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ten were condemned as heretical, and the remainder as erroneous. In defense. of teaching his doctrines, and disseminating the itinerant preachers, who went about the Scriptures, and against whom a royal proclamation had been issued, Wycliffe published a treatise, with the title, Why poor Priests have no Benefices, and also appealed to the Commons in their behalf. In this appeal he was successful, and the obnoxious proclamation was withdrawn. In 1783 he appeared for the last time before the convocation at Oxford, to answer for his teaching in regard to the doctrine of transubstantiation. aged, feeble, unfriended; but he scorned He was alone, to recant, and persisted in denying any material or fleshly presence of Christ in the sacramental bread. He, however, put forth his unrivaled powers as a master of the scholastic art, and confounded his judges by the subtilty of his reasonings. The result was, that they passed no sentence upon him, but satisfied themselves with obtaining letters from the king, permanently expelling him from Oxford.

cision, and he has almost as strong a claim to be considered the father of English prose as Chaucer of English poetry. Wycliffe's profound and patient study of the Scriptures at length convinced him that they alone supply a sufficient and infallible rule of faith and practice to the Church. This conclusion he announced and defended in his work De Veritate Scripturæ. "God's will," he says, "is plainly revealed in the Two Testaments, which may be called Christ's law, or the faith of the Church, and Christ's law sufficient of itself to rule Christ's Church, which law a Christian man well understanding may thence gather sufficient knowledge during his pilgrimage here on earth." Wycliffe's superiority to the false and superstitious beliefs of his time, his clear, firm, simple Bible Christianity, form very remarkable features in his character. He repudiated the whole doctrine of the Papacy, as to the primacy of the Pope, his headship over the Church, the divine origin and authority of the hierarchy, the power of the priesthood, auricular confession, the celibacy of the clergy, absolutions, indulgences, interdicts, excommuni- last triumph; but, like a good soldier, he This was the reformer's last trial and cations, the native efficacy of the sacra- died in harness; for on the twenty-ninth ments, the adoration of saints, and the December, whilst engaged in conducting worship of images and relics. In 1381 he divine service, he was struck down by a openly attacked the doctrine of transub-final stroke of paralysis. He was borne stantiation, and published a paper at Oxford containing twelve conclusions directed against it, and a challenge to all the members of the University to meet him in a public discussion. The challenge was declined; but the whole power of the University was promptly directed against the bold challenger. He was ultimately obliged to retire to Lutterworth, in order to be beyond the jurisdiction of the Chancellor of the University, pleading an appeal, which he had taken from his judgment to the King and Parliament. At Lutterworth he devoted himself with characteristic energy to the care of his parish, and to preaching; and no fewer than three hundred of his Lutterworth discourses have come down to us, in spite of the efforts made to destroy them.

In 1382 Constance, Bishop of London, Wycliffe's most powerful enemy, was elevated to the primacy, and lost no time in convoking a synod to condemn the heresies of the reformer. Twenty-six articles were selected from his writings, of which

to the rectory, and there expired, full of hope and peace, on the last day of the year 1384, in the sixty-eighth year of his age. The dawn of Wycliffe's reformation, so bright and full of promise, was speedily overcast. King Henry IV. lent all his influence to suppress the movement, and it finally sunk under the weight of perse.. cution. Wycliffe's writings were publicly burnt, anathemas heaped upon his name, and his very bones ordered to be dug up, and thrown out of consecrated ground. In 1428terment in the chancel of Lutterworth forty-two years after their inchurch then burnt on the bridge that spans the - his remains were disinterred, little stream that flows past Lutterworth, and the ashes flung into the water. "This to the Avon, Avon into the Severn, Severn brook," says Fuller, " did convey his ashes into the narrow seas, thus into the main ocean; and thus the ashes of Wycliffe were the emblems of his doctrine, which is now dispersed all the world over."

ONE dreary autumn evening, shortly after I had taken possession of my living (thus my friend, the Rev. Mr. Z., began his narrative,) I was sitting alone in my study, the same which I occupy to this day, and from which I overlook the church and the churchyard, when a servant-girl entered, and announced that a strange gentleman was waiting in the drawingroom, who wished to speak to me. I hastened down-stairs, and found a goodlooking young man, although he appeared to be unusually pale, with an expression of wild grief in his eyes, which led me to conclude that he was the bearer of some unpleasant intelligence.

"I come to beg you for the key of the Lejonswärd'schen family vault," said he; "I believe you have it ?"

"What!" I demanded, in astonishment, "do you wish it now, at this late

hour?"

"Yes; I must have it," said the stranger, impatiently, "for a corpse. Alas! a corpse is to be interred immediately."

