have misbeseemed the favorite chambers of Lucullus. The goblet was lifted in the hands of both, and the heart of Aurelia felt almost as cheerful as the expression on her face. It was the reflection in the face of her husband. His brow was gloomy no longer. The tones of his voice were neither cold, nor angry, nor desponding. A change-she knew not why-had come over his spirit, and he smiled, nay, laughed out, in the very exultation of a new life. Aurelia conjectured nothing of this so sudden change. Enough that it was grateful to her soul. She was too happy in its influence to inquire into its cause. What heart that is happy does inquire? She quaffed the goblet at his bidding-quaffed it to the dregs-and her eye gleamed delighted and delightfully upon his, even as in the first hours of their union. She had no apprehensions-dreaded nothing sinister-and did not perceive that ever, at the close of his laughter, there was a convulsive quiver-a sort of hysterical sobbing, that he seemed to try to subdue in vain. She noticed not this, nor the glittering, almost spectral brightness of his glance, as, laughing tumultuously, he still kept his gaze intently fixed upon her. She was blind to all things but the grateful signs of his returning happiness and attachment. Once more the goblet was lifted. "To Turmes (Mercury) the conductor," cried the husband. The wife drank unwittingly for still her companion smiled upon her, and spoke joyfully, and she was as little able as willing to perceive that any thing occult occured in his expression. "Have you drank?" he asked. She smiled, and laid the empty goblet before him. "Come, then, you shall now behold the picture. You will now be prepared to understand it." They rose together, but another change had overspread his features. The gayety had disappeared from his face. It was covered with a calm that was frightful. The eye still maintained all its eager intensity, but the lips were fixed in the icy mould of resolution. They declared a deep, inflexible purpose. There was a corresponding change in his manner and deportment. But a moment before he was all life, grace, gayety and great flexibility; he was now erect, majestic, and commanding in aspect, with a lordly dignity in his movement, that declared a sense of a high duty to be done. Aurelia was suddenly impressed with misgivings. The change was too sudden not to startle. Her doubts and apprehensions were not lessened when, instead of conducting her to the studio, where she expected to see the picture, he led the way through the vestibule and into the open court of the palace. They lingered but for a moment at the entrance, and she then beheld his brother Aruns approaching. To him she gave not a look. "All is right," said the latter. "Enter" was the reply of Cœlius; and as the brother disappeared within the vestibule, the two moved forward through the outer gate. They passed through a lovely wood, shady and hidden, through which, subdued by intervening leaves, gleamed only faintly the bright, clear sun of Italy. From under the huge chestnuts, on either hand, the majestic gods of Etruria extended their guiding and endowing hands. Tina, or Jupiter, Aplu, or Apollo, Erkle, Turmes, and the rest, all conducting them along the via sacra, which led from the palaces to the tombs of every proud Etruscan family. They entered the solemn grove which was dedicated to night and silence, and were about to ascend the gradual slopes by which the tumulus was approached. Then it was that the misgivings of Aurelia took a more serious form. She felt a vague but oppressive fear. She hesitated. "My Cœlius," she exclaimed, "whither do we go. Is not this the passage to the house of silence?" "Do you not know it?" he demanded quickly, and fixing upon her a keen inquiring glance. "Come!" he continued, "it is there that I have fixed the picture!" "Alas! my Cœlius, wherefore! It is upon this picture that you have been so deeply engaged. It has made you sad-it has left us both unhappy. Let us not go-let me not see it!" Her agitation was greatly increased. He saw it, and his face put on a look of desperate exultation. "Ay, but thou must see it-thou shalt look upon it and behold my triumph, my greatest triumph in art, and perhaps my last. I shall never touch pencil more, and wilt thou refuse to look upon my last and noblest work. Fie! this were a wrong to me, and a great shame in thee, Aurelia. Come! the toil of which thou think'st but coldly, has brought me peace rather than sadness. It has made of death a thing rather familiar than offensive. If it has deprived me of hopes, it has left