conferred, for the purpose of enabling the righteous to baffle their enemies. And it is held that even now some traces of this power have been permitted to linger among men, for the guidance of those who discreetly seek, with the purpose of righteously using, the knowledge it confers.'

Faint,' replied the woman,' faint indeed, are the glimmerings of that light which still lingers among men: a twilight dimly disclosing the events of a few coming hours; not the broad blaze which threw its light over the transactions of ages. Yet what if some traces of this spirit remain with me? Shall I refuse to utter that which is given me, because bloody laws confound the guilty and innocent, and involve true science in the same doom with accursed necromancy? Behold even now, as beneath their disguise your persons were not unknown to me, so before your lips have uttered it, the motives of your coming lie clearly unveiled before me.'

'Spare us the disclosure then,' said Fleetwood; declare what your knowledge suggests concerning them.'

'A man of renown,' she resumed,' a man terrible in war, subtle in counsel; such an one once dreamed that a crown lay temptingly in his path. Even now, he would fain stretch forth his hand to it, though it hath not yet fallen. You would know if the glittering bauble shall ever encircle his head. I have looked into futurity: no crown shall ever rest upon it.'

This prediction could not but be so far satisfactory to the two republicans. After a moment's pause, the conversation was resumed by Lambert.

If this be true, still there are interests dearer to the hearts of GOD's people than the destinies of any individual. All is at stake; success itself has disarmed the successful; the faithful waver in their counsels, and brethren plot and counterplot against each other. The Ark of the Covenant totters, and there is no hand bold or pure enough to stretch itself forth to uphold it.'

'Your secret thought,' said the female, though your words are designedly vague and ambiguous, aims at an event which, while England might yet be called a kingdom, it was death to imagine. Yet have I turned my eyes in that direction; but it is as though they became filled with blood, and the solemn future, whatever it be, refuses to give up to me its mystery.'

'Nay,' said Lambert, it is you yourself who now speak ambiguously and darkly.'

'It is nevertheless as I say. There are events in the future around which gathers a darkness so thick that the unassisted eye of the seer can never penetrate it. Yet are there resources in science sufficient to extort even these secrets from the mystery that shrouds them; but it must be in behalf of others to whom heaven permits them to be visible, while to him who is the feeble instrument of the revelation, they remain unseen and inscrutable. But why talk I of the depths of science to those who falter even in its shallows? Was not Doctor Lamb torn to pieces in the streets of London upon bare suspicion of having cultivated that sublime art which explores the

mysteries of the universe, not as the vulgar falsely suppose by diabolic intercourse, but by lonely watchings beneath the pale stars, by silent contemplation, by wasting study pursued through every form of privation, self-denial and reproach? Worldly men who deal in no arts but those which cozen and betray for the furtherance of their selfish interests, do well to hate and despise those who toil only for wisdom, and find their reward in contempt and contumely, often in poverty, sometimes even in an ignominious death.'

There are means then,' rejoined Lambert, by which future events may be projected on the eye, and the forms of the absent and remote be made palpable to the waking sense?'

'Means,' added Fleetwood, which imply no confederation with nor assistance from the Evil One and his agents?'

'I have said,' replied the woman. 'But ere ye go farther, beware how ye tamper with powers which however innocent in themselves and their operation, have not in your eyes the clear evidence of right. I will tempt no man to overstep the line of conviction which his own conscience has drawn around him. That alone is the circle within which each one walks in safety; wider it may be with some, narrower with others. But who can tell, that hath once set his foot beyond it, to what illusions he may be exposed? what powers of darkness and error may be waiting to ensnare and destroy him?'

