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But there is another topic connected with the early development of the imaginative faculties, which we would touch on briefly and reverentially, ere we close. It is not solely because it is in accordance with the course of nature, nor even because it cherishes the kindly feelings of the heart, that we would wish that the imagination should, in the very dawn of life, be thus cultivated and developed. At first, it is true, no other purpose than this may seem to have been answered; but, as the mind advances to maturity, the imagination will seek for purer and better food; it will crave for the strong meat which belongeth unto full age. Trained and nourished in its youth to a healthy and a vigorous strength, it will be able to enter into those higher and more noble thoughts which are given to those only "whose fancy heaven-ward soars;" to see clearly the things of spiritual existence; to realize to itself the truth, that—

"Millions of living spirits walk the earth,

To us unseen ;-"

and, as it feels itself surrounded by those bright and glorious beings, to think (in the words of him who, under the guise of a tale of Faërie, wrote the noblest allegory in our language,)—

"How oft do they their silver bowers leave

To come to succour us that succour want!

How oft do they, with golden pinions, cleave
The flitting skies, like flying pursuivant,
Against foul fiends to aid us militant!"*

To the imagination thus perfected and ennobled, no object in nature will be without its hidden and mysterious meaning. It will find sermons in stones and in the running brooks. In the lustre of the ocean-gem, and the fragrance of sweet flowers; in the many-twinkling smile of the expanse of waters, and in the rays of the stars of heaven,—it will discover some peculiar charm unknown to others. The winds and the waters will pour into its ear their voices of sweet melody. Even during the labour and heat of the day, it will soar above the things of earth; and, when the senses of the world are steeped in the forgetfulness of slumber, it will feel a still and solemn joy-will see visions of unearthly beauty, and hear

"Celestial voices in the midnight airs."

* Spenser, F. Q. Book ii. canto viii. 2.

E. H. P.

SABATAYZAVI, THE CONSTRAINED MONK.

A TALE OF POLAND.

THE period of the history I am about to relate—a history which sets forth in colours of startling brightness the great and awful truth, that there is nothing in this world so good, that it may not be wrested to evil by persons so disposed-was the year of our Lord 997, two years before the death of the good Duke Miecislas, the fifth prince of the great house of Piast; who, while he equalled his ancestors in military achievements, and in his civil government, conferred a far greater benefit upon his subjects by the introduction of Christianity into the kingdom.

By this time the new religion was so far established, that several monasteries already existed in different parts of the empire. One of these was of considerable size, and numbered fifty-four monks within its walls. The abbot thereof was a stern, severe, cross-looking old man, by name Skrezepisky, who had made himself remarkably unpopular in the neighbourhood, by thundering his anathemas in the most remorseless manner upon the heads of all people, great or small, young or old, who in any way offended against the strict rules of propriety and religious conduct.

It so chanced that a man of the name of Sabatayzavi had some time before built for himself a house close to the spot where the monastery now stood. He had chosen the situation for its beauty; sheltered on one side by lofty hills from the cold north winds, and on the other commanding a very extensive and varied prospect. Sabatayzavi was moderately rich, and living in such a beautiful spot, he had, apparently, every thing to make him a happy man. But the perversity of nature had assigned to him a wife, who turned out quite contrary to his expectations, and to those of his mother, whom he had with all filial duty consulted on the matter— the very plague of his life. Very soon after the marriage, they conceived a mutual dislike towards each other, which rapidly increased to what might be termed aversion; and their only comfort and enjoyment was to sit on a sort of terrace before the house, at the extreme ends thereof—the effect of mutual repulsion-and enjoy the prospect; each trying to forget the existence of the other.

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SABATAYZA VI, THE CONSTRAINED MONK.

But in process of time these monks came and built their monastery directly in front of poor Sabatayzavi's house, shut out all his prospect, and left him nothing to look upon, but their ugly stone wall, and his wife. This was more than human nature could bear. Their aversion soon became mortal hatred; and such a catand-dog life did they lead for about two years, that at the end of that time the lady determined that something must be done; and after long deliberation, she planned a notable scheme, which she accomplished in the following manner :—

Early one morning she went out into the hills, and gathered four or five different kinds of herbs, which she chose for their poisonous and unwholesome appearance; but it was no part of her intention to poison her husband, that would have endangered her own safety too much. So on her return home, she went immediately into an upper room, taking with her three cats, particular pets of Sabatayzavi's, and proceeded to administer some of the herbs she had gathered to the unhappy beasts. The first cat she killed outright in about five minutes: this rather alarmed her. Her second experiment was not more fortunate, for soon after taking the dose, the miserable wretch commenced howling in such a piteous manner, and so loudly, that the sound reached her husband down stairs, who, alarmed at the unusual noise, went up to see what was the matter. A terrible fright she was in, when she heard his footsteps approaching; discovery seemed inevitable. There was no time for deliberation; she seized the howling cat by the tail, and flung it out of window, and she had only just time to kick the dead cat and the weeds under the bed, when her husband entered.