me without terrors!" "Deprived you of hopes, my Coelius," said the wife, still lingering, and in mortal terror. "Even so!" "And, wherefore, O, my husband, wherefore?" "Speak not, woman! See you not that we are within the shadow of the tomb?" "Let us not approach-let us go hence!" she exclaimed entreatingly, with increasing agitation. "Ay, shrink'st thou!" he answered; "well thou may'st. The fathers of the Pomponii, for two thousand years, are now floating around us on their sightless wings. They wonder that a Roman woman should draw nigh to the dwellings of our ancient Lucumones." "A Roman woman!" she exclaimed reproachfully. "My Cœlius, wherefore this?" "Alas! woman, but this cannot be. Thou must behold it now or never. Hope not to escape. Enter! I have a tale to tell thee, and a sight to show thee within, which thou canst not hear or see hereafter. Enter!" As he spoke, he applied the key to the stone leaf, and the door slowly revolved upon the massy pivots. She turned and would have fled, but he grasped her by the wrist, and moved toward the entrance. She carried her freed hand to her forehead-parted the hair from her eyes, and raised them pleadingly to heaven. Resistance she saw was vain. Her secret was discovered. She prepared to enter, but slowly. "Enter!" Dost thou fear now," cried her husband, "when commanded? Hast thou not, thou, a Roman, ventured already to penetrate these awful walls, given to silence and the dead-and on what mission? Enter, as I bid thee !" CHAPTER VI. The Chamber of Death-The Catastrophe. She obeyed him, shuddering and silent. He followed her, closed the entrance, and fastened it within. They were alone among the dead of a thousand years-alone, but not in darkness. The hand of preparation had been there, and cressets were burning upon the walls; their lights, reflected from the numerous shields of bronze within the apartment, shedding a strange and fantastic splendor upon the scene. The eyes of Aurelia rapidly explored the chamber as if in search of some expected object. Those of Cœlius watched them with an expression of scornful triumph, which did not escape her glance. She firmly met his gaze, almost inquiringly, while her hands were involuntarily and convulsively clasped together. "Whom dost thou seek, Aurelia ?" "Thou know'st! thou know'st!-where is he? Tell me, my Coelius, that he is safe, that thou hast sped him hence-that I may bless thee." even now, when I have most reason to hate thee, when I know thy perjury, thy cold heart, thy hot lust, thy base, degrading passions!" "Hold, my lord-say not these things to my grief and thy dishonor. They wrong me, not less than thy own name. These things, poured into thine ear by some secret enemy, are false!" "Thou wilt not swear it." "By all the gods of Rome-" "And of what avail, and how binding the oath taken in the names of the barbarian deities of Rome." "By the Etrurian-" "Perjure not thyself, woman, but hear me." "Go on, my lord, I will hear thee, though I suffer death with every word thou speak'st. "It is well, Aurelia, that thou art prepared for this." Thy dagger, my Cœlius, were less painful than thy words and looks unkind." "Never was I unkind until I found thee false." "Never was I false, my lord, even when thou wast unkind." "Woman! lie not; thou wert discovered with thy paramour, here, in this tomb; thou wert followed, day by day, and all thy secret practices betrayed. This thou ow'st to the better vigilance of my dear brother Aruns-he, more watchful of my honor than myself-" "Ah! well I know from what hand came the cruel shaft; Cœlius, my Cœlius, thy brother is a wretch, doomed to infamy and black with crime. I have had no paramour. I might have had, and thou might'st have been dishonored, had I hearkened to thy brother's pleadings. I spurned him from my feet with loathing, and he requites me with hate. Oh! my husband, believe me, and place this man, whom thou too fondly callest thy brother, before thine eyes and mine!" "Alas! Aurelia, this boldness becomes thee not. I myself traced thee to this tomb-these eyes but too He smiled significantly as he replied, "he is safe frequently beheld thee with thy paramour." -I have sped him hence!" "Cœlius, as I live, he was no paramour-but “Tinai, (Adonai,) my husband, keep thee in the where is he, what hast thou done with him?” hollow of his hand." "How shameless! dost thou dare so much!" "What mean'st thou, my Cœlius?" "Sent him before thee to prepare thy couch in Hades!" "Oh, brother!