It

afterwards the door opened, and Mr. Marston entered the apartment. was now dark, and the servant, unbidden, placed candles upon the table. Without answering one word to Dr. Danvers' greeting, Marston sate down, as it seemed, in agitated abstraction. Removing his hat suddenly (for he had not even made this slight homage to the laws of courtesy), he looked round with a careworn, fiery eye, and a pale countenance, and said—

"We are quite alone, Dr. Danvers-no one anywhere near ?"

Dr. Danvers assured him that all was secure.

After a long and agitated pause, Marston said

"You remember Merton's confession. He admitted his intention to kill Berkley, but denied that he was the actual murderer. He spoke truth -no one knew it better than I; for I am the murderer."

Dr. Danvers was so shocked and overwhelmed that he was utterly unable to speak.

"Ay, sir, in point of law and of morals, literally and honestly, the MURDERER of Wynston Berkley.

I am

resolved you shall know it all. Make what use of it you will-I care for nothing now, but to get rid of the dd, unsustainable secret, and that is done. I did not intend to kill the scoundrel when I went to his room; but with the just feelings of exasperation with which I regarded him, it would have been wiser had I avoided the interview; and I meant to have done so. But his candle was burning; I saw the light through the door, and went in. It was his evil fortune to indulge in his old strain of sardonic impertinence. He provoked me; I struck him-he struck me again—and with his own dagger I stabbed him three times. I did not know what I had done-I could not believe it. I felt neither remorse nor sorrow-why should I?—but the thing was horrible, astounding. There he sate in the corner of his cushioned chair, with the old fiendish smile on still. Sir, I never thought that any human shape

could look so dreadful. I don't know how long I stayed there, freezing with horror and detestation, and yet unable to take my eyes from the d-d face. Did you see it in the coffin? Sir, there was a sneer of triumph on it that was diabolic and prophetic."

Marston was fearfully agitated as he spoke, and repeatedly wiped from his face the cold sweat that gathered there.

"I could not leave the room by the back stairs," he resumed, "for the va let slept in the intervening chamber. I felt such an appalled antipathy to the body that I could scarce muster courage to pass it. But, sir, I am not easily cowed-I mastered this repugnance in a few minutes-or, rather, I acted in spite of it, I knew not howbut instinctively it seemed to me that it was better to lay the body in the bed, than leave it where it was, shewing, as its position might, that the thing occurred in an altercation. So, sir, I raised it, and bore it softly across the room, and laid it in the bed; and, while I was carrying it, it swayed forward, the arms glided round my neck, and the head rested against my cheek-that was a parody upon a brotherly embrace!"

"I do not know at what moment it was, but some time when I was carrying Wynston, or laying him in the bed," continued Marston, who spoke rather like one pursuing a horrible re verie, than as a man relating facts to a listener," I heard a light tread, and soft breathing, in the lobby. A thunder-clap would have stunned me less that minute. I moved softly, holding my breath, to the door. I believe, in moments of strong excitement, men hear more acutely than at other times; but I thought I heard the rustling of a gown, going from the door again. I waited-it ceased; I waited until all was quiet. I then extinguished the candle, and groped my way to the door; there was a faint degree of light in the corridor, and I thought I saw a head projected from the chamber-door next to the Frenchwoman's-Mademoiselle's. As I came on, it was softly withdrawn, and the door not quite noiselessly closed. I could not be absolutely certain, but I learned all afterward. And now, sir, you have the story of Sir Wynston's murder."

Doctor Danvers groaned in spirit, being wrung alike with fear and sorrow. With hands clasped, and head bowed down, in an exceeding bitter agony of soul, he murmured only the words of the Litany-" Lord, have mercy upon us; Christ, have mercy upon us; Lord, have mercy upon us.

Marston had recovered his usual

lowering aspect and gloomy self-possession in a few moments, and was now standing erect and defiant before the humbled and afflicted minister of God. The contrast was terrible—almost sublime.

