Father Mathias took the ring. "I will call upon you to-morrow morning, and let you know what I have done. I shall acquaint the lady abbess that you are going to your husband; for it would not be safe to let her suppose that you have reasons for quitting the convent. I have heard what you state mentioned before, but have treated it as scandal; but you, I know, are incapable of falsehood."

The next day Father Mathias returned, and had an interview with the abbess, who after a time sent for Amine, and told her that it was necessary that she should leave the convent. She consoled her as well as she could at leaving such a happy place, sent for some sweetmeats to make the parting less trying, gave her her blessing, and made her over to Father Mathias; who, when they were alone, informed Amine that he had disposed of the ring for eighteen hundred dollars, and had procured apartments for her in the house of a widow lady, with whom she was to board."

Taking leave of the nuns, Amine quitted the convent with Father Mathias, and was soon installed in her new apartments, in a house which formed part of a spacious square called the Terra di Sabaio. After the introduction to her hostess, Father Mathias left her. Amine found her apartments fronting the square, airy and commodious. The landlady, who had escorted her to view them, not having left her, she inquired "what large church that was on the other side of the square?"

"It is the Ascension," replied the lady; "the music is very fine there; we will go and hear it to-morrow, if you please."

"And that massive building in face of us?"

"That is the Holy Inquisition," said the widow, crossing herself. Amine again started, she knew not why. "Is that your child?" said Amine, as a boy of about twelve years old entered the room.

"Yes," replied the widow, "the only one that is left me. May God preserve him!" The boy was handsome and intelligent, and Amine, for her own reasons, did every thing she could to make friends with him, and was successful.

CHAP. XXXV.

AMINE had just returned from an afternoon's walk through the streets of Goa: she had made some purchases at different shops in the bazaar, and had brought them home under her mantilla. "Here, at last, thank Heaven, I am alone, and not watched," thought Amine as she threw herself on the couch. "Philip, Philip, where are you?" exclaimed she; "I have now the means, and I soon will know." Little Pedro, the son of the widow, entered the room, ran up to Amine, and kissed her. "Tell me, Pedro, where is your mother?"

"She is gone out to see her friends this evening, and we are alone. I will stay with you."

"Do so, dearest. Tell me, Pedro, can you keep a secret?"

"Yes, I will tell it me.”

Nay, I have nothing to tell, but I wish to do something: I wish to make a play, and you shall see things in your hand."

"Oh! yes, show me, do show me.'

"If you promise not to tell."

"No, by the Holy Virgin, I will not."

"Then you shall see."

Amine lighted some charcoal in a chafing-dish, and put it at her feet; she then took a reed pen, some ink from a small bottle, and a pair of scissors, and wrote down several characters on a paper, singing, or rather chanting, words which were not intelligible to her young companion. Amine then threw frankincense and corianda-seed into the chafing-dish, which threw out a strong aromatic smoke; and desiring Pedro to sit down by her on a small stool, she took the boy's right hand and held it in her own. She then drew upon the palm of his hand a square figure with characters on each side of it, and in the centre poured a small quantity of the ink, so as to form a black mirror of the size of a half-crown.

"Now all is ready," said Amine; "look, Pedro, what see you in the ink?"

She threw more frankincense upon the chafing-dish, until the room was full of smoke, and then chanted,

"Turshoon, turyo-shoon-come down, come down.

"Be present, ye servants of these names.

"Remove the veil, and be correct."

The characters she had drawn upon the paper she had divided with the scissors, and now taking one of the pieces, she dropped it into the chafing-dish, still holding the boy's hand.

"Tell me now, Pedro, what do you see?"

Has he done sweeping?"

"I see a man sweeping," replied Pedro, alarmed.
"Fear not, Pedro, you shall see more.
"Yes, he has."

And Amine muttered words, which were unintelligible, and threw into the chafing-dish the other half of the paper with the characters she had written down. "Say now, Pedro, Philip Vanderdecken, appear."

"Philip Vanderdecken, appear!" responded the boy, trembling.

"Tell me what thou seest, Pedro-tell me true!" said Amine anxiously.

"I see a man lying down on the white sand. (I don't like this play.)"

"Be not alarmed, Pedro, you shall have sweetmeats directly. Tell me what thou seest, how the man is dressed?"

"He has a short coat-he has white trousers-he looks about himhe takes something out of his breast and kisses it."

