“In the bed in which I slept I found this ring,” said Edward, while he produced it; “and the apparition of my friend pronounced that name.”

“Wonderful!  As I tell you, I know no one so called—­this is the first time I ever heard the name.  But it is entirely unaccountable to me, how the ring should have come into that bed.  You see, M. von Wensleben, what I told you is true.  There is something very peculiar about that room:  the moment you entered, I saw that the spell had been working on you also, but I did not wish to forestall or force your confidence.”

“I felt the delicacy, as I do now the kindness, of your intentions.  Those who are as sad as I am can alone tell the value of tenderness and sympathy.”

Edward remained this day and the following at the castle, and felt quite at home with its worthy inmates.  He slept twice in the haunted room.  He went away, and came back often; was always welcomed cordially, and always quartered in the same apartment.  But, in spite of all this, he had no clew, he had no means of lifting the vail of mystery which hung round the fate of Ferdinand Hallberg and of Emily Varnier.

* * * * *

FROM PUNCH.

OUR “IN MEMORIAM.”

  Not in the splendor of a ruinous glory
  Emblazoned, glitters our lost Statesman’s name: 
  The great deeds that have earned him deathless fame
  Will cost us merely thanks.  Their inventory
  Of peaceful heroism will be a story,
  Of wise assertion of a rightful claim,
  And Commerce freed by sagely daring aim. 
  Famine averted; Revolution glory
  Disarmed; and the exhausted Commonweal
  Recruited; these are things that England long
  Will couple with the name of ROBERT PEEL,
  Of whom the worst his enemies can say
  Is, that he left the error of his way
  When Conscience told him he was in the wrong.

* * * * *

FROM THE SOUTHERN LITERARY MESSENGER.

TO W.J.R., WITH A MS.

  A little common weed, a simple shell,
    From the waste margent of a classic sea;
  A flower that grew where some great empire fell,
    Worthless themselves, are rich to Memory. 
  And thus these lines are precious, for the hand
    That penned their music crumbles into mould;
    And the hot brain that shaped them now is cold
  In its own ashes, like a blackened brand.—­
  But where the fiery soul that wove the spell;
    Weeping with trailing wings beside his tomb? 
  Or stretched and tortured on the racks of Hell
    Dark-scowling at the ministers of doom?—­
  Peace! this is but a dream, there cannot be
  More suffering for him in Eternity!

R.H.  STODDARD

* * * * *

FROM THE KNICKERBOCKER MAGAZINE.

THE ACTUAL.

  Away! no more shall shadows entertain;
    No more shall fancy paint and dreams delude;
  No more shall these illusions of the brain
    Divert me with their pleasing interlude;
  Forever are ye banished, idle joys;
  Welcome, stern labor-life—­this is no world for toys!