Fleetwood and Lambert looked doubtingly at one another for some moments. At length the latter spoke: 'Woman,' he said, 'we came not hither to tempt or to be tempted; neither to commune with the agents of Satan nor to palter with an idle curiosity. I have said already that divisions and differences have invaded the counsels of God's people and peril the safety of His holy cause. On a token from the future (if such might be) much would depend. There are hands which would not hesitate to do the work of the LORD promptly and thoroughly, even as Ehud smote Eglon, were the signs of danger made plain and unequivocal. It has been told us that to you and your science the righteous cause has been already indebted for revelations which have snatched it from unsuspected dangers, and opened the way to decisive successes. A practice in which Satan was the prompter would have been employed, not on the side of the LORD's host, but on that of pride, sin and prelacy. Whatever then may be within the compass of your art we fearlessly abide; knowing not the limits that have been appointed to human science, but scorning and defying every counterfeit work of the devil and his angels.'

No more was said; but the woman leaned forward on the table, with her hands covering her face. In a few moments the whole scene seemed to fade from sight; the apartment grew dimmer and dimmer; at length it was plunged into total darkness. This continued for some time, accompanied by unbroken silence. Then, although the body of the apartment remained in obscurity, a light, faint at first, but gradually growing in intensity, gleamed from the side opposite to which I was stationed. The drapery there had been withdrawn, and clouds of lurid vapor seemed rising as from an abyss,

The mistress of the spell was herself no longer visible; but as the folds of vapor gradually assumed consistency, the following spectacle projected itself on the eye with a distinctness and vivacity at once wonderful and appalling.

A room was seen hung with symbols of the deepest mourning. In the centre, a pall of black velvet rested on a coffin, at the head of which were placed lighted flambeaux. Around the room, in attitudes of silent grief, were disposed persons whom I immediately recognised as some of the confidential servants of the king. Suddenly a form rose, or rather embodied itself, beside the coffin. It stood, the living presentment of CROMWELL in air, person, features; and seemed to bend on the uncovered face of the dead a look of gloomy but gratified interest. After a short interval, this part of the vision was changed. Another form (whose, I knew too well, for the eyes were not now bent upon the corpse, but directed full upon myself,) occupied the place of the first. In one hand the fatal axe, and in the other, lifted by the hair from its cerements, was the severed and bloody head! Enough; it was THE EXECUTIONER, painted faithfully after his own thought, and the VICTIM through whose veins were still coursing the warm currents of life! Yet had the terrible reality to come nothing more real to sight than the life-like and startling distinctness of that ghastly phantasma.

Confronted as I was by images to which my mind had long been familiar, I yet could not but close my eyes momentarily on what seemed a frightful realization of my own secretly-cherished ideas. When I recollected myself, the spell had passed away; the light was extinguished; darkness and silence alone seemed to occupy this theatre of unhallowed sorceries, if not of wicked and damnable delusions. Presently however a voice as at my side spoke in tones which I easily recognised, though heard so lately for the first time: 'Listen,' it said; to you the vision has been vouchsafed. Heaven has accepted you as its instrument. Not now however is there need of force and violence; policy must finish what the sword has failed to terminate. As your injuries have been deep and irreparable, be pitiless, resolved, but circumspect. Depart hence, and following the passage which you first entered, entrust yourself without questioning to those who await you. Seek not to know more at present; the time will come when all shall be fulfilled and all be made clear.'

IRREGULARITIES OF GENIUS.'

INSCRIBED ON A BLANK-LEAP OF BIG ABEL AND THX LITTLE MANHATTAN."

THE LAST

AUTUMNAL

BY WILLIAM PITT PALMER.

WALK.

WHEN last we paced these sylvan wilds, dear friend!
Each shrub, and tree, and swarded plat between,
Were flush with balmy June, and every nook
Of all the grove could boast its own sweet lyre.
Our path was paved with shadows gaily flecked
With drops of golden sunlight, as it were
The print of angels' topaz-sandal'd feet
Upon the glowing turf; and as we strayed
From glen to glen, no dusky forms kept pace
With our own steps along the browner shades.
Thine arm was linked in mine, and oftentimes
We paused in very impotence of joy
Amid the general gladness; then, anon,
With lips attuned to Nature's happy choirs,
Broke into songs spontaneous as their own.

