere.

"Pray, Madam,”—I waited a moment for the evaporation of her surprise," is there any objection to the gentleman, beyond his limited income?"