ery one; he fell on his
companion, and struck him in the face with his clenched fist.

"Angry Mads has become mad again!" resounded on all sides, and the
other rascals seized hold of him, wrestled with him, and bent him
double, so that his head was forced between his legs, where they bound
it fast, so that the blood was nearly springing out of his eyes, and
all the pores.

"You will kill him!" said the clergyman,--"poor unfortunate!" and as
he stretched his hands out over him, who had already suffered too
severely, in order to prevent further mischief, the scene changed.

They flew through rich halls, and through poor chambers;
voluptuousness and envy, all mortal sins strode past them. A recording
angel read their sin and their defence; this was assuredly little for
God, for God reads the heart; He knows perfectly the evil that comes
within it and from without, He, grace, all-loving kindness. The hand
of the clergyman trembled: he did not venture to stretch it out, to
pluck a hair from the sinner's head. And the tears streamed down from
his eyes, like the waters of _grace_ and love, which quenched the
eternal fire of hell.

The cock then crowed.

"Merciful God! Thou wilt grant her that peace in the grave which I
have not been able to redeem."

"That I now have!" said the dead; "it was thy hard words, thy dark,
human belief of God and his creatures, which drove me to thee! Learn
to know mankind; even in the bad there is a part of God--a part that
will conquer and quench the fire of hell."

And a kiss was pressed on the clergyman's lips:--it shone around him.
God's clear, bright sun shone into the chamber, where his wife,
living, mild, and affectionate, awoke him from a dream, sent from God!

UPSALA.

* * * * *

It is commonly said, that Memory is a young girl with light blue eyes.
Most poets say so; but we cannot always agree with most poets. To us
memory comes in quite different forms, all according to that land, or
that town to which she belongs. Italy sends her as a charming Mignon,
with black eyes and a melancholy smile, singing Bellini's soft,
touching songs. From Scotland Memory's sprite appears as a powerful
lad with bare knees; the plaid hangs over his shoulder, the
thistle-flower is fixed on his cap; Burns's songs then fill the air
like the heath-lark's song, and Scotland's wild thistle flowers
beautifully fragrant as the fresh rose. But now for Memory's sprite