Methinks, indeed, that Memnon's wondrous harp
Was less responsive to the touch of morn
Than thy young heart to every shifting phase
Of those dim vistas of the warbling wild.

Four moons have run their cycles since we stood
In summer's green pavilion, then so gay,

But now so changed: we often pause at loss
For some dear feature of the faded scene,
Some wood-nymph lingering in her lonely haunts.
No bird recalls the merry lays of June,

No flower its sweets, no bough its rustling shades:
Through all the roofless grove the sun stares in
With unobstructed gaze; and as we pass,
Twin shadows glide beside us arm-in-arm,
With silent footfall on the dying leaves;

Now when we pause, 't is not with gushing strains
To swell the sylvan echoes, but to blend

Our sigh with Nature's as in funeral stole

Forlorn she follows Autumn's passing bier.

And, dearest! while I mark thy downcast eyes,

Whence summer's smiles shone out so warm and clear,

A mist is stealing o'er their fading light,

And silvery rain from out their soft blue depths

Falls audibly upon the rustling leaves.

Yet know, sweet mourner! and assured, take heart,
That 'neath these russet cerements, not in death,
But quick quiescence, sleep the hopes of Spring!
No seed, no germ, no bulb of vanished flower,
No folded bud o'er all the bosky wild,

Is numbered with the dying or the dead:
Nay, in the palsied heart of these bare trees,

Life's lingering pulse, though faint and cold, still beats.

A few brief months, and we will stand again

Upon the forest knoll, and see the boughs
Wave their green banners in the gales of spring;

November, 1845.

And list enchanted to the flying harps
That fill the leafy aisles with ceaseless joy.
Before our steps the velvet sward again
Shall spread its sun-flecked shadows; and full oft
By marge of murmuring stream thy fairy foot
Shall sink in tufted mosses instep-deep;

What time the cornel and the hawthorn shower
Their bloomy snows upon the scented air,
And every floral chrysalis awakes

To life and beauty from its shrouded sleep.

Meanwhile, dear friend! in our suburban cot
Thy favorite flowers shall nestle winter long,
And day and night with balmy silence breathe
Expressive thanks; for in the genial glow
Of thy fond smiles they shall not miss the warmth
Of sunny skies, nor in thy household songs
Their sylvan choirs, but deem 't is summer still.
Thyself their Flora, from thy gentle hand
Shall fall the needed dews from day to day;
Till vernal suns and voice of vernal birds
Shall call us forth to these dear wilds again!

MORAVIANS, AND THE GNATTENHUTTEN MASSACRE.

AN AUTHENTIC NARRATIVE.

THE events of the Revolution are fraught with so much interest, that we are apt to overlook or undervalue the incidents of contemporaneous history. There is one part of American history yet to be fully written. The efforts of the Moravians, under the supervision of their Bishop and Great Controller, Count Zinzendorf, to establish Christianity upon the American continent; the struggles, the alarms, the dangers, the escapes, the massacres, and oftentimes the successes, which attended those efforts, have been almost forgotten amidst the discussions on taxation, the animadversions on tyranny, and the loud-sounding encomiums on national glòry.

It would be no undignified office for the historic or epic muse to rehearse the daring adventures of the real moral heroes, whose sphere of action was circumscribed neither by the icy and cheerless region of Greenland, nor by the warm and sunny plains of Guiana; whose converts so far back as 1749 might have been found so remote from each other as five degrees and forty-one minutes and sixty-five degrees North latitude; whose footsteps of peace were imprinted in perennial snow, and whose incense of Love arose from perennial flowers; whose triumphs amid the hostility of savages and the enmity of white men were as honorable as they were humble; and whose whole lives were examples of perseverance tempered by charity, and of zeal wedded to love. Since the time of the Reformation perhaps there has arisen no church