Doctor Danvers resolved to keep this dreadful secret, at least for a time, to himself. He could not make up his mind to inflict upon those whom he loved so well as Charles and Rhoda the shame and agony of such a disclosure; yet he was sorely troubled— for his was a conflict of duty and mercy of love and justice.

He told Charles Marston, when urged with earnest inquiry, that what he had heard that evening was intended solely for his own ear, and gently but peremptorily declined telling, at least until some future time, the substance of his father's communication.

Charles now felt it necessary to see his father, for the purpose of letting him know the substance of the evidence which had reached him, and also the events which had so recently occurred at Dunoran. Accordingly he proceeded, accompanied by Dr. Danvers, on the next morning, to the hotel where Marston had intimated his intention of passing the night.

On their inquiring for him in the hall, the porter appeared much perplexed and disturbed, and as they pressed him with questions, his answers became conflicting and mysterious. Mr. Marston was there-he had slept there last night; he could not say whether or not he was then in the house; but he knew that no one could be admitted to see him. He would, if the gentlemen wished it, send their cards to (not Mr. Marston, but) the proprietor and finally, he concluded by begging that they would themselves see "the proprietor," and despatched a waiter to apprise him of the circumstances of the visit. There

was something odd and even sinister in all this, which, along with the whispering and the curious glances of the waiters, who happened to hear the errand on which they came, inspired the two companions with vague and fearful misgivings which they did not care mutually to disclose.

In a few moments they were shown into a small sitting-room up stairs,

where the proprietor, a fussy little gentleman, and apparently very uneasy and frightened, received them.

"We have called here to see Mr. Marston," said Dr. Danvers, " and the porter has referred us to you."

"Yes, sir, exactly-precisely so," answered the little man, fidgeting excessively, and, as it seemed, growing paler, every instant; "but-but, in fact, sir, there is there has been-in short, have not you heard of the-the accident?" He wound up with a prodigious effort, and wiped his forehead when he had done.

"Pray, sir, be explicit; we are near friends of Mr. Marston-in fact, sir, this is his son," said Dr. Danvers, pointing to Charles Marston; "and we are both uneasy at the strange mystery with which our inquiries have been met. Do, I entreat of you, say what has happened?"

"Why-why," hesitated the man, "I really-I would not for five hundred pounds it had happened in my house. The-the unhappy gentleman has, in short—” He glanced at Charles, as if afraid of the effect of the disclosure he was on the point of making, and then hurriedly said, "He is dead, sir; he was found dead in his room-this morning, at eight o'clock. I assure you I have not been myself ever since."

Charles Marston was so stunned and overcome by this sudden blow, that he was upon the point of fainting. Rallying, however, with a strong effort, he demanded to be conducted to the chamber where the body lay. The man assented, but hesitated on reaching the door, and whispered something in the ear of Dr. Danvers, who, as he heard it, raised his hands and eyes with a mute expression of horror, and turning to Charles, said

"My dear young friend, remain where you are for a few moments; I will return to you immediately, and tell you whatever I have ascertained. You are in no condition for such a scene at present."

Charles, indeed, felt that the fact was so, and sick and giddy, suffered Dr. Danvers, with gentle compulsion, to force him into a seat.

In silence the venerable clergyman followed his conductor. With a palpitating heart he advanced to the bed

side, and twice essayed to draw the curtain, and twice lost courage; but gathering resolution at last, he pulled the drapery aside, and beheld all he was to see again of Richard Marston. The bedclothes were drawn, so as nearly to cover the mouth; the eyes were open, and the face was hideously swollen.*

"There is the wound, sir," whispered the man, as with coarse officiousness he drew back the bedclothes from the throat of the corpse, and exhibited a frightful, yawning gash, as it seemed, nearly severing the head from the body. With sickening horror Dr. Danvers turned away from the awful spectacle. He covered his face in his hands, and it seemed to him as if a soft, solemn voice whispered in his ear the mystic words, "Whoso sheddeth man's blood, by man shall his blood be shed."