Sabatayzavi was not much surprised at the unsatisfactory account his wife gave of herself; it was her usual way. So rejoicing in his heart that she chose to occupy the garret, rather than their common sitting-room, he descended again, and his wife recommenced her experiments upon the yet remaining cat, and this time she was so successful, that she ventured to prepare a dose for her husband. She administered it to him the next morning in his breakfast, so skilfully, that he did not perceive the taste; but soon afterwards he began to feel most uncommonly ill. He was obliged to go to bed, where he lay rolling about from side to side, and raving out strange noises, having lost not only all his senses, but also his speech. Forthwith his wife ran off to the monks, bellowing and crying, as though she was most terribly distressed, and begged most earnestly to see the abbot. Skrezepisky came out to her, and

SABATAYZAVI, THE CONSTRAINED MONK.

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reproved her for making so much noise and disturbance. "Oh, good master," quoth she, "my husband is dying, and he has lost the use of his speech;"-here tears and sobs choked her voice. "For some time past," she continued, "he has talked much about becoming a monk; he has prayed for nothing but that he might be made a monk. O pray, good master, come and put on the habit, for he is near unto death. And even if he should recover, I will be content to live in widowhood for his sake, rather than his soul should suffer."

Skrezepisky was slightly amazed to hear this story, and represented to the woman that Sabatayzavi had always been notoriously ill-affected towards the monks, and that it was most unaccountable he should now wish to become one; but she still persisted in the truth of what she said, and begged so earnestly that he would invest him with the habit, that the abbot, who never neglected an opportunity of adding to the number of his monks, at last consented.

-

The experiments upon the cats had not misled the lady. She had prepared her dose with such skill, that towards evening he recovered; but his head was still aching violently, and he leaned it on his hand for support. It did not seem to him to have its usual feel; he felt again and again, and at last the conviction came upon him that he was really bald. He rose from his bed, and then perceived to his increased astonishment that his garb was unusually coarse and rough. He looked in a mirror, and beheld himself in the guise of a monk. Not a little did he marvel; and turning to his wife, who stood by all in tears, he asked the reason of his transformation. "Dearest husband"—he started at the appellation, he had never heard it since the sweet days of the honey-moon."Dearest husband, dost thou not remember, how in the days of thy illness thou hast become a monk? Nothing else would satisfy thee when thy pains raged so violently. So, dearest, for thy sake I must live alone, like a desolate widow as I am!" Sabatayzavi swore that he would be no monk at all, that it was all an imposition, talked of getting justice, and so on; but his wife still persisted in affirming that he had desired it in his illness; and said, moreover, that Skrezepisky, the abbot, would come the next morning to see if he was alive or dead, and if alive to take him back to the monastery. He spent the night in deliberation, and came to the conclusion that a life in a monastery would be far preferable to living with his wife, especially considering the ridiculous figure he should cut with his bald head. He knew, besides, that by the law investment

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with the monk's habit, even in that manner, was binding, so that in fact he had but little to choose.

So the next morning he went to the monastery with Skrezepisky, and his wife spent the rest of her days in a comfortable widowhood.

PUCK.

THE EMIGRANT'S SONG.

LAND of my fathers, fare thee well!
I go, an exile from thy shore:
Thy chimes, my native village bell,

Shall greet mine anxious ears no more.
From seats where unrequited toil,

And care and hopeless penury dwell,

I go to seek a kinder soil

Land of my fathers, fare thee well!

Far into pathless wilds I roam,

Whose ancient woods must learn to yield,
As there I build my humble home,
And lay me out my future field.
But, England! still thine honour'd name
Shall raise my bosom's proudest swell:

Oh, land of beauty! land of fame!
Land of my fathers! fare thee well!

Still hast thou soft and tender ties

The lip so true-the heart so kind-
And scenes so dear to Memory's eyes,
That oft she turns and lags behind.
It calls the tear-drop from mine eye,
On thoughts so sadly sweet to dwell;

And still I fondly sing and sigh,
Land of my fathers, fare thee well!

THE MISER.

(From the German of Blumauer.)

A MISER fell into a stream:-'twas wide,
And deep, and rapid. Speedily, to save

His life, a fisherman leapt in and cried,

C. VERRAL.

There was no danger if his hand he gave ;—
The Miser, as the waters gurgled round,

Said "I can give thee nothing!"-and was drown'd.

HAL.

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