""Tis he! 'tis he! and he lives! Heaven, I thank thee. Look again, boy."

"He gets up. (I don't like this play; I am frightened; indeed I am.)"

"Fear not."

"Oh, yes, I am-I cannot," replied Pedro, falling on his knees; "pray let me go."

Pedro had turned his hand, and spilt the ink, the charm was broken, and Amine could learn no more. She soothed the boy with presents, made him repeat his promise that he would not tell, and postponed further search into fate until the boy should appear to have recovered from his terror, and be willing to resume the ceremonies.

"My Philip lives!-Mother, dear mother, I thank you." Amine did not allow Pedro to leave the room until he appeared to have quite recovered from his fright; for some days she did not say any thing to him, except to remind him of his promise not to tell his mother, or any one else, and she loaded him with presents.

One afternoon when his mother was gone out, Pedro came in, and asked Amine" whether they should not have the play over again?"

Amine, who was anxious to know more, was glad of the boy's request, and soon had every thing prepared. Again was her chamber filled with the smoke of the frankincense: again was she muttering her incautations: the magic mirror was on the boy's hand, and once more had Pedro cried out, "Philip Vanderdecken, appear!" when the door burst open, and Father Mathias, the widow, and several other people made their appearance. Amine started up-Pedro screamed and ran to his mother.

"Then I was not mistaken at what I saw in the cottage at Terneuse," cried Father Mathias, with his arms folded over his breast, and with looks of indignation. "Accursed sorceress! you are detected."

Amine returned his gaze with scorn, and coolly replied, "I am not of your creed-you know it. Eaves-dropping appears to be a portion of your religion. This is my chamber-it is not the first time I have had to request you to leave it-I do so now-you and those who have come in with you."

"Take up all those implements of sorcery first," said Father Mathias to his companions. The chafing-dish, and other articles used by Amine, were taken away; and Father Mathias and the others quitting the room, Amine was left alone.

Amine had a foreboding that she was lost; she knew that magic was a crime of the highest description in Catholic countries, and that she had been detected in the very act. "Well, well," thought Amine; "it is my destiny, and I can brave the worst."

To account for the appearance of Father Mathias and the witnesses, it must be observed, that the little boy Pedro had, the day after Amine's first attempt, forgotten his promise, and narrated to his mother all that had passed. The widow, frightened at what the boy had told her, thought it right to go to Father Mathias, and confide to him what her son had told her, as it was, in her opinion, sorcery. Father Mathias questioned Pedro closely, and, convinced that such was the case, determined to have witnesses to confront Amine. He therefore proposed that the boy should appear to be willing to try again, and had instructed him for the purpose, having previously arranged that they should break in upon Amine as we have described.

About half an hour afterwards two men, dressed in black gowns, came into Amine's room, and requested that she would follow them, or that force would be used. Amine made no resistance; they crossed the square; the gate of a large building was opened; they desired her to walk in, and, in a few seconds, Amine found herself in one of the dungeons of the Inquisition.

(To be continued.)

THE METAPHYSICIAN AND THE MAID.

BY DOUGLAS JERROLD.

LORENZO SILVERTOP had arrived at the thoughtful age of forty-eight, only the day before he became the lodger of Adam Buttons, breeches maker, and liveryman, of the worshipful company of master tailors. Lorenzo was a bachelor; more, he was a metaphysician. He could take mind to pieces as easily as a watchmaker could take a chronometer to bits-knew every little spring of human action; and, in a word, looked through the heads of the sons and daughters of Eve, as easily as though they were of glass, and the motives therein working, labouring bees. To have gained this wisdom is, indeed, to have achieved the noblest triumph of human wit-to look down upon the world the unmoved spectator of its great, as of its little ways, is to sit upon the highest pinnacle attainable by man; only a little higher, stand the angels.

