merry but extravagant humor. Now, however, that the gaol was almost reached, he became silent and anxious. The hours appeared to go too slowly for him, and his restlessness was extreme.

Faster! postillion,' cried Carl, observing his brother's impatience.'Faster! You shall be paid double.'

The man flogged his horses until they flew rather than galloped over the broad and level road. Suddenly, however, a strap broke, and the postillion got off his seat to tie it up. Through the stillness of the evening, no longer broken by the rattle of the wheels and clatter of the horses feet, a clock was heard striking the hour. Another repeated it, and a third, of deeper tone than the two proceeding ones, took up the chime. Bernard started to his feet and leaned so far out of the carriage that his brother seized hold of him, expecting that he would lose his balance and fall out. 'It is she!' exclaimed Bernard. 'Tis the bell of St. Nicholas. Listen, Carl-my Elizabeth calls me. She strikes the bell. I come, dearest I

come!'

And with these words he sprang out of the carriage and set off at full speed towards the town, leaving his brother thunderstruck at his mad impatience and vehemence.

Running at the top of his speed, Bernard soon reached the city gate and proceeded rapidly through the streets in the direction of St. Nicholas' church. It seemed to him as though he had been absent for many years instead of a few days, and he felt quite surprised at finding no change in the city since his departure. All was as he had left it; all conspired to lull him into security. An old fruit woman, of whom he had bought cherries the very day of his last walk with Elizabeth, was in her usual place, and as he passed extolled the beauty of her fruit, and asked him to buy. A large rose tree at the door of a silversmith's shop which Elizabeth had often admired was still in full bloom; through the window of a house in the market place, he saw a young girl Elizabeth's dearest friend dressing her hair at a looking glass; and as he passed the church-yard, the old dumb sexton, who appeared to be hunting about for a place for a grave nodded his head in mute recognition.

Bernard opened the tower door, and darted up the staircase. He was not far from the top when he heard the voice of two men above him.They were resting on one of the landing places of the laderlike stairs. 'It is a singular case, doctor,' said one; a strange and incomprehensible case. It is evidently a disease more of the mind than the body.' 'Yes,' replied the other, by his voice apparently an old man. If we could only get a clue to the cause, any thing to go upon, something might be done, but at present it is a perfect riddle.'

Bernard heard no more, for the men continued their ascent.

'The old father must be ill,' said he to himself-but as he said it a feeling of dread and anxiety, a presentment of evil, came over him, and he stood for a few moments unable to proceed. The door at the top of the stairs was now opened, and shut with evident care to avoid noise.The old man must be very ill,' said Bernard, as if trying to persuade himself of it. He reached the door, and his hand shook as he laid it upon the latch. At length he lifted it, and entered the room. It was empty; but just then, the door of Elizabeth's chamber opened, and old Kranhelm stepped out. On beholding Bernard, he started back as though he had

seen a ghost. He said a word or two in a low voice to somebody in the inner room, and then shutting the door, bolted it, and placed his back against it, as if to prevent Bernard from going in.

'Begone!' cried he in a tremulous voice; 'in the name of God, begone! thou evil spirit of my house;' and he stretched out his arms toward Bernard as though to prohibit his approach. No longer master of himself, the young man sprang toward him, and grasping his arm, thundered in his ear the question

Where is my Elizabeth?'

The words rang through the old tower, and the confused murmuring of voices in the inner room was heard. Bernard listened, and thought he distinguished the voice of Elizabeth repeating in tones of agony, the fatal number.

One of the physicians knocked, and begged to be let out. The old tower keeper opened the door cautiously, and, when the doctor had passed through carefully, shut and barred it. But during the moment that it had remained open, Bernard heard too plainly what his ears had at first been unwilling to believe.

