_THE LOST SOUL_.

Hark the bell! the funeral bell, Calling the soul To its goal.

Oh! the haunted human heart, From its idol doomed to part!

Yet a twofold being bearing, She and I apart are tearing; She to heaven I to h.e.l.l!

Going, going! Hark the bell!

Far in h.e.l.l, Tolling, tolling.

Fiends are rolling, Whitened bones, and coffins reeking, Fearful darkness grimly creeping On my soul, My vision searing, She disappearing, Drawn from me By a soul I cannot see, Whom I know can never love her.

Oh! that soul could I discover, I would go, Steeped in woe, Down to darkness, down to h.e.l.l!

Hark the bell! Farewell! farewell!

JEAN PAUL RICHTER.

_INVISIBLE INFLUENCES._

A ship is on the ocean. The wind is fair. All hands are in motion. But a few hours since, it left port. Among its pa.s.sengers is a gay traveller; he wears a silken cloak fringed with gold. The sailors admire his splendor; they gather around him as he walks the deck with his flying robe. They put forth their rough hands to feel its soft texture; its warm, bright color gives pleasure to their eyes. As they gaze their pulses heighten, their steps become unsteady, their eyes wander from duty, their great st.u.r.dy frames quiver with emotion. The captain rallies them, but in vain.

What secret foe is in their midst? Their parched tongues, cleaving to the roofs of their mouths, call for the surgeon. He comes--he questions, "From whence comest thou?" "From the Orient," the traveller replies. The surgeon gasps and shakes his head. He, too, is stricken with fear. "'Tis the _plague_!" he whispers. An unseen, deadly foe is stalking beneath that gay cloak! The traveller hears and shudders; he flings off his gay vestment. The waves gather up the silken folds. But the sacrifice is useless. A fell hand strikes down both traveller and sailor. As they gasp and die they are hurried to the ship's side; they are plunged overboard; a seething, foaming grave yawns to receive them.

The ship glides on. Those who remain wash the deck with water. They cannot wash away the demon, which is everywhere and yet nowhere....

Poisons as subtle attend the human spirit, baneful and contagious as the plague!

See yonder peaceful cottage, nestling by the hillside; hope and contentment dwell therein; within its walls beauty and grace awaken harmony. Lured by the bright sunshine, a stranger enters the door. He sits and chats awhile with the inmates. His talk is pleasant, and as he converses a cloud falls upon the house, the sunshine becomes darkened, and the dwellers within the pretty cottage shiver as with cold. They heed not the change, for the chat of their guest delights them. But when he departs he leaves behind him a poison more baneful than the plague.

The inmates of the peaceful cottage look with gloomy eyes one upon the other; they become dissatisfied and distracted among themselves, and discord takes the place of harmony.

Secret influences are at work, poisons thrown out by the sphere of the guest. A worse fate befalls them than befell the sailors who were invaded by the insidious Plague.

I have seen in nature a fair face clouded suddenly--made gloomy and unlovely--by the unspoken thought of another. Thought is contagious--some varieties of it poisonous! I have seen the countenance of an innocent child transformed into ugliness by a poisonous thought. I have seen those who have looked upon her receive that thought and become likewise infected.

I have seen also to this picture another and a brighter side. I have seen secret influences drawing individuals together, sustaining and upholding them; as the long line filaments of wool clasp each other and draw together the separate particles, so have I seen individuals united. Thus was the first Napoleon united to Josephine. A secret influence as potent as the plague pa.s.sed from one to the other; but it breathed health and not poison.

Napoleon, with his powerful will, disrupted these magnetic relations; he tore apart the unseen filaments that bound them; and, the sustaining influence gone, he fell--a mighty wreck--on the bleak sh.o.r.e of St.

Helena.

What man or woman can comprehend the secret influences that surround the soul. Keep guard; and when the blood stagnates within, when secret shudders, and gloomy thoughts, and inharmonious feelings arise, be sure that some poison-breathing foe is at hand.

Set the door ajar, and resolutely turn your face from the secret influence that would destroy you.

CHARLOTTE BRONTe.

(CURRER BELL.)

_AGNES REEF.--A TALE_.

CHAPTER I.

I was brought up and educated by my bachelor uncle. He was a reticent, moody man, and with his aged housekeeper and myself, led a solitary and unsocial life in the old rambling house which had been his father's before him.