The hand which, but a few years before, had, unsuspected, consigned a fellow-mortal to the grave, had itself avenged the murder-Marston had perished by his own hand.

The concluding chapter in a novel is always brief, though seldom so short as the world would have it. In a tale like this, the "winding up" must be proportionably contracted. We have scarcely a claim to so many lines as the formal novelist may occupy pages, in the distribution of poetic justice, and the final grouping of his characters into that effective tableau upon which, at last, the curtain gracefully descends. We, too, may be all the briefer, inasmuch as the reader has doubtless anticipated the little we have to say. It amounts then to this:-Within two years after the fearful event which we have just recorded, a double alliance had drawn together, in nearer and dearer union, the inmates of Dunoran and Newton Park. Charles Marston had won and wed the fair Emily Howard. Rhoda had given her hand to young Mervyn. Of ulterior consequences we say nothing-the nursery is above our province. And now, at length, after this three months' journey through somewhat stern and gloomy scenery, in this long-deferred flood of golden sunshine we bid thee, gentle reader, a kind farewell.

the face.

In the black catalogue of martyr-makers, at the head of which stands Xantippe, the wife of good Albert Durer holds prominent place. Socrates selected a shrew upon principle. He wished his bed to be strewed with thorns,-as enthusiasts revel in the pungent martyrdom of a hair shirt. "The price

less wisdom from endurance drawn" was cheap to him at any money, and by all accounts his wish was gratified. He tied himself heroically to the stake, and the connubial fires played innocuously around the asbestos mantle of his philosophy. Nobody has chronicled the aggravations which the fair despot suffered from the philosopher's tranquillity. They must, however, have been serious. The Athenian Caudle slept, while the domestic Juno used his couch "for thunder, nothing but thunder;" and, thanks to his serenity, he lived to write her epitaph. Not so with the worthy artist of Nuremberg, who was made of gentler stuff. In an evil hour he wedded a bride, chosen, not by his own judgment, but by his father, and she broke his heart. In all the sad records of the lives of men of genius, is there a sadder than this, penned soon after his death by Durer's friend, Pirkheimer?—

"In Albert I have truly lost one of the best friends I had in the world, and

nothing grieves me deeper, than that he should have died so painful a death, which, under God's providence, I can ascribe to nobody but his wife, who gnawed into his very heart, and so tormented him, that he departed hence the sooner; for he was dried up to a faggot, and might nowhere seek a jovial humour, or go to his friends. Besides, she so baited him day and night, and so hardly drove him to work, only that he might earn money, and leave it to her when he should die; for she would always, as she does still, squander money privately; and Albert must have left her to the value of six thousand gulden. But nothing could satisfy her, and, in brief, she alone

is the cause of his death. I myself have often remonstrated with her, and warned her as to her mistrustful and culpable ways, and foretold her how it would end. But I got only ill-will for my pains; for whoever loved that man, and was much with him, to him she became an enemy, which in truth grieved Albert sorely, and bowed him to the dust. . . . Whoever opposes her, and does not always allow her to be in the right, him she mistrusts, and forthwith becomes his enemy. She and her sister are

not queans; they are, I doubt not, altogether in the number of honest, devout, and altogether God-fearing women; but a man might better have a quean, who ing, suspicious, quarrelsome, good wowas otherwise kindly, than such a gnawman, with whom he can have no peace or quiet, neither by day nor by night. But, however that may be, we must commend the thing to God, who will be gracious and merciful to the pious Albert; for, as he lived like a pious, honest man, so he died a Christian, and most blessed death-therefore, there is nothing to fear for his salvation."

Ay, good Pirkheimer, nothing to fear for thy friend Albert! But what of her he left behind? Was she unvisited by the remorse that comes too late, when the wronged one was beyond the reach of her contrition ? Went there never up, in the midnight solitude of her chamber, a cry of anguish-a supplication to be forgiven for affection repulsed, for unkind looks, for ungracious words, for heart-wearying waywardness, for unjust suspicions, to him who so endured, so loved. As the angel

"That sate all day

Beside her, and lay down at night by her, Who cared not for his presence,"

departed heavenward, the fading gleam of his wings has surely flashed upon her conscience the mightiness of her loss-the awfulness of her sin. He has died blessing her he was too humble, loved too well to speak of forgiveness ;

Translated from London: Chapman.

but when will she forgive herself? Verily, good Pirkheimer, some fear, some pity for her were not amiss. Were there no extenuating circumstances to qualify the stern judgment thou hast recorded against her?