'Is that the man?' demanded the physician hastily. In God's name be silent. You will kill the patient. She recognized your voice, and fell immediately into the most fearful paroxysm. She has got back again to the infernal number with which her delirium began, and she shrieks it out perpetually. It is a frightful relapse. Begone! young man; yet stayI will go with you. You can, doubtless, give us a key to the mystery.' The old physician took Bernard's arm to lead him away; but at that very moment there was a shrill scream from the next room, and Elizabeth's voice was heard calling upon Bernard by name. The unfortunate young man could not restrain himself. Shaking off the grasp of the physician, he pushed old Kranhelm aside, tore back the bolts, and flung open the door. There lay Elizabeth on her death bed, her arms stretched out toward him, her mild countenance ashly pale and frightfully distorted, her soft blue eyes straining from their orbits. She made a violent effort to speak, but death was too near at hand; the sound died away upon her lips, and her uplifted arms dropped powerless upon the bed; her head fell back; a convulsive shudder came over her-she was dead. Her unhappy lover fell senseless to the ground.

When Bernard awoke out of a long and deathlike swoon, it was night, and all around him was still and dark. He was lying on the stone floor outside Kranhelm's dwelling. The physicians had removed him thither; and, being occupied with the old tower keeper and his daughter, they had thought no more about him. On first recovering sensation, he had but an indistinct idea of where he was, or what had happened. By degrees his senses returned to a certain extent-he knew that something horrible had occurred, but without remembering exactly what it was.

He felt about him, and touched a railing: It was the ballustrade round the open turret where hung the great bell. He was lying under the bell itself, and as he gazed up into its brazen throat, the recollection of the frightful dream which had persecuted him the night before his flight from Stralsund came vividly to his mind; he appeared to himself to be still dreaming, and yet his visions were mixed up with the realities of his every day occupations.

He had just stepped out, he thought, to strike the hour on the bell, and raising with some difficulty from the hard couch which had stiffened his limbs, he made no effort to shake off the sort of dreaming semi-consciousness which seemed to prevent him from feeling the horror and anguish of reality.

'Thirteen strokes,' thought he; thirteen strokes, and at the Thirteen the tower will fall, the city will crumble to dust, the world be at an end.' Such had been his dream, and the moment of its accomplishment was

come.

He found the hammer, and struck with all his force upon the bell. He repeated the blow; twelve times he struck, and each stroke rang with deafening violence through his brains, but at the Thirteenth, as he raised his arms high above his head, and leaning back against the railing, threw his whole strength and energy into the blow, the ballustrade gave way under his weight, and he fell headlong from the tower. The last stroke tolled out, sad and hollow as a funeral knell, and the sound mingled with the death-cry of the luckless Thirteenth!-Blackwood's Magazine.

ON THE

PARABLE OF THE VINEYARD AND LABOURERS.

"And when they came that were hired about the eleventh hour, they received every man a penny; but when the first came, they supposed that they should have received more; and they likewise reerived every man a penny, and when they received it they wurmured against the good man of the house: but he answered one of them and said, Friend I do thee no wrong.

On bless'd are they who early walk with God;

Not driven there by the chastising rod.

Oh! who the bread of life would eat alone,

Or who would turn a Brother from God's throne?
Or who the wedding garment would deny
When tears of penitence bedew the eye?
Who would not rather kill the fatted calf,
And of his portion give the largest half?
Can we feel wrong'd that others may obtain
Life's richest treasure and its only gain?

If we have lived and breathed beneath God's smile,

Nor fell before the tempter or his wile,

Should we not sigh that others erring stray,
And let our light illume them on their way?

Now mark the man who far and wide would roam,
Reckless of blessings from his heavenly home,
Feeding on husks fit only for the swine,
Without a plummet and without a line;
Seeing no way-mark, shunning every trace
Of peaceful paths, or virtue's resting place-

Let wisdom but illume his darken'd mind,
He rises from his lethargy we find';

He leaves the swine-herd, to the vineyard flies
And longs to grasp the fruit which meet his eyes.
Full many are the numbers on the ground,
But work for all--and room for more is found;
He gains admittance, toils the well-spent day,
And at the gate unwearied waits his pay-
Receives his penny, 'twas a rich reward,
A treasure which in Heaven could be stor❜d.

He only grieves that he so long delay'd;
So long from peace, and happiness had stray'd;
He feels God's blessing and is bless'd indeed ;
It hover'd o'er him ere he felt his need.
Though late in seeking still he finds 'tis there,
He is allow'd of angel's food to share.
How is one wrong'd if Jesus call him friend;
He's bless'd, if trials all his life attend.
Should poverty, disgrace and worldly shame,
All, all be blended with his humble name,
The "well done" from on high will meet his ear,
This hope in darkness with his path make clear.