The stranger's manners seemed to me to be so very peculiar that I still hesitated. On perceiving this, he cried :

"You appear to be unwilling to give it, sir. You need not hesitate; my name is Lejonswärd, and the corpse that is to be laid in the narrow tomb is that of my wife. I have one key, but require the other from you. Will you still refuse it

to me ?"

The simple burial was over, and immediately afterwards a servant brought me back the key.

Several years had passed, when the same gentleman entered my room one morning.

"Do you recollect me?" he asked. I answered in the affirmative. "It is well," continued he; "I am going to become. your parishioner, yonder, at Lejonsnäs."

"Are you going to live at Lejonsnäs? Surely you are not in earnest, Herr Count! No one has resided there for nearly a hundred years."

"So much the better! I will turn it once more into a human dwelling; but I shall lead a very secluded life: my servant is to be my major-domo, my coachmau, and my valet; that will be a quiet household! Will you accompany me?" continued he. Though the proprietor of the estate, I am perfectly ignorant of its situation. Will you accompany me, and install me among my dear forefathers who are there in effigy ?"

Having acquainted my wife with my intended journey, I seated myself along with the Count in his carriage, and set off, driven by the much-experienced domestic, who, besides his knowledge of the mysteries of the kitchen and the bedchamber, was also skilled in managing a pair of horses.

We soon arrived at the estate. A large, heavy building, to which wings had been added, stood, with its dingy windows, in gloomy grandeur; a double row of ancient trees skirted the spacious courtyard, in the center of which, surrounded by a wild and partly withered hedge of box, rose a dried-up fountain. slight description of the place.

This is a

I gave him the key, and with scarcely a word of thanks he hastened away. I returned to my chamber, and gazed forth into the darkness which shrouded the churchyard. I soon perceived lights moving over the graves towards the vaults; the vault lies here, on this side, and the wall at the entrance is ornamented by a The Count smiled and looked at me. lion holding in its paw a pierced heart. "How does the house please you?" said The tomb was opened, and I saw the he. "To me it looks like the abode of torchlight through the grating. It was a specters. It is strange," continued he, gloomy sight, which I shall never forget."that people are always anxious to attach

These apartments having been brought into some sort of order, the Count estab lished himself in them; from the time he had taken possession of his paternal prop

The moldings of the ceilings were deco- | his lip, "darkness is so necessary for the rated by groups of clumsy figures, a rem preservation of what is old." nant of the grotesque taste, and accumulation of ornaments so prevalent in the seventeenth century. This had formerly been the chamber in which the councilor had studied, and it had been left un-erty, his temper appeared to have become touched, just as it was during his lifetime. A clock, in a large stand of Chinese painting, in black and gold, stood silent and covered with dust in a corner, and a thick bell-rope with ponderous silk tassels still hung in another corner near the heavy writing-table, before which was placed, as if the student had only a moment before arisen from it, a narrow, high-backed chair, with legs curved outwards. Beyond this room came a bed-chamber, decorated in the same style as the one we had just left.

"By Heavens!" said the Count, "it almost seems as if you were right. I can not reconcile myself to these rooms, and to this furniture. Rooms and furnitureif I may so express myself-are our nearest acquaintances-a chair, a table, a sofa, are often our most intimate companions." At length we arrived at two small rooms, the windows of which looked out upon the garden; they seemed to have been more recently occupied, and were more simply furnished.

"I shall pitch my tent here!" said the Count. "The arrangements can not be said to be of the newest fashion, but, at any rate, there is a more cheerful aspect about this place than in any other part of the castle."

Before the table stood an arm-chair, which formerly had been gilded, but now the white grounding was visible in many places; the red velvet with which it was covered was not faded; indeed, upon the whole, the colors were better preserved in this room than in the others. I was surprised at it, but the Count, who regarded every thing in his own peculiar way, merely remarked that the chamber lay on the northern side of the house.

more equable. The castle harmonized with his restless soul, which cared not for the present, but loved rather to live amidst the memory of the past, which was crowded with familiar acquaintances; or to endeavor to seek a dark and mysteri ous intercourse with another, and to us unknown, world.

He was a visionary, but a noble visionary, with a deep sense of every thing that is good and grand. I frequently visited him, and found him often engaged in reading, but he always hid his book when I entered. Once, however, I happened to catch a glimpse of it: it was Jung Stilling's works.

"I see, Count," said I, "that you are reading about ghosts and apparitions. You surely do not believe in them ?"