No doubt the worthy Albert found many such. Many there must have been, otherwise he would have snapped the bonds that fettered him to the gnawing, hourly disquietude of his home. Albert was no weakling-no "tame snake," cowed into submission from mere feebleness of character. Fear it could not be which kept him in her thraldom. Was it not, then, love? Love is not to be guaged by one uniform standard. It has many degrees, from that of perfect sympathy down to the affection of habit. But in no form is it more beautiful, than where it reveals itself in forbearance, and hopefulness, in watchful thoughtfulness and devotion, towards weakness, capriciousness, insipidity, selfishness, and pride. She was his wife, and in that word there is, to a man of Albert's affectionate and pious nature, a depth of sanctity inexhaustible. He will hope all, believe all-and still trust that heaven will one day turn her heart, and the golden dream of his youth be fulfilled.

Influenced by some such considerations as these, we presume Schefer has composed the exquisite little volume before us. It is in the form of an account of Albert Durer's Married Life, written by himself, and communicated by his friend Pirkheimer, and in it the artist seeks to secure for his wife that gentler judgment from the world, which he shewed to her throughout his own life. His task was a hard one, and the utmost he will secure, and that only from the thoughtful, is forbearance from judgment, in respect of the perplexities which warped the development of her affections from the first, and the radical unfitness of the alliance. To most readers she will appear only a beautiful vixen, without brains, or even heart. Albert's very extenuations heap coals of fire upon her head. They are a terrible foil to the proud, selfish spirit of his Agnes. The narrative commences thus:

"At Whit Sunday of the year 1490, Albert set out on his travels for the study of the fine arts; at Whit Sunday of the year 1494, he heard again the stroke of the Nurnberg clock.

"The joy of meeting is well worth the pain of separating. The father had bought his son a house, had given him his own Susanna, a poor adopted child, as housekeeper; had provided the rooms thriftily with household furniture. Contentment and happiness, industry and art, these he brought with him; and now was he in very deed to become a painter in the city of the Twelve Hills.

"His father took him, dressed in his best, first of all to the house of his godfather, Anton Koburger, who took great delight in him; afterwards to all the members of that body of which his father was also one. From the house of Master Michael Wohlgemuth, the painter, engraver, and woodcutter, with whom Albert for three years, beginning at the year 1486, had diligently and painfully studied, because he had had much to endure from his fellow-workmen, they crossed the street to the house of the

lively harp-player and singer, Hanns Frei, who was also an optician. But among the most bewitching works in the heavenly workshop of the heathen god, Sephästus, could no such living miracle have stood, as was now to be seen in the house of Hanns Frei, in the person of his daughter, Agnes, a young Nurnberg maiden of fifteen, who was playing on the harp.

"Is it possible that Nurnberg contains such a beautiful maiden?' said he to himself."

"He shall paint thee, dear Agnes,' said Albert's father. She raised her eyes and looked gloomily at me.

"Now, daughter, do not look quite so angry about the matter; there will be time enough for that in Master Albert's dwelling.'

"For painting, or for looking angry?' said Agnes to him, quickly changing colour from the most glowing red to snow-white paleness. She looked meanwhile somewhat smilingly at the young Albert, and at the same time gently shook her head, as if warning him not to believe what her father had said, for that was quite another matter, and must take place and unfold itself in quite a different manner. The father was blowing the rose open violently; but genial warmth and dew alone could unfold it by degrees, and cause it to open its heart and give forth its perfume, so that it might not fade away before morning, leaving no perfume behind.

"Thou shalt have two hundred