THE LEG.

BY BRO. J. B. ROGERSON, OF ENG.

I was never remarkable for the beauty of my features, nor the gracefulness of my figure; but I possessed a pair of well-shaped, handsome legs, and with these and the charms of my conversation, I had managed to captivate the heart of the lovely Julia D'Arlincourt. At least so it was currently reported, and so I myself believed. There was always a seat reserved for me in her box at the Opera; I used to attend her in her shopping excursions; and sometimes I had the extreme felicity of driving her in my cabriolet.

I had been supping at a friends, and the bottle circulated rapidly, for my friend was a noted bon-vivant. As the wine sunk, our spirits became proportionably elevated. We agreed each to toast our mistresses. Of course I drank the health of my adored Julia in a bumber. I heard a suppressed titter proceed from Herbert Danvers, a conceited young fellow, who had long been an unsuccessful rival of mine. When it came to his turn to give a pledge, he also named the fair Julia. I looked fiercely at him, and he answered me with a look as fierce. All eyes were turned on us, and my next neighbour gave me a nudge, as much as to say "Will you endure this, Vincent?" I had a somewhat singular oath, which I always made use of in moments of excitation. I was in the habit of swear

ing by my right leg, which member I considered to be cast in the very mould of perfection. I had originally adopted this oath to attract notice to the lower extremities of my person, but custom had rendered it so habitual, that I now used it even when I indulged myself with a little swearing in private. By my right leg,' thought I, 'he shall answer this.' I rose from my chair, and adjusting my neckcloth the while, to show my nonchalance, I thus accosted him. "Sir, this is neither place, nor time for quarrel, but by this leg," slightly tapping it, "I swear, that if you do not instantly give up all claims to the lady, whose name has just passed your lips, you shall hear from me." Sir," said he, “I care not how

soon." This was enough. Mr. who had sat next me, offered his services as my friend on the occasion, and the harmony of the company was restored. Myself and rival each affected an hilarity and vivacity of spirits more than usual, as a proof of our unconcern. The party broke up at a late hour, and we all departed with dizzy heads, stout hearts, and staggering steps.

My valet awoke me at twelve next morning, and informed me that Mr. was waiting my leisure. I quaked at the recollection of my last night's adventure. He was ushered in. "Dont disturb yourself, my dear fellow," he began, "all's settled, all's right; I've arranged it amicably." "Thank God!" ejaculated I, and my countenance brightened up. "I knew you would be delighted;" he continued, "Danvers' second appeared wishful the affair should be off. No, no,' said I, "no flinching -Vincent will never consent to that-they must fight.' And so, my dear sir, we settled it-time, place and weapons." My countenance fell alarmingly, and I cursed the busy fellow in my heart most vehemently. Four o'clock was the hour fixed for the meeting, and I employed the interval in making a few alterations in my will, and arranging my papers. A full half-hour before the time, my second made his appearance, for he was a professed duellist, and seemed to enjoy the business exceedingly. We proceeded to the appointed spot-the signal was given-bang went the pistols-I sprang up three or four feet into the air: alas! that spring was the last I ever made-the bullet had passed through my right leg. My own shot was near being fatal, for it took off one of my opponent's whiskers. I was conveyed home, and lay for several days in a senseless state. When I recovered, oh, horror of all horrors! I was but the portion of a man-the accursed surgeon had amputated my leg;-that beautiful, that treasured limb-my right leg! I raged, swore, and stamped-no, not stamped; of that I was now incapable. I execrated the whole tribe of surgeons. I would rather have died a thousand deaths than have been thus shockingly mutilated: life, I detested it; what was life without my leg? I vented my wrath on my valet for allowing the awful deed to be perpetrated on his master; but I saw the dog laughing in his sleeve, for he knew I could not kick him.

My first sensations were of a peculiar nature. When any of my intimate friends came to condole with me on my calamity, they would sometimes seat themselves on the side of my couch; and I often twitched away my stump, thinking my leg reclined on the place where they were about to be seated, and exclaimed "Take care of my leg!" These slight intervals of forgetfulness only made me feel my actual loss more grievously, and I muttered "My leg! what leg?-I have no leg!" At times it