faction; a terrible expression of rage kindled the eye like fire, then it dilated with horror, and then glared terribly with despair. Francis shrank from the fixed and stony gaze. But his very terror was selfish. "It must not witness against me," rushed into his mind. He seized a fold of the grave clothes, crushed the eye in the socket, and closed the lid of the coffin. A yell of agony rose upon the silent night. Francis was about to smite the howling dog, when he saw that it lay dead at his feet. He hurried with his precious casket from the chamber, which he never entered again.- -Years have passed away, and the once gay and handsome Francis Saville is a grey and decrepit man, bowed by premature old age, and with a constitution broken by excess. But the shrewd man has been careful in his calculations; he knew how selfish early indulgence and worldly knowledge had made himself, and he had resolved that so his children should not be corrupted: he had two, a boy and a girl, who had been brought up in the strictest ignorance and seclusion, and in the severest practices of the Catholic faith. He well knew that fear is a stronger bond than love, and his children trembled in the presence of the father, whom their mother's latest words had yet enjoined them to cherish. Still the feeling of dutiful affection is strong in the youthful heart, though Mr. Saville resolved not to tempt it, by one hint of his precious secret. "I cannot bear to look in the glass," exclaimed Mr. Saville, as he turned away from his own image in a large mirror opposite; "why should I bear about this weight of years and deformity? My plan is all matured, and never will its execution be certain as now. Walter must soon lose his present insecure and devout simplicity, and on them only can I rely. Yes, this very night will I fling off the slough of years, and awake to youth, warm, glad, and buoyant youth." Mr. Saville now rang the bell for his attendants to assist him to bed. When comfortably settled, his children came as usual to wish him good night, and kneel for his blessing; he received them with the most touching tenderness. "I feel," said he, "unusually ill to-night. I would fain, Edith, speak with your brother alone." Edith kissed her father's hand, and withdrew. 66 "You were at confession to-day when I sent for you," continued the invalid, addressing the youth, who leant anxiously by his pillow. Ah, my beloved child, what a blessed thing it is to be early trained to the paths of salvation. Alas! at your age I was neglected and ignorant ; but for that, many things which now press heavily on my conscience had, I trust, never been. It was not till after my marriage with that blessed saint your mother that my conscience was awakened. I made a pilgrimage to Rome, and received from the hands of our holy Father the Pope, a precious oil, distilled from the wood of the true cross, which, rubbed over my body as soon as the breath of life be departed, will purify my mortal remains from sin, and the faith in which I die will save my soul from purgatory. May I rely upon the dutiful obedience of my child to the last wishes of his parent?" 66 Oh, my father!" sobbed the youth. Extinguish the lights, for it is not fitting that humanity should watch the mysteries of faith; and, by your own hope of salvation, anoint the body the moment life is fled. It is contained in this casket,” pointing to the little ebony box; "and thus you undo the spring. Leave me now, my child. I have need of rest and meditation." The youth obeyed; when, as he was about to close the door, he heard the voice of Mr. Saville, "Remember, Walter; my blessing or my curse will follow you through life, according as you obey my last words. My blessing or my curse!" The moment he left the room Mr. Saville unfastened the casket, and from another drawer took a bottle of laudanum: he poured its contents into the negus on his table, and drank the draught!—The midnight was scarce passed when the nurse, surprised at the unwonted quiet of her usually querulous and impetuous patient, approached and undrew the curtain: her master was dead! The house was immediately alarmed. Walter and his sister were still sitting up in the small oratory which had been their mother's, and both hastened to the chamber of death. Ignorance has its blessing; what a world of corruption and distrust would have entered those youthful hearts, could they have known the worthlessness of the parent they mourned with such innocent and endearing sorrow. Walter was the first to check his tears. "I have, as you know, Edith, a sacred duty to perform; leave me for awhile alone, and we will afterwards spend the night in prayer for our father's soul." The girl left the room, and her brother proceeded with his task. He opened the casket and took out the phial; the candles were then extinguished, and, first telling the beads of his rosary, he approached the bed. The night was dark, and the shrill wind moaned like a human being in some great agony, but the pious son felt no horror as he raised the body in his arms to perform his holy office. An exquisite odour exhaled from the oil, which he began to rub lightly and carefully over the head. Suddenly he started, the phial fell from his hand and was dashed to atoms on the floor. "His face is warm-I feel his breath! Edith, dear Edith! come here. The nurse was wrong: my father lives!" His sister ran from the adjacent room, where she had been kneeling before an image of the Madonna in earnest supplication, with a small taper in her hand: both stood motionless from terror as the light fell on the corpse. There were the contracted and emaciated hands laid still and rigid on the counterpane; the throat, stretched and bare, was meagre and withered; but the head was that of a handsome youth, full of freshness and life. The rich chestnut curls hung in golden waves on the white forehead, a bright colour was on the cheek, and the fresh, red lips were like those of a child; the large hazel eyes were open, and looked from one to the other, but the expression was that of a fiend,-rage, hate, and despair mingling together, like the horrible beauty given to the head of Medusa. The children fled from the room, only, however, to return with the priest, who deemed that sudden sorrow had unsettled their reason. own eyes convinced him of the truth: there was the living head on the dead body! His The beautiful face became convulsed with passion, froth stood upon the lips, and