panels of its wainscot; from its yawning width and height of chimney—looking like the open entrance to a tomb, of which the surrounding ornaments appeared to form the sculptures and the entablature;—from the portraits of grim men and severe-eyed women, arrayed in orderly procession along the walls, and scowling a contemptuous enmity against the degenerate invader of their gloomy bowers and venerable halls; from the vast, dusky, ponderous, and complicated draperies that concealed the windows, and hung with the gloomy grandeur of funereal trappings about the hearse-like piece of furniture that was destined for his bed,—Lord L., on entering his apartment, might be conscious of some mental depression, and surrounded by such a world of melancholy images, might, perhaps, feel himself more than usually inclined to submit to the influences of superstition. It is not possible that these sentiments should have been allied to any feelings of apprehension. Fear is acknowledged to be a most mighty master over the visions of the imagination. It can "call spirits from the vasty deep"—and they do come, when it does call for them. It trembles at the anticipation of approaching evil, and then encounters in every passing shadow the substance of the dream it trembled at. But such could not have been the origin of the form which addressed itself to the view of Lord Londonderry. Fear is a quality that was never known to mingle in the character of a Stewart. Lord Londonderry examined his chamber—he made himself acquainted with the forms and faces of the ancient possessors of the mansion, who sat up right in their ebony frames to receive his salutation; and then, after dismissing his valet, he retired to bed. His candles had not been long extinguished, when he perceived a light gleaming on the draperies of the lofty canopy over his head. Conscious that there was no fire in the grate—that the curtains were closed—that the chamber had been in perfect darkness but a few moments before, he supposed that some intruder must have accidentally entered his apartment; and, turning hastily round to the side from which the light proceeded—saw—to his infinite astonishment—not the form of any human visiter—but the figure of a fair boy, who seemed to be garmented in rays of mild and tempered glory, which beamed palely from his slender form, like the faint light of the declining moon, and rendered the objects which were nearest to him dimly and indistinctly visible. The spirit stood at some short distance from the side of the bed. Certain that his own faculties were not deceiving him, but suspecting that he might be imposed upon by the ingenuity of some of the numerous guests who were then visiting in the same house, Lord Londonderry proceeded towards the figure. It retreated before him. As he slowly advanced, the form, with equal paces, slowly retired. It entered the vast arch of the capacious chimney, and then sunk into the earth. Lord L. returned to his bed; but not to rest. His mind was harassed by the consideration of the extraordinary event which had occurred to him. Was it real?—was it the work of imagination?—was it the result of imposture?—It was all incomprehensible. He resolved in the morning not to mention the appearance till he should have well observed the manners and the countenances of the family: he was conscious that, if any deception had been practised, its authors would be too delighted with their success to conceal the vanity of their triumph. When the guests assembled at the breakfast-table, the eye of Lord Londonderry searched in vain for those latent smiles—those cunning looks—that silent communication between the parties—by which the authors and abettors of such domestic conspiracies are generally betrayed. Every thing apparently proceeded in its ordinary course. The conversation flowed rapidly along from the subjects afforded at the moment, without any of the constraint which marks a party intent upon some secret and more interesting argument, and endeavouring to afford an opportunity for its introduction. At last the hero of the tale found himself compelled to mention the occurrences of the night. It was most extraordinary—he feared that he should not be credited: and then, after all due preparation, the story was related. Those among his auditors who, like himself, were strangers and visiters in the house, were certain that some delusion must have been practised. The family alone seemed perfectly composed and calm. At last, the gentleman whom Lord Londonderry was visiting, interrupted their various surmises on the subject by saying:—"The circumstance which you have just recounted must naturally appear most extraordinary to those who have not long been inmates of my dwelling, and are not conversant with the legends connected with my family; to those who are, the event which has happened will only serve as the corroboration of an old tradition that long has been related of the apartment in which you slept. You have seen
the Radiant Boy; and it is an omen of prosperous fortunes;—I would rather that this subject should no more be mentioned."
The above adventure is one very commonly reported of the late Marquis of Londonderry; and is given on the authority of a gentleman, to whom that nobleman himself related it.—The Album.
THE CROSS ROADS
(For the Mirror.) Methought upon a mountain's brow
Stood Glory, gazing round him;
And in the silent vale below
Lay Love, where Fancy found him;
While distant o'er the yellow plain
Glittering Wealth held wide domain.
Glory was robed in light; and trod
A brilliant track before him,
He gazed with ardour, like a god,
And grasp'd at heaven o'er him;
The meteor's flash his beaming eye,
The trumpet's shriek his melody.
But Love was robed in roses sweet,
And zephyrs murmur'd nigh him,
Flowers were blooming at his feet,
And birds were warbling by him:
His eyes soft radiance seem'd to wear,
For tears and smiles were blended there.
Gay Wealth a gorgeous train display'd.
(And Fancy soon espied him,)
Supine, in splendid garb array'd,
With Luxury beside him;
He dwelt beneath a lofty dome,
Which Pride and Pleasure made their home.
Well; seeking Happiness, I sped,
And, as Hope hover'd o'er me,
I ask'd which way the nymph had fled,
For four roads met before me—
Whether she'd climb'd the height above,
Or bask'd with Wealth, or slept with Love?
I paus'd—for in the lonely path,
'Neath gloomy willows weeping,
Wrapt in his shroud of sullen wrath,
The Suicide was sleeping,
A scathed yew-tree's wither'd limb,
To mark the spot, frown'd o'er him.
I wept—to think my fellow-man,
(To madness often driven,)
Pursue false Glory's phantoms, then
Lose happiness and heaven:
I wept—for oh! it seem'd to be
A mournful moral meant for me!
But lo! an aged traveller came,
By Wisdom sent to guide me,
Experience was the pilgrim's name,
And thus he seem'd to chide me—
"Fool! Happiness is gone the road
That leads to Virtue's calm abode!"
JESSE HAMMOND MY COMMON-PLACE BOOK
NO. XXI.
ORDEALS
Four kinds of ordeals were chiefly used by our German ancestors:—1. "The Kamp fight," or combat; during which the spectators were to be silent and quiet, on pain of losing an arm or leg; an executioner with a sharp axe. 2. "The fire ordeal," in which the accused might clear his innocence by holding red-hot iron in his
