Jerome, a creature of the abbot's, who concealed his iniquities under the monkish garb, had observed two pilgrims, that had been admitted to the abbey, descending from the garden by a trap-door, which led to the cemetery. On communicating this to Angelo, a thought flashed across their minds, that it was Florian, accompanied by a trusty friend, seeking Olivia. If that was the case, the abbot, on their next visit, would give them up to the Inquisition; but he was now summoned to the prioress, who wanted his counsel. In her visit to Olivia, one of the sisterhood had accidentally found a dagger on the rough floor of the dungeon, which had induced them to suppose that she meditated suicide. As its brightness proclaimed it to have been but a recent inmate of the damp cell, the abbot seized this opportunity of imploring the prioress to permit him to have an audience with the novice; but none of his arts could gain him access to this horrid den. He, however, felt his opinion confirmed, that the subterraneous passage would conduct him to it; and, accompanied by Jerome, he hastened to descend by the door, where, as he rightly judged, Florian had ventured in search of Olivia. The rays of their lanthorn_scarce penetrated the thick gloom. They almost thought their search fruitless, when a small pannel yielding to Angelo's pressure, he threw it downward, and viewed his victim, sinking to the earth in terror. Olivia was looking for Florian, and deemed what she now saw some fearful apparition; but Angelo's cold and rugged grasp recalled her fleeting senses, and waked her to life, which he, drawing from beneath his robe a blackened phial, told her she must speedily relinquish, if she would save her Florian from the jaws of the Inquisition. Her resolution wavered; she seized the poisonous drug; but a distant footstep sounded along the vaulted passage-it approached-she dashed the phial from her! It was Florian, coming to her rescue! She flew toward the opening, urging him to fly; but he, who was resolved to effect her escape, or die in the attempt, rushed down, followed by Jerome, who had concealed himself in the passage. A desperate struggle now ensued, but Florian, after a vain attempt to cope with Angelo and the athletic Jerome, was overpowered, and

they dragged him through the little door, which closed amidst the agonised shrieks of Olivia and the report of fire-arms, the sounds of which, reverberating along the hollow vaults, were lost in echo.

How different were the scenes above! The darkened shades of evening had again sunk around the earth, and the glare of innumerable lights gleamed through the windows of San Martino's chapel, whither the whole city had crowded, to catch the last glimpse of the beauteous Olivia, and to view the nuptials of Victoria and the Duke of Milan. Already had the monks arranged themselves in front of the assembled multitudes; the gilded gratings, which divided the chapel, were thrown asunder, and the stately prioress with her closely-veiled daughters had proceeded to stalls prepared for them: two of the sisterhood had been dispatched to hasten Olivia's approach: the deeply-rolling organ and swelling voices of the chaunters had now ceased, and all was silence. Every eye was turned toward the avenue which led from the convent, momentarily expecting Olivia's entrance; the hearts, not of the young only, but of the aged, were beating with sickened horror at her fate, when a quickened pace echoed along the aisle, which instantly arrested their attention ;Ludovico Carantani, with a disordered air, sprung through the crowd, and wildly bade the lady prioress stop the ceremony, crying loudly, "My daughter, my daughter, my poor injured Olivia! Give her to my arms! This night shall see her Florian de Rosalba's bride." The rumour of Victoria's flight with the empty coxcomb Celestini, whose adulations she had long countenanced, now spread through the chapel. But in a moment all was hushed at the sad sight of the fair Olivia, whose form still survived shocks that had destroyed her mind. She flitted toward her father like a sheeted spectre, and he, folding her in his arms, lost in speechless agony, sunk his head on her shoulder unmanned, till he was roused from his trance of grief by the entrance of the Duke of Milan, who led in Angelo strongly guarded; while servants followed, supporting the dying Florian. The duke, in searching for Victoria, had passed by the convent walls, and perceiving a rope ladder, he mounted it, followed by his

servants. Urged onward at first by the sound of a man as in distress, he was next led by traces of blood to the trap-door, which, being scarce closed, struck him as the foreboder of evil; he descended it, and found Florian weltering in blood. The diabolical Angelo, the plotter of all the horrid train of wo, had hoped to conceal himself in a dark recess, but in vain; justice, sooner or later, will overtake its victims. Angelo's career of guilt was now run, and Jerome, whom Florian bad mortally wounded, in his expiring gasp discovered the abbot's hiding place, from whence he was dragged to the full blaze of light that beamed through the chapel, intended to celebrate other scenes, but now witnessing the expiring moments of youthful life. Who was the wretch, that, under the garb of saintly piety, had wrought the ruin of an entire family? The Abbot Angelo threw back his cowl, and, with a horrid, ghastly grin, exclaimed, "Count Lernia!" The words blasted Carantani. Human aid could now neither avail Florian nor the distracted Olivia, who bent over him; the mortal life of each was ebbing fast, and, with one convulsive struggle, their departing spirits flew hand in hand to heaven.