the small white teeth were gnashed in impotent rage. "This is, surely, some evil spirit," and the trembling priest proceeded with the form of exorcism, but in vain. Walter then, with a faltering voice, narrated his last interview with his father. "The sinner," said the old chaplain, This is assuredly the judgment of God." "is taken in his own snare. All night did the three pray beside that fearful bed: at length the morning light of a glad day in June fell on the head. It now looked pale and exhausted, and the lips were wan. Ever and anon, it was distorted by sudden spasms,-youth and health were maintaining a terrible struggle with hunger and pain. The weather was sultry, and the body showed livid spots of decomposition; the beautiful head was still alive, but the damps stood on the forehead, and the cheeks were sunken. Three days and three nights did that brother and sister maintain their ghastly watch. The head was evidently dying. Twice the eyes opened with a wild and strong glare; the third time they closed for ever. Pale, beautiful, but convulsed, the youthful head and the aged body,the one but just cold, the other far gone in corruption,—were laid in the coffin together! TO AN INCONSTANT. I LOVE thee not as once I did! And yet, my love is lessen'd so, There is not less of angel grace And must I tell the reason why, And shade the brow where shines my day? Another's if an hour away! Thy beauty 's constant, but thy mind, This-this my love has lessen'd so, C. W. JOURNAL OF CONVERSATIONS WITH LORD BYRON. BY LADY BLESSINGTON. NO. VII.*. 6 "I NEVER spent an hour with Moore (said Byron) without being ready to apply to him the expression attributed to Aristophanes, You have spoken roses; his thoughts and expressions have all the beauty and freshness of those flowers, but the piquancy of his wit, and the readiness of his repartees, prevent one's ear being cloyed by too much sweets, and one cannot die of a rose in aromatic pain' with Moore, though he does speak roses, there is such an endless variety in his conversation. Moore is the only poet I know (continued Byron) whose conversation equals his writings; he comes into society with a mind as fresh and buoyant as if he had not expended such a multiplicity of thoughts on paper; and leaves behind him an impression that he possesses an inexhaustible mine equally brilliant as the specimens he has given us. Will you, after this frank confession of my opinion of your countryman, ever accuse me of injustice again? You see I can render justice when I am not forced into its opposite extreme by hearing people overpraised, which always awakes the sleeping Devil in my nature, as witness the desperate attack I gave your friend Lord the other day, merely because you all wanted to make me believe he was a model, which he is not; though I admit he is not all or half that which I accused him of being. Had you dispraised, probably I should have defended him." "I will give you some stanzas I wrote yesterday (said Byron); they are as simple as even Wordsworth himself could write, and would do for music." The following are the lines:— то "But once I dared to lift my eyes To lift my eyes to thee; And since that day, beneath the skies, In vain sleep shuts them in the night- What still a dream must be. And still my passions wake and war, But peace be still with thine." "No one writes songs like Moore (said Byron): Sentiment and imagination are joined to the most harmonious versification, and I know * Continued from p. 222, No. cxlvi. no greater treat than to hear him sing his own compositions; the powerful expression he gives to them, and the pathos of the tones of his voice, tend to produce an effect on my feelings that no other songs, or singer, ever could. used to write pretty songs, and certainly has talent, but I maintain there is more poesy in her prose, at least more fiction, than is to be met with in a folio of poetry. You look shocked at what you think my ingratitude towards her, but if you knew half the cause I have to dislike her, you would not condemn me. You shall however know some parts of that serio-comic drama, in which I was forced to play a part; and, if you listen with candour, you must allow I was more sinned against than sinning." The curious history that followed this preface is not intended for the public eye, as it contains anecdotes and statements that are calculated to give pain to several individuals, the same feeling that dictates the suppression of this most curious episode in Byron's London life, has led to the suppression of many other piquant and amusing disclosures made by him, as well as some of the most severe poetical portraits that ever were drawn of some of his supposed friends, and many of his acquaintThe vigour with which they are sketched proves that he entered into every fold of the characters of the originals, and that he painted them con amore, but he could not be accused of being a flattering portrait painter. ances. The disclosures made by Byron could never be considered confidential, because they were always at the service of the first listener who fell in his way, and who happened to know anything of the parties he talked of. They were not confided with any injunction to secrecy, but were indiscriminately made to his chance companions,-nay, he often declared his decided intention of writing copious notes to the Life he had given to his friend Moore, in which the whole truth should be declared of, for, and against, himself and others. Talking of this gift to Mr. Moore, he asked me if it had made a great sensation in London, and whether people were not greatly alarmed at the thoughts of being shown up in it? He seemed much pleased in anticipating the panic it would occasion, naming all the persons who would be most alarmed. I told him that he had rendered the most essential service to the cause of morality by his confessions, as a dread of similar disclosures would operate more in putting people on their guard in reposing dangerous confidence in men, than all the homilies that ever were written; and that people would in future be warned by the phrase of "beware of being Byroned," instead of the old cautions used in past times. "This (continued I) is a sad antithesis to your motto of Crede Byron." He appeared vexed at my observations, and it struck me that he seemed uneasy and out of humour for the next half-hour of our ride. I told him that his gift to Moore had suggested to me the following lines: |