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I be

"Why should I not? Is there any thing absurd in that belief, or do you suppose that man is the only being in the creation intellectually endowed? That he stands next to God? Do you not believe in the possibility that the human soul, when freed from its vile earthly garment, can receive a more perfect, an ethereal body, suited to its new state? lieve in it, and find comfort in the thought. What were man if he did not, even here below penetrate, however dimly, into a future existence, and acquire a slight knowledge of its mysteries? What were we, did we not all believe in this, to a greater or less extent? I maintain that there does not exist a man who has not some belief in spirits, even though he may ridicule the idea to others. When Death steals away the best beloved of a man's heart, seizes her in his bony arms, and draws her down into the gloom of the grave-when the hand of Providence lies heavily upon him- rest assured, my friend, that man will believe in a spiritual

"You see, Herr Pastor, where the full glare of the sun can not penetrate, any thing old is better preserved. It is a well-world.” known fact, that what is ancient is best preserved in darkness; this holds good as well in the material as in the moral world, for light is only required by that which is growing. Objects that decay are more casily destroyed in light than in twilight. Hence," he added, with a satirical curl of

"I speak of the atmosphere as being peopled with spirits; to that belief the soul of man clings when sorrowing for the dead."

"Sorrow often leads to wild ideas," I remarked.

"Sorrow!" repeated the Count. "You are partly right; sorrow constitutes the night in the fate of mankind. When we are prosperous we heed not the noiseless, measured movement of the wheel of fate; the earthly element asserts its right over us, and cheats us into the belief that we are happy. True happiness and sorrow are more in unison than we are apt to fancy. If we sit on a peaceful evening with a beloved wife and her children, and thank the Lord for all the blessings we enjoy, it is their presence which constitutes our happiness; or, if we fall upon our knees by the side of their inanimate corpses, though we are bowed down with grief for their loss at first, after a time we cease to feel that we are alone. There is a something invisible, inaudible, and yet intelligible to our inmost soul that tells us restoration succeeds to dissolution, and life succeeds to death; and this something I call a mysterious intercourse with the spirit-world."

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"But, Count," I suggested, reason points out to us

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"Reason!" repeated he, impetuously interrupting me. 'Speak not of cold reason! What is that power which some possess of divining every feeling, every thought of those near them? What is feeling in comparison with forebodingjudgment in comparison with faith? He who acknowledges the existence of a higher world-who sincerely and earnestly believes in a connection between his feelings and their author-God-is a person of elevated mind; the man, on the contrary, who in his pride of intellect detracts from the Holy One, and divides the indivisible, is groveling and limited in his ideas. I never could endure that overwise reason, which would force itself into every thing, fancying that it could take part in every thing, without doing so in reality. Do not say, therefore, Herr Pastor, what reason points out to us. I contend that reason knows nothing about the

matter."

I found it was not worth while to dispute with the Count, for as he would not admit the right of reason, I had nothing to advance against his vague and undefinable notions.

"It is a comfort," said the Count, one day, "to believe in spiritual visits. I live alone here; my servants inhabit the

second story, and you may possibly fancy that my time often hangs heavily on my hands. Far from it; when my candles begin to burn dimly in the evening, and the thick foliage is rustling gently-when the old furniture creaks, and a distant sound is heard, which may either be taken for the ringing of bells or the chanting of low murmuring voices, then my true life begins. I saunter up and down the room, and at times stand still and listen. Ah! then, often do I feel as if a flood of joy were rushing on my wounded heart-there is a flitting sound in the adjoining chamber-Julia, Julia! thou hast not forgotten me!' I exclaim; and, calm and happy, I retire to rest and fall asleep dreaming of her."

The Count sank into deep thought, but he soon raised his dark eyes again, and gazing into my face, he said:

"You are my friend, are you not, even though you do not approve of my chimeras, as you reasonable people call them? I speak of my Julia; you do not know her, although she has for years belonged to your parish. She it was who, on the evening that I saw you for the first time, was conveyed to her last resting-place she, my wife. I will tell you about my Julia, and you must not endeavor to dissuade me, by reasoning, from a belief which has become so necessary to me."

The Count seated himself in a large arm chair, and began his narrative as follows:

The house of Baron Lindesparre, in Stockholm, was, at the period from which my story dates, the rendezvous of all the talent and beauty of the capital. His soirées were noted for the distinguished tone which pervaded them, for their unconstrained mirth, and their elegance without ostentation. His splendid apartments were tastefully arranged, without a single article being placed so as to appear more prominent than the rest: where all was luxury the profusion was not observable. It was only when one analyzed the magnificence of the house that one found it was magnificent.

The Baron had been many years a widower; his wife, a Spaniard by birth, I never saw, but she had left a daughter, beautiful and gentle, a being formed partly of the glowing roses of the South and partly of the snow of the North. She was the fairy of the place, and hundreds vied