malady, and accelerate the recovery of those who had already been attacked. It chanced, about the middle of May, that I had passed a quiet and pleasant evening with my friend, and after a moonlight ramble, between ten and eleven o'clock, we parted for the night. Fatigued with the exercise and duties of the day, I fell asleep almost immediately, but awoke again after what is usually termed a short nap. I have already mentioned that it was bright moonlight; and, as I lay awake in a musing, dreamy, sort of state, I distinctly saw the figure of my long-forgotten Emily present itself at the foot of my bed, standing out in bold relief in the clear moonlight. Surprise held me motionless; but recovering myself in an instant, and nothing doubting but what I saw was real, I sprang out of bed, calling on her by name. But the apparition was gone. After searching the room, I again stretched myself on my couch, in considerable perplexity and annoyance: sometimes I thought that, unknown to myself, I must in reality have been asleep and dreaming; but then there was no dream; - I had no warning, either visionary or substantial, of her coming or of her departure, neither had I had any fever. I had not even spent the previous evening at the mess, for Mordyn and I had dined at a country house about three miles distant; and what surprised me most (being, indeed, the only circumstance that dwelt much upon my mind), was, that such an event should have occurred to me with relation to a person who had so long been absent from my thoughts and imagination. I was too heedless to take any notice of the night on which I saw the vision; and as I had never mentioned Emily to Mordyn or any of my companions, I felt no inclination to disclose the occurrence, indeed, all things considered, the event left far less impression on my mind than might have been expected.

For some subsequent months, our lives passed in the usual routine; and as all active warfare was at an end, we began to grow very tired of the monotony of a regimental life. I myself had but little to look forward to, but Mordyn was already enjoying, in anticipation, a speedy and happy return to his home, when I suddenly received letters, informing me that my father was very dangerously ill, and that, if I hoped to find him alive, and receive his blessing, it was necessary to lose no time in reaching my paternal roof. I had always more feared than loved my father; still the prospect of being bereaved of my only surviving relative, was inexpressibly painful to me, and I was most anxious to accelerate my departure. On the circumstances being stated to my commanding officer, he kindly gave me immediate leave of absence; so that, with the affectionate and efficient help of my friend, it was not many hours after I had received the afflicting communication, before I was again at sea on my passage home, with far different feelings agitating my breast than those I had experienced when leaving it not two years before.

The wind was fair, and all proved favourable to my hopes of accomplishing as speedy a journey as the mode of travelling then permitted; and about the end of the third day I arrived within sight of my native village; my agitation became extreme, lest I should not find my poor father alive; my heart beat painfully quick, and I felt fearful of looking round me, dreading that my eyes might encounter something to confirm my worst fears, and by the time the chaise stopped at the door 1 had hardly power to speak. The countenance of the old servant who opened it reassured me, and, with every manifestation of delight at my return, she informed me that my father not only still lived, but that his disorder had taken a rather more favourable turn than was at first expected. He had been seized with paralysis, and had entirely lost the use of one side, but his consciousness had, within the last few hours, partially returned. He was, after due precaution, apprised of my arrival, and as he expressed a wish to see me I was presently at his bedside, and was greatly shocked at his appearance, for I had left him a strong, hale man, remarkably healthy and vigorous, and the appalling change which had thus suddenly reduced him to sickly and helpless old age, was most distressing to witness. He received me with great kindness, and his demeanour appeared much softened by illness. A few days passed away, during which my father continued to improve, and I became very assiduous in my attentions to him, from affection as well as duty, for as he was now really considerate and grateful for my filial services, I felt my heart drawn to him with quite child-like love and affection. The circumstances in which he was placed, together with the perfect quiet which his disorder required, necessarily prevented me from seeing any body; and, for the same reason, I was a great deal confined to the house, so that I had but few opportunities of discovering what had passed in our little community during my absence; however, an old female attendant, who had lived for many years in the family, and who, indeed, had been formerly my nurse, used sometimes to entertain me with the gossip of the place, and, while sitting up with our poor invalid, would bestow on me her store of village lore, with all the tenacity of a strong memory, and the garrulity of age.

One evening, when she had thus been giving me an account of some of our neighbours, it suddenly occurred to me to say, “Well, and what has become of my old companion, Emily Standon, and her father; did they go directly to Ireland after my departure ?"

"Miss Emily, oh poor

" 'Emily Standon!" replied the old woman, thing! did you not know that she was dead? she died last May."

This sudden announcement of the untimely death of the youthful and blooming girl, the friend and companion of my early days, and the

first choice of my young and pure affections, for an instant overwhelmed me beyond the power of utterance. At length I faltered out, "And where is Mr. Standon! is he still alive?"

Yes, Sir; but he was so dreadfully overcome by the death of the poor young lady that he left the place, but he has not given up the house, and as there is no one in it but the woman who was Miss Emily's nurse, many people think that the old gentleman will yet return to end his days in the village."

