mood. His shade is not the first that many would fly to, and commune withal, in the Elysian Fields. Yet in the Elysian Fields he is assigned a place of some prominence, and reviewed in some detail, by a singularlyunlike personage, the creator of Pantagruel and Panurge. Scores of renowned names are dismissed by Rabelais with half a line at the most, while to Epictetus he devotes-perhaps out of pure love of contraries, or of being contrarious quite a paragraph of news from Elysium. Epistemon, it will be remembered, relates to Pantagruel and Panurge what and whom he had seen in the Elysian Fields-among the strange sights being, Xerxes, as a crier of mustard; Hannibal, a kettle-maker and seller of egg-shells; Trajan, a fisher of frogs; Justinian, a pedlar; Pyrrhus, a kitchen-scullion; Pope Boniface VIII., a scummer of pots; Cleopatra, a crier of onions; and other grotesque transformations not a few. The bondsman of Epaphroditus is more minutely inspected, though the change will be thought not less complete. "I saw Epictetus there most gallantly apparelled after the French fashion, sitting under a pleasant arbour, with store of handsome gentlewomen, frolicking, drinking, dancing, and making good cheer, with abundance of crowns of the sun. Above the lattice were written these verses for his device:

To leap and dance, to sport and play,

And drink good wine both white and brown,
Or nothing else do all the day,

But tell bags full of many a crown.

"When he saw me, he invited me to drink with him very courteously, and I being willing to be entreated, we tippled and chopined together most theologically. In the mean time came Cyrus to beg one farthing of him for the honour of Mercury, therewith to buy a few onions for his supper. No, no, said Epictetus, I do not use in my alms-giving to bestow farthings. Hold, thou varlet, there's a crown for thee, be an honest man."*

Did Rabelais, in all this, mean (as a devout Epicurean) to intimate, not only that Stoicism was a sheer mistake in this world, but that the Stoic would (however pleasantly) find out his mistake in the next?

Rabelais, II. ch. xxx.

THE FATAL CHAIN.

FROM THE SWEDISH OF UNCLE ADAM.

ONE dreary autumn evening, shortly after I had taken possession of my living (thus my friend, the Rev. Mr. Z., began his narrative), I was sitting alone in my study, the same which I occupy to this day, and from which I overlook the church and the churchyard, when a servant-girl entered, and announced that a strange gentleman was waiting in the drawing-room, who wished to speak to me. I hastened down stairs, and found a good-looking young man, although he appeared to be unusually pale, with an expression of wild grief in his eyes, which led me to conclude that he was the bearer of some unpleasant intelligence.

"I come to beg you for the key of the Lejonswärd'schen family vault," said he; "I believe you have it ?"

"What!" I demanded, in astonishment, "do you wish it now, at this late hour ?"

"Yes; I must have it," said the stranger, impatiently, "for a corpse. Alas! a corpse is to be interred immediately.'

The stranger's manners seemed to me to be so very peculiar that I still hesitated. On perceiving this, he cried,

"You appear to be unwilling to give it, sir. You need not hesitate; my name is Lejonswärd, and the corpse which is to be laid in the narrow tomb is that of my wife. I have one key, but require the other from you. Will still refuse it to me?"

you

I gave him the key, and with scarcely a word of thanks he hastened away. I returned to my chamber, and gazed forth into the darkness which shrouded the churchyard. I soon perceived lights moving over the graves towards the vaults; the vault lies here, on this side, and the wall at the entrance is ornamented by a lion holding in its paw a pierced heart. The tomb was opened, and I saw the torchlight through the grating. It was a gloomy sight, which I shall never forget.

The simple burial was over, and immediately afterwards a servant brought me back the key.

Several years

one morning.

had passed, when the same gentleman entered my room

"Do you recollect me ?" he asked. I answered in the affirmative. "It is well," continued he; "I am going to become your parishioner, yonder, at Lejonsnäs."

"Are you going to live at Lejonsnäs? Surely you are not in earnest, Herr Count! No one has resided there for nearly a hundred years."