I was but a child of six years when destiny placed me under his charge, and with him I remained eleven years; a scared, repressed little thing, revelling in strange fancies in the spidery attic rooms, and looking down through the dusty cobwebbed windows upon the life and movement below, unconscious that I formed a part of that active humanity.

Thus I lived until I entered my seventeenth year. For the last two years my mind had been expanding and growing discontented with my lot. The moroseness of my uncle, the sullenness of his housekeeper, the gloom and dinginess of the bare rooms had grown insupportable to me. These alone I might have endured, but added to them were other sources of disquiet, not the least of which being hints from the housekeeper that it was time I began to do something for myself. Youth, pride, and ambition stirred within me, and I actively set about looking, for a situation.

I had not long to wait; in one of the weekly papers, of which my uncle took many, I one day discovered an advertis.e.m.e.nt, which to my morbid fancy seemed sent by fate especially to me.

A young lady was wanted to take charge of the education of a boy of eleven years. Upon reading this advertis.e.m.e.nt, I immediately sat down and wrote a letter, offering my services.

By return mail I received a note acknowledging the receipt of mine, and stating that as I was the only applicant and my testimonials satisfactory, I was accepted.

I informed my uncle of my good fortune. He received the news with a gruff approval, adding that he hoped I would do well, as I could expect no further pecuniary aid from him than would be sufficient to carry me there.

My emotions, as I packed my little trunk on that memorable Sat.u.r.day, were of a mixed character; but pleasure predominated. Hope beckoned me on; and the sadness attendant on breaking loose from the unfriendly home in which I had lived so long was but transitory.

Monday morning saw me seated composedly in the rail-coach on the way to "Bristed Hall," my destination. Towards nightfall we stopped at a station in a desolate, spa.r.s.ely-inhabited district. My road diverging here, I hurried out, and the long train which connected me with my past life sped out of sight.

Drawing my veil closely to my face to hide a few falling tears, I looked around the desolate waiting-room, to see if any fellow-creature was expecting me. As I did so a heavy, thumping footstep sounded upon the platform, and a surly voice inquired:

"Are you Miss Reef?" accompanying the question by a slight pull at my shawl.

Turning, I beheld a deformed little man with long arms and a high back, awaiting my answer to his question. I summoned courage to ask:

"Were you sent for Miss Reef?"

"Yes," he replied, "I am Mr. Bristed's man. He told me to drive here and fetch home a Miss Reef--if you are that person, miss!" touching his hat with an effort at politeness.

"I am," I answered, and without further ado we proceeded to the carriage, which he had left waiting at the rear platform.

The evening air was chilly, for it was quite sunset. Drawing my shawl around me, I ensconced myself in a corner of the vehicle, and watched the fading landscape with stolid indifference to whatever might befall me.

We drove on thus for a good hour and a half, halting at length before a dark, ma.s.sy object, the form of which my dozy eyes could not discern.

However, it proved to be Bristed Hall.

I emerged from the carriage and pa.s.sed up the steps to an open door which, at the pausing of our carriage wheels, had been set ajar. An old woman, the feminine counterpart of my sulky driver, stood in the dimly-lighted pa.s.sage-way to receive me. She vouchsafed me but a grum welcome, but I felt already too desolate and weary to experience any further depression from her humor.

Bidding me follow her, and ordering the man to carry my luggage, she led me directly through the hall up the stairway to a chamber evidently prepared for my use. The apartment was prettily furnished, and its tidy appearance and the cheerful fire burning on the hearth quite roused my drooping spirits.

After a.s.sisting me to remove my bonnet and shawl, my conductress left me, returning ere long with a tray containing refreshments. These she set before me with silent hospitality; then bade me goodnight, saying she would call me in the morning at eight o'clock for breakfast.

My sleep that night was disturbed by dreams, which though vague filled me with terror.

I imagined that I was walking through a long corridor, opening into a sumptuous apartment, its interior partly concealed by rich folds of damask curtains. I lifted the heavy drapery and essayed to enter, but a cold hand grasped mine and prevented me. A woman's figure, slight and youthful, with white face, great sad eyes, and long yellow hair, stood in the arched doorway and pressed me back with her clammy hand. I started up from my pillow in alarm to find myself alone; the pale moonbeams streaming through the looped curtains of the window and glancing upon my forehead, I thought, probably accounted for the cold hand of my dream. I slept, and dreamed again. The scene was changed: a field of stubble lay before me; through it I must make my way; the rough ground hurt my feet; I stumbled and fell; attempting to rise, I saw painted in clear relief against the horizon the same female figure.