-but thou hast not! tell me, my lord, that thy hand is free from this bloody crime!" "He sleeps beneath thee. It is upon his sarcophagus thou sittest." She started with a piercing shriek from the coffin where she sat, knelt beside it, and strove to remove the heavy stone lid, which had been already securely fastened. While thus engaged the Lucumo drew aside with his hand the curtain which concealed the picture. "Sit thou there," he answered, "till I show thee my picture." He pointed her, as he spoke, to a new sarcophagus, upon which she placed herself submissively. Then, with a wand in his hand, he, himself seated upon another coffin of stone, pointed her to a curtain which covered one of the sides of the chamber. "Behind that curtain, Aurelia, is the last work of my hands; but before I unveil it to thine eyes, let me tell thee its melancholy history. It will not need many words for this. Much of it is known to thee already. How I found thee in Rome, when I was there a captive-how I loved thee, and how I believed in thy assurances of love; all these things thou know'st. We wedded, and I brought thee, a She arose in silence from her knees, and turned Roman woman, held a barbarian by my people, into her eyes upon the picture. As the curtain was the palace of one of the proudest families of all Etruria. slowly unrolled from before it, and she conceived Shall I tell thee that I loved thee still, that I love thee | the awful subject, and distinguished, under the care 'Look," said he, "woman, behold the fate which thou and thy paramour have received-behold the task which I had set me when first I had been shown thy perjuries. Look!" of the good and guardian genii, the shades of wellknown members of the Pomponian family, her interest was greatly excited; but when following in the train and under the grasp of the Etrurian demon, she beheld the features of the young Roman who was doomed, she bounded forward with a cry of agony. "My brother, my Flavius, my own, my only brother!" and sunk down with outstretched arms before the melancholy shade. His frame was he answered in husky accents. "What dost thou, my lord?" demanded Aurelia, "Her brother!" exclaimed the husband. She when I am once more going into captivity." heard the words and rose rapidly to her feet. "Ay, Flavius, my brother, banished from Rome, and concealed here in thy house of silence, concealed even from thee, my husband, as I would not vex thee with the anxieties of an Etrurian noble, lest Rome should hear and punish the people, by whom her outlaw was protected. Thou know'st my crime. This paramour was the brother of my heart-child of the same sire and dame-a noble heart, a pure spirit, whose very virtues have been the cause of his disgrace at Rome. Slay me, if thou wilt, but tell me not, O, Cœlius, that thou hast put the hands of hate upon my brother!" "Thy tale is false, woman-well-planned, but false. Know I not thy brother. Did I not know thy brother well in Rome. Went we not together oft. I tell thee, I should know him among a line of ten thousand Romans!" "Alas! alas! my husband, if ever I had brother, then is this he. I tell thee nothing but the truth. Of a surety, when thou wert in Rome, my brother was known to thee, but the boy has now become a man. Seven years have wrought a change upon him of which thou hast not thought. Believe me, what I tell thee the youth whom I sheltered in this vault, and to whom I brought food nightly, was, indeed, my brother-my Flavius, the only son of my mother, who sent him to me, with fond words of entreaty, when the consuls of the city bade him depart in banishment." "I cannot believe thee, woman. It were a mortal agony, far beyond what I feel in the conviction of thy guilt, were I to yield faith to thy story. It is thy paramour whom I have slain, and who sleeps in that tomb. His portrait and his judgment are before thee, and now-look on thine own!" The picture, fully displayed, showed to the wretched woman her own person, in similar custody with him who was her supposed paramour. The terrible felicity of the execution struck her to the soul. It was a picture to live as a work of art, and to this she was not insensible. She clasped her hands before it, and exclaimed, "My husband, what mean'st thou-of what cap. tivity dost thou speak?" "The captivity of death! Hear me, Aurelia, dost thou feel nothing at thy heart which tells thee of the coming struggle when the soul shakes off the reluctant flesh, and strives, as it were, for freedom. Is there no chill in thy veins, no sudden thy breast. These speak in me. death. We are both summoned. is left us of life." pang, as of fire in They warn me of "Have mercy, Jove! I feel these pains, this chill, this fire that