"So much the better! I will turn it once more into a human dwelling; but I shall lead a very secluded life: my servant is to be my major-domo, my coachman, and my valet; that will be a quiet household! Will you accompany me?" continued he. "Though the proprietor of the estate, I am perfectly ignorant of its situation. Will you accompany me, and instal me among my dear forefathers who are there in effigy?""

Having acquainted my wife with my intended journey, I seated myself along with the count in his carriage, and set off, driven by the much-ex

perienced domestic, who, besides his knowledge of the mysteries of the kitchen and the bed-chamber, was also skilled in managing a pair of horses.

We soon arrived at the estate. A large, heavy building, to which wings had been added, stood, with its dingy windows, in gloomy grandeur; a double row of ancient trees skirted the spacious court-yard, in the centre of which, surrounded by a wild and partly withered hedge of box, arose a dried-up fountain. This is a slight description of the place. The count smiled and looked at me. "How does the house please you?" said he. "To me it looks like the abode of spectres. It is strange," continued he, "that people are always anxious to attach a more intimate connexion with the world of spirits to places such as this, as if spirits could not reveal their presence anywhere. You doubt my words. You shake your head. Why? If there be no communication with the world of spirits, why have we an inward voice which tells us that there is ?"

"All have not such a voice," I answered, smiling.

"There you are mistaken, dear sir," replied the count, eagerly. "You cannot deny that there are things which pass our comprehension, which therefore originate from a higher power; and there scarcely exists a man who, once in his life at least, has not been placed in a situation which has forced him to believe in the influence of a world of spirits. Tell me, what is it that consoles him who has lost all that he held dear? For instance, "-he was silent a moment, as if struggling with inward emotion a wife," continued he, "and child. What is that—when, crushed by the cruel hand of Fate, one kneels before a coffin-which illumines the soul like a clear stream of light from a better world, or whispers sweet comfort to the half-paralysed heart ?"

a

66

"Religion," I replied; "the consolation of religion, Herr Count."

"No, no, Herr Pastor; religion has nothing to do with this. Religion is a sentiment embracing duty and devotion, which is founded on faith, and directed by reason. The sensation to which I allude is something outward, something which affects the soul as suddenly as a flash of lightning, without the thoughts having had time to dwell on the possibility of consolation. It is as if a stream of light broke unexpectedly upon the mind, Herr Pastor. It is not religion, but the spirit of the beloved departed which bestows on the mourner a portion of its own bliss."

Just then the inspector arrived with the keys of the castle, and interrupted our conversation. He also was of the same opinion as myself, that the castle was not fit to be inhabited; but the count remained firm to his intention of taking up his abode there.

"Give me the keys, inspector. You need not accompany us; my friend and I will be able to find our way, I do not doubt. You need only tell us to which doors the keys belong."

The inspector bowed, and began as he was requested to sort the keys. "This one belongs to the large house door; this, to the suite of rooms occupied by the councillor of blessed memory; and this, to the apartments which the councillor's wife inhabited. This key belongs to the young count's rooms; or," continued he, rather embarrassed, "to the rooms in

the western wing, which belonged to your grandfather, Herr Count, when he was a young man."

"Enough, good sir. We shall find our way," said the count, as he smilingly interrupted him. "the

We approached the castle. "Did you hear," said the count, young count's rooms? The young count was my grandfather. This shows that traditions never grow old. He is still called THE YOUNG COUNT here, although it is about fifty years since he died, old and infirm."

As we entered the lofty arched entrance-hall, a chill, dank air met us. Here and there a portion of the ornamental gilding from the walls had fallen away, and several large oil-paintings, representing bear-hunts, had become spotted with mould and dust.

"The entrance-hall is not particularly inviting," said the count; "but let us proceed farther."

The key was placed into the heavy, elaborately ornamented door, leading to the apartments of the councillor above mentioned. We entered an ante-chamber, hung with several portraits and landscapes of the Dutch school; here, in a richly gilt frame, which the hand of time had partially robbed of its brilliancy, was a lady dressed as a shepherdess, with a broad-brimmed straw hat upon her powdered head, and a shepherd's crook in her hand; a lovely smile played round the rosy lips, and the bright and speaking eyes sparkled with gaiety.

