stormy and dazzling histories of southern Italy-rushed over the artist's mind as he gazed below. And, then, slowly turning to look behind, he saw the gray and mouldering walls of the castle, in which he sought the secrets that were to give to hope in the future a mightier empire than memory owns in the past. It was one of those baronial fortresses, with which Italy was studded in the earlier middle ages, having but little of the Gothic grace or grandeur which belongs to the ecclesiastical architecture of the same time; but rude, vast, and menacing, even in decay. A wooden bridge was thrown over the chasm, wide enough to admit two horsemen abreast; and the planks trembled and gave a hollow sound, as Glyndon urged his jaded steed

across.

A road that had once been broad, and paved with rough flags, but which now was half obliterated by long grass and rank weeds, conducted to the outer court of the castle hard by; the gates were open, and half the building in this part was dismantled; the ruins partially hid by ivy that was the growth of centuries. But on entering the inner court, Glyndon was not sorry to notice that there was less appearance of neglect and decay; some wild roses gave a smile to the gray walls, and in the centre there was a fountain, in which the waters still trickled coolly, and with a pleasing murmur, from the jaws of a gigantic triton. Here he was met by Mejnour, with a smile.

"Welcome, my friend and pupil," said he; "he who seeks for truth can find in these solitudes, an immortal academe."

CHAPTER XX.

THE attendants which Mejnour had engaged for his strange abode, were such as might suit a philosopher of few wants. An old Armenian, whom Glyndon recog nised as in the mystic's service at Naples; a tall, hard

featured woman from the village, recommended by Maestro Paulo, and two long-haired, smooth-spoken, but fierce-visaged youths from the same place, and honoured by the same sponsorship, constituted the establishment. The rooms used by the sage were commodious and weather-proof, with some remains of ancient splendour in the faded arras that clothed the walls and the huge tables of costly marble and elaborate carving. Glyndon's sleeping apartment communicated with a kind of belvedere or terrace that commanded prospects of unrivalled beauty and extent, and was separated, on the other side, by a long gallery, and a flight of ten or a dozen stairs, from the private chambers of the mystic. There was about the whole place, a sombre and yet not displeasing depth of repose. It suited well with the studies to which it was now to be appropriated.

For several days Mejnour refused to confer with Glyndon, on the subjects nearest to his heart.

"All without," said he, "is prepared, but not all within; your own soul must grow accustomed to the spot, and filled with the surrounding nature: for nature is the source of all inspiration."

With these words, which savoured a little of jargon, Mejnour turned to lighter topics. He made the Englishman accompany him in long rambles through the wild scenes around, and he smiled approvingly, when the young artist gave way to the enthusiasm which their fearful beauty could not have failed to rouse in a duller breast; and then Mejnour poured forth to his wondering pupil, the stores of a knowledge that seemed inexhaustible and boundless. He gave accounts the most curious, graphic, and minute, of the various races (their characters, habits, creeds, and manners,) by which that fair land had been successively overrun. It is true that his descriptions could not be found in books, and were unsupported by learned authorities; but he possessed the true charm of the tale-teller, and spoke of all with the animated confidence of a personal witness. Sometimes, too, he would converse upon the more durable and the loftier mysteries of nature, with an eloquence and a research which invested them with all the colours

rather of poetry than science. Insensibly, the young artist found himself elevated and soothed by the lore of his companion; the fever of his wild desires was slaked. His mind became more and more lulled into the divine tranquillity of contemplation; he felt himself a nobler being; and in the silence of his senses, he imagined that he heard the voice of his soul.

It was to this state that Mejnour evidently sought to bring the Neophyte, and in this elementary initiation the mystic was like every more ordinary sage. For he who seeks to DISCOVER, must first reduce himself into a kind of abstract idealism, and be rendered up, in solemn and sweet bondage, to the faculties which CONTEMPLATE and IMAGINE.

Glyndon noticed, that, in their rambles, Mejnour often paused where the foliage was rifest, to gather some herb or flower; and this reminded him that he had seen Zicci similarly occupied. "Can these humble children of nature," (said he, one day to Mejnour,)" things that bloom and wither in a day, be serviceable to the science of the higher secrets? Is there a pharmacy for the soul as well as the body, and do the nurslings of the summer, minister not only to human health but spiritual immortality?"

"If," answered Mejnour, "before one property of herbalism was known to them, a stranger had visited a wandering tribe; if he had told the savages that the herbs, which every day they trampled under foot, were endowed with the most potent virtues; that one would restore to health a brother on the verge of death; that another would paralyze into idiotcy their wisest sage; that a third would strike lifeless to the dust their most stalwart champion; that tears and laughter, vigour and disease, madness and reason, wakefulness and sleep, existence and dissolution, were coiled up in those unregarded leaves,-would they not have held him a sorcerer or a liar? To half the virtues of the vegetable world mankind are yet in the darkness of the savages I have supposed. There are faculties within us with which certain herbs have affinity, and over which they VOL. I.-26

have power. The moly of the ancients is not all a fable."

One evening, Glyndon had lingered alone and late upon the ramparts,-watching the stars as, one by one, they broke upon the twilight. Never had he felt so sensibly the mighty power of the heavens and the earth upon man! how much the springs of our intellectual being are moved and acted upon by the solemn influences of nature! As a patient on whom, slowly and by degrees, the agencies of mesmerism are brought to bear, he acknowledged to his heart the growing force of that vast and universal magnetism which is the life of creation, and binds the atom to the whole. A strange and ineffable consciousness of power, of the something GREAT within the perishable clay, appealed to feelings at once dim and glorious,—rather faintly recognised than all unknown. An impulse, that he could not resist, led him to seek the mystic. He would demand, that hour, his initiation into the worlds beyond our worldhe was prepared to breathe a diviner air. He entered the castle, and strode through the shadowy and star-lit gallery which conducted to Mejnour's apartment.

REVIEW OF THE POEMS OF

LAMAN BLANCHARD.

Ir is one of the pleasantest, although I fear it is one of the most neglected of the duties of a critic, to go back somewhat from the books born of the present time, and examine whether among the vast hordes that have sunk into obscurity, there may not be some deserving an exemption from the general doom. "The world is too much with us," and it is the sin of the times-that the times only are consulted. It is thought a sufficient excuse not to review a book if the book has been published some six months, as if ephemera were the only creatures that merited dissection.

The more we look to the reputations acquired in literature, the more we must be convinced that they are decided rather by the wheel than the balance—that fortune is their deity, not Justice. Doubtless no great and daring genius can be altogether without an audience, though often an audience late and few; but how many mediocre and insignificant authorlings are raised by the circumstances that throw a personal interest on their writings, into an importance which time seems to think it not worth his while to annul! Looking over the long list of our British poets, such as they are found in a" well-selected library," or such as they are known by the current cant of reputation; is it not a startling proof