thou speak'st of." "It is death! the goblet which I gave thee, and of which I drank the first and largest draught was drugged with death." "Then-it is all true! Thou hast in truth slain my brother. Thou hast thou hast!" "Nay, he was not thy brother, Aurelia. Why wilt thou forswear thyself at this terrible moment? It is vain. Would'st thou lie to death-would'st thou carry an impure face of perjury before the seat of the Triune God! Beware! Confess thy crime, and justify the vengeance of thy lord!" "As I believe thee, my.Cœlius-as I believe that thou hast most rashly and unjustly murdered my brother, and put death in the cup which, delivered by thy hands, was sweet and precious to my lips, so must I now declare, in sight of Heaven, in the presence of the awful dead, that what I have said and sworn to thee, is truth. He whom I sheltered within the tombs of thy fathers, was the son of mine-the only, the last, best brother of my heart; I bore him in mine arms when I was a child myself. I loved him ever! Oh, how I loved him! next to thee, my Cœlius-next to thee! Could'st thou but have spared me this love-this brother!" How knew I-how know I now-that he was thy brother?" was the choking inquiry. "To save thee the cruel agony that thou must feel, knowing this, I could even be moved to tell thee falsely, and say that he was not my brother-but, indeed, some paramour, such as the base and evil thought of thy brother has grafted upon thine; but I "Oh! my Cœlius, what a life hast thou give to a may not, thy love is too precious to me at this last lie. Yet may I bear the terrors of such a doom, if moment, even if death were not too terrible to the he whom thou hast painted there in a fate full of false speaker. He was, indeed, my Flavius, dear dreadful fellowship with mine, was other than my son of a dear mother, best beloved brother, he whom brother Flavius-he with whom thou did'st love to thou did'st play with as a boy, to whom thou gav'st play, and to whom thou didst impart the first lessons lessons in thy own lovely art; who loved thee, my in the art which he learned to love from thee. Dost Caelius, but too fondly, and only forbore telling thee hear me, my Cœlius, as my soul lives, this man was of his evil plight for fear that thou should'st incur none other than my brother." danger from the sharp and angry hostility of Rome. "False! false! I will not, dare not believe thee!" Seek my chamber, and in my cabinet thou wilt find his letters, and the letters of my mother, borne with him in his flight. Nay,-oh! mother, what is this agony?" "Too late! too late! If it be truth thou speakest, Aurelia, it is a truth that cannot save. Death is upon us-I see it in thy face-I feel it in my heart. Oh! would that I could doubt thy story!" "Doubt not-doubt not-believe and take me to thy heart. I fear not death, if thou wilt believe me. My Cœlius, let me come to thee and die upon thy bosom." "Ah! should'st thou betray me-should'st thou still practice upon me with thy woman art!" "And wherefore? It is death, thou say'st, that is upon us now. What shall I gain, in this hour, by speaking to thee falsely. Thou hast done thy worst. Thou hast doomed me to death, and to the eyes of the confiding future!" She threw her arms around him as she spoke, and sunk, sunk sobbing upon his breast. "Ah!" he exclaimed, "that dreadful picture! I feel, my Aurelia, that thou hast spoken truly-that I have been rash and cruel in my judgments. Thy brother lies before thee, and yonder tomb is prepared for thee. I did not yield without a struggle; and I prepared me for a terrible sacrifice. Upon this bier, habited as I am, I yield myself to death. There is no help-no succor. Yet that picture! Shall the falsehood overcome the truth. Shall that lie survive thy virtues, thy beauty, and thy life! No! my Aurelia, this crime shall be spared at least." He unwound her arms from about his neck, and strove to rise. She sunk in the same moment at his feet. "Oh, death!" she cried, "thou art, indeed, a god! I feel thee, terrible in thy strength, with an agony never felt before. Leave me not, my Cœlius -forgive-and leave me not!" "I lose thee, Aurelia! Where—” "I would destroy," he cried, "but cannot! This blindness. Ho! without there! Aruns! It is thy step I hear! Undo, undo-I forgive thee all, if thou wilt but help. Here-hither!" The acute senses of the dying man had, indeed, heard footsteps without. They were those of the perfidious brother. But, at the call from within, he retreated hastily. There was no answer-there was no help. But there was still some consciousness. Death was not yet triumphant. