fate, who little dreamed that he
was a husband, in a very humble rank of life. Bulwer speaks of his
favorite walks with Madeline, and of a rustic seat still called 'The
Lovers' Scat.' It is not, I think, now pointed out, nor is the account
of his love probably more than an imaginary one, but it may be founded
upon fact, and some high-souled English girl may really, in his early
life, or when separated as he was for a long time from his wife, have
called forth all his better feelings and revealed glimpses of the beauty
of the life of two affectionate and pure beings keeping no secrets of
the heart from each other. How it must have tortured him to think that
such a life never could be his, well fitted for it as in some respects
he was, and ever haunted by the fear that the poor sham by which he was
concealed must some day be torn away, and an ignominious fate be
apportioned him! No situation can be more deplorable than that of a man
of refined and lofty nature, who has made one fatal mistake connecting
him with men far worse than himself, who are masters of his secret and
ever ready to use it for their own base purposes. Are there not many men
so situated--men near us now, who walk through life haunted by the
dreadful spectres of past misdeeds hastily committed, bitterly
repented--a phantom that can blast every joy, and from whose presence
death comes as a friendly deliverer?

THE GREAT ST. BERNARD.

We reached the Hospice about an hour after dark, somewhat stiff, and
very wet from the rain and snow that commenced falling as we entered the
region of clouds. We had passed unpleasantly near some very considerable
precipices, and though unable to distinguish the ground below, knew they
were deep enough to occasion us decided 'inconvenience' had we gone over
them. The long, low, substantial-looking building finally loomed through
the mist, and alighting, we were shown into a room with a cheerful fire
blazing on the hearth, and were soon joined by a priest of cordial,
gentlemanly manners and agreeable conversation. So this was the famous
monastery of St. Bernard, which we had read of all our lives, and the
stories of whose sagacious dogs had delighted our childish minds. A
substantial supper was provided for us, to which was added some
excellent wine, made in the valley below. Conversation was pretty
general in French, and somewhat exclusive in Latin; two of our party
understanding the dead language, but ignorant of the