"That," said the count, "is my grandmother. She is smiling to us. She was painted as a bride, and there she still sits in her youthful beauty. It is the same with portraits as with the soul-they never grow old."

We went on, and entered a room with a polished oaken floor, and the walls hung with gilded leather in richly gilt partitions; there was a stiff grandeur about the room, which was rendered more formal by the oldfashioned furniture. The mouldings of the ceilings were decorated by groups of clumsy figures, a remnant of the grotesque taste, and accumulation of ornaments so prevalent in the seventeenth century. This had formerly been the chamber in which the councillor had studied, and it had been left untouched, just as it was during his lifetime. A clock, in a large stand of Chinese painting, in black and gold, stood silent and covered with dust in a corner, and a thick bell-rope with ponderous silk tassels still hung in another corner near the heavy writing-table, before which was placed, as if the student had only a moment before arisen from it, a narrow, high-backed chair, with legs curved outwards. Beyond this room came a bed-chamber, decorated in the same style as the one we had just left.

By Heavens!" said the count, "it almost seems as if you were right. I cannot reconcile myself to these rooms, and to this furniture. Rooms and furniture—if I may so express myself—are our nearest acquaintances —a chair, a table, a sofa, are often our most intimate companions."

At length we arrived at two small rooms, the windows of which looked out upon the garden; they seemed to have been more recently occupied, and were more simply furnished.

"I shall pitch my tent here!" said the count. "The arrangements

cannot be said to be of the newest fashion, but, at any rate, there is a more cheerful aspect about this place than in any other part of the castle."

Before the table stood an arm-chair, which formerly had been gilded, but now the white grounding was visible in many places; the red velvet with which it was covered was not faded'; indeed, upon the whole, the colours were better preserved in this room than in the others. I was surprised at it, but the count, who regarded everything in his own peculiar way, merely remarked that the chamber lay on the northern side of the house.

"You see, Herr Pastor, where the full glare of the sun cannot penetrate, anything old is better preserved. It is a well-known fact, that what is ancient is best preserved in darkness; this holds good as well in the material as in the moral world, for light is only required by that which is growing. Objects that decay are more easily destroyed in light than in twilight. Hence," he added, with a satirical curl of his lip, "darkness is so necessary for the preservation of what is old."

These apartments having been brought into some sort of order, the count established himself in them; from the time he had taken possession of his paternal property, his temper appeared to have become more equable. The castle harmonised with his restless soul, which cared not for the present, but loved rather to live amidst the memory of the past, which was crowded with familiar acquaintances; or, to endeavour to seek a dark and mysterious intercourse with another, and to us unknown, world.

every.

He was a visionary, but a noble visionary, with a deep sense of thing that is good and grand. I frequently visited him, and found him often engaged in reading, but he always hid his book when I entered. Once, however, I happened to catch a glimpse of it: it was Jung Stilling's works.

"I see, count," said I, "that you are reading about ghosts and apparitions. You surely do not believe in them ?"

"Why should I not? Is there anything absurd in that belief, or do you suppose that man is the only being in the creation intellectually endowed? That he stands next to God? Do you not believe in the possibility that the human soul, when freed from its vile earthly garment, can receive a more perfect, an ethereal body, suited to its new state? I believe in it, and find comfort in the thought. What were man if he did not, even here below, penetrate, however dimly, into a future existence, and acquire a slight knowledge of its mysteries? What were we, did we not all believe in this, to a greater or lesser extent? I maintain that there does not exist a man who has not some belief in spirits, even though he may ridicule the idea to others. When Death steals away the best beloved of a man's heart, seizes her in his bony arms, and draws her down into the gloom of the grave-when the hand of Providence lies heavily upon him-rest assured, my friend, that man will believe in a spiritual world."

"Assuredly; and he ought to do so. No one should dare to doubt the future existence of the soul."

"I speak of the atmosphere as being peopled with spirits; to that belief the soul of man clings when sorrowing for the dead."