Adam Buttons, never having heard of metaphysics, was, unhappily, ignorant of the proper importance of his new lodger: not that Adam was wholly insensible of his worth-certainly not; for his value to Adam was that of fourteen shillings a week, in payment for the accommodation of two small rooms, domestic service included.

in

The house of Adam Buttons was, in truth, given up-that is, let out many divisions. In the first floor was a flourishing young lawyer, sleek with a fine practice; his office being in Lothbury. Above him was the cashier in a banker's of Lombard-street; in the front attic, lived one of calling unknown-in the back garret, a person who had once been a gentleman. In a dark parlour, with a darker anteroom, filled with a bed, dwelt Lorenzo Silvertop, metaphysician. Where Adam Buttons, his wife, and daughter, consumed the four-and-twenty hours, was never ostentatiously made known; however, there ran a dark suspicion that they inhabited the kitchens. From this, it will be gathered that Buttons was one of those unconscious worldly philosophers, who are content to make the most of their possessions-taking no heed of extrinsic appearance, so that their pockets hold an inward good. Mrs. Buttons was flesh of Adam's flesh, and bone of Adam's bone; but for Bridget Buttons, -as she was in Bow church books registered the daughter of Adam and Wilhelmina Buttons, we must believe in her parentage, otherwise-to avoid all circumlocution, to come at once to a plain statement of the case,-Bridget Buttons was an angel! We repeat it; an angel!-and there were five lodgers in the house, and all of them, on their own showing, in the comfortless state of celibacy. An angel in the furnace.

At the time Lorenzo Silvertop took Buttons's parlours for his abidingplace, he was immersed, chin deep, in a new quarto volume on "Free Will." For the past three years he had sunk, and sunk, in that mare profundum, when at length he began to think that he touched ground.

He alone, who has for months, nay years, lived upon great imaginings-whose subject hath been a part of his blood-a throb of his pulse-hath scarcely faded from his brain as he hath fallen to sleep—

hath waked with him—hath, in his squalid study, glorified even poverty -hath walked with him abroad, and by its ennobling presence, raised him above the prejudice, the little spite, the studied negligence, the sturdy wrong, that, in his out-door life sneer upon and elbow him-he alone, say we, can understand the calm, deep, yea severe joy, felt by Lorenzo, as he stood tiptoe on page 250, and heard afar the silver trump of fame-and, with his fingers felt amid his thin, his grayflecked hair, the budding bays.

In another month, and Lorenzo would change his old familiar for a more profitable demon. He would no longer creep along the streets, accompanied by Desert, a pretty fellow, yet withal, a timid, blushing, stammering knave, content to slink with him he waits upon, down dismal alleys, over barren heaths, at length, it may be, conducting his master to a dry ditch for his bed, and to wild cresses and water for his breakfast-a trick the varlet hath often put upon brave spirits,-but, in his place, that swaggering, brow-beating, gold-laced lackey, Success, would clear the way for Silvertop, would strike off the hats of the mob, content to be so unbonneted, seeing that Success-oh! the magic of his name upon the world, hath willed it-nor ever ask whence comes he, what's his value? No matter for his birthplace, his parentage; Success has all-in-all in his name. Though he were born on the way-side, his mother a gipsy, and his father a clipper of coin,-for his name, and name alone, men shall bow down and worship him. Desert weeps at the early grave of the broken-hearted, Success eats ortolans with a quacksalver at threescore. Men may certainly be brought to allow the possible existence of unrewarded Desert, but for Success, there can be no doubt of his vitality; he is seen, known, touched; nay, sometimes men dine with him.

Silvertop was far gone in "Free Will," and on rising, had girded himself up for new endeavour, when Bridget Buttons entered with his breakfast. She smiled, courtesied, bade the new lodger good morning, and having filled the teapot, left the metaphysician to explain to himself the cause of a sudden agitation of the divine faculty, at the time perplexing Lorenzo Silvertop. Strange, that he who could so ably unriddle the moral enigmas of other men, could by no means discover the clue of his own perplexity. He pondered, and pondering, raised the teapot-poured and poured-and at length leaped, with something like an oath, from his chair, the scalding fluid having overflowed the cup, and run in a burning torrent down the table-cloth, upon the metaphysician's breeches.

"Did you call, sir?" asked Bridget, at the time passing the door, and hearing Silvertop, who with extraordinary presence of mind dropped his Bandana handkerchief before his soaking garment, at the same time, despite of blistering flesh, smiling very blandly: word he spoke

not.

"Dear me!" said Bridget, observing the mischief; and then with a cheerful voice, and treading the carpet like a fawn, she added, "but I'll change it sir, directly."

Scarcely five minutes elapsed, and another snowy cloth decorated the table-the teapot was replenished, and saving the little personal discomfort felt by Silvertop, he had as goodly promise of breakfast as before. Again, however, the metaphysician fell into a study-again he