For the Pocket Magazine.

A VISION ON A BIRTH-NIGHT,

P.

"Dull sleep instructs, nor sport vain dreams in vain." YOUNG.

IT is usual, I know not for what reason, to celebrate the return of the day which gave us birth, with mirth and festivity, with rejoicing and congratulations. As the chain of custom is not easily broken, I submitted to it on the last anniversary of my nativity; and agreed to receive the good wishes of my friends, and the professions of my acquaintance, with all due formality.

The day was spent in such amusements as are usual on these occasions, and, when night separated us, we parted with regret. But the pleasure that is met with in a numerous company, is seldom such as to give rise to gratifying reflections when it is past; it rather affords enjoyment for the present, than contemplation for the

future. The spirits, having been wound up to a pitch of hilarity far beyond their common standard, when the stimulus which raised them is removed, sink in a proportionate degree below their ordinary elevation: pleasure is succeeded by satiety; and we view with disgust those objects which we so lately regarded with transport.

When I was left alone, upon the departure of the company, I threw myself on a chair; and, giving way to the train of thought which presented itself, I began to ruminate upon the occurrences of the day which was just concluded; and I reflected, with regret, that it had been employed in the search after happiness which it had not afforded, and in the pursuit of pleasure, of which it was not found to be productive. From the consideration of my disappointment in this instance, my reflections almost insensibly wandered to the uncertain nature of all earthly bliss; the unforeseen events which so frequently overthrow our best-constructed schemes of enjoyment, and the insurmountable difficulties which we experience in the pursuit of those objects which we esteem necessary to our felicity. At length, wearied by the exertions of the day, and the reflections of the night, I sunk into a slumber. I had no sooner fallen asleep, than Fancy, ever active, presented to my mind the following vision.

I imagined that the room in which I sat was suddenly illuminated with a brilliancy surpassing that of the noon-day sun; and in the midst of that cloudless glory which filled the place, stood a being, the refulgence of whose countenance so dazzled my eyes, which I had instinctively raised on his appearance, that I involuntarily closed them, and remained for a few moments in silent wonder: I was, at length, restored to sensation by hearing the following words, which were uttered in a tone that was at once awful and pleasing:

"Attend, oh young man, to the voice of instruction; bend thine ear to the accents of wisdom; receive with grateful attention the lessons which Heaven kindly offers for thy future conduct; and neglect not the warning which may not be repeated.

"Thou art yet but in the dawn of life; thy soul has not yet been wounded by the arts of treachery, nor

polluted by the allurements of vice; but what thou hast not known, thou canst not guard against; let precept, then, supply the place of experience; and let the dictates of eternal wisdom teach thee to shun that which cannot be encountered without contamination; which offers pleasure to the sight, and poison to the heart; which affords a slight gratification here, and entails eternal misery hereafter.

"Man, too much elated by those gifts which the munificence of his Creator has bestowed upon him, forgets that the same power which granted, can revoke the boon; he forgets, that of him to whom much is given, much will be required; and that not a single talent must remain unemployed without inquiry, or unimproved without punishment: instead of consulting those sacred records which the Almighty has given expressly for his instruction, he impiously and foolishly dares to erect a standard for his own conduct, and either openly denies, or tacitly contemns, the wisdom and justice of that Being who first gave him existence, and by whose favour alone, he still continues to exist. Vice successfully attacks the heart which disdains the guardianship of Omnipotence; and once having gained an entrance there, maintains her seat, and enlarges her influence, by the means which first gained her admittance. Conscience may, indeed, sometimes make a feeble effort to arouse him from his fatal lethargy; but vice will persuade him that the day of retribution is yet far distant, or that it will never arrive: he listens to her suggestions; he heaps transgression on transgression, till, sunk too deep in the abyss of sin, he considers the enormity of his own guiltiness rather than the immensity of the divine mercy; he dares not ask for pardon, because he thinks his crimes too black for forgiveness; and through fear of perdition, he perishes indeed!

Beware, then, of the first approaches to vice; remember that the wages of sin is death; and though every temporal advantage may appear on her side; though beauty may allure thy youth, or gold attempt to seduce thine old age; though fraud may offer thee affluence, and ambition may proffer glory and power, reject them all: they are indeed formidable assailants;