The idea of anything happening to Emily, except a speedy and happy marriage, had never presented itself to my mind, and indeed I had somewhat fostered that notion as a kind of apology for my own inconstancy, or rather for the evanescent nature of my attachment, for my affections had never been transferred to any other object. The old servant soon after left me, a prey to the most painful reflections. In the morning, after breakfast, having seen my father made comfortable, I told him I thought of taking a walk, to which he made no objection, and I quietly stole down to Mr. Standon's house to learn all that I could of the last hours of my early companion. On arriving near the place, the well-remembered scenes, joined to the air of utter desolation which pervaded the whole spot, and which formed so strong a contrast to the animated life, health, and joy in which I had left it, called forth feelings that I could not repress, and I resolved to take time to recover myself before I ventured to meet the old nurse and hear her sad tale. In about half an hour I gained courage to knock gently at the door, which was immediately opened; the old servant started when she saw me, and holding up her hands, burst into an agony of tears. The sight of the faithful creature's emotion again overcame me, and, entering the house, I sat down and wept with her. The particulars of Emily's death were but few: it seemed she had pined for some time without her debility, and other symptoms of premature decay exciting much observation from those around her; her decided illness had, therefore, appeared to be but short, and she had, as it were, slipped away from them before they were awakened to a sense of her danger. Her bosom secret had died with her. No one but my father had been aware of our attachment, and none suspected the real cause which was gnawing at the heart and destroying the earthly life of this poor girl in the prime of her youth and beauty. I also learned that she had suffered no pain, was patient and resigned, and seemed to have no wish for prolonged existence. "And she died in May?" I said.

"Yes, Sir, on the night of the 15th of May," replied the old woman, and then, getting more loquacious, as she saw the strong interest I took in the subject of her grief, she added, "I used sometimes to think, Sir, that it would have been better for Miss Emily, and indeed for all of us,

16

if you had not gone away so suddenly to the wars. As long as she could creep about, she always took the greatest care of the flowers you had planted together; and then your dog, Sir, was her faithful and constant attendant" (ah! how much more faithful than I had been): “ he never quitted her, and lay on her bed beside her when she died. Poor fellow! you know he was very old, Sir,-and he died himself soon afterwards :" -then, drawing nearer to me, she added in a whisper,-" As her soul was departing-in the very moment of death-the last words she uttered were-' I am going to Arthur Carew!' and, falling back upon her pillow, she never breathed again." The midnight vision in the preceding month of May now recurred forcibly to my mind. I could no longer doubt that I had seen the spirit of Emily, after it had quitted its mortal tenement; but wherefore sent, or why permitted, who can tell? The whole of this sad history was calculated to make a deep impression upon, perhaps, a harder or more thoughtless heart than mine. I returned home, I trust, a chastened and a better man. My father did not long survive; and I then quitted Easthope entirely. I still remain a bachelor, being wedded to the memory of the dead: but years have since rolled on; the stamp of middle age has long impressed its sober hue upon my face and form; but never, till I, too, have become an inmate of the tomb, can I forget the sad and premature death of my early love, or the vision of her parting spirit.

Reader, my tale is told. The believing and the incredulous, the pious and the profane, may think of it what they will; but the incidents are true, though supernatural. I did love Emily ;-I did quit her; and it is no less true, that I saw her in a foreign country, on the night of her death, as plainly as I ever saw her alive.

G. E. C.

LESLIE OF SYDNEY.

I dipt into the future,

Saw the vision of the world and the wonder that would be.

TENNYSON.

THE prosperity of England passed away from the middle of the 19th century.

Many works were afterwards published in Australia on the Decline and Fall of the British Empire, but as each writer assigned a cause which coincided with his own theories, it was hard to speak certainly on the subject.

In the pages of the Historian you found much on the Railway Bubble, -the War in St. George's Channel (when the Black Eagle of Russia waved on Dublin Castle), -the dissensions of the Two Churches. The

word "capital" occurred very often in the Political Economist's account; the Religious writer spoke much of the Gallio government,—national unbelief, and vengeance; the Poet sang of the setting sun-the dead lion-the faded rose, and Britannia's grave.

But whatever the cause, the Decline of England was hurried and resistless; its overthrow, complete.

Then Russia arose, not for commerce, but for conquest, with a fiery and energetic Emperor on the throne; her ships sailed victorious on the seas, and her armies marched unopposed on the land. But the prince died, and one feeble in thought and indolent in action succeeded him, and the glory departed from Russia. Her course was like "the burning leven-short-bright-resistless."

In the days of England's decline the United States had taken from her the Australian Colony; the Penal Settlement was broken up, and American speculators flocked to the coasts of New South Wales.

And then thy turn came, O, Australia! thou hadst lain unheeded for ages in the Southern Pacific,—the leaves had faded in thy deep woods many an Autumn, unseen,-the red Savage had danced in the forest shades long time undisturbed, and when the stranger came he brought his brother in chains; but now thou wast to have a name and a story of thine own.

The progress of the Arts, increased Science, the Miracles of the Press, Steam, Electricity, Railways, Machinery, Mesmerism, towards the close of the 19th Century compressed the work of ages into a few years.

Towns and cities arose in New South Wales. Settlers from all quarters hastened towards her shores, trade sprung up with life and vigour, the busy hum of men was wafted inward to the woods, anxious faces looked forth on either side to the Indian or the Pacific ocean, rapid steam communication connected Australian harbours with New Zealand, now a Christian and prosperous island, with India, Africa, the West, and distant North. In the sea-ports, flags of all nations fluttered from the mast-heads of ships. Sydney swelled into a great and mighty metropolis; new streets spread out in various directions; new buildings rose as if by magic, and carriages rattled, and men hurried on, and the love of gain seemed to beat like a pulse of life.

In 1900, the First Congress of the Australian Settlers was held.

It was the evening of the 31st of December, 1999, in Sydney, and Leslie, the Magnetic Philosopher was seated alone in his library. The room was large and lofty; there were book shelves as high as the ceiling on all sides. One space only was left over the fire place, which was filled by a picture, exquisitely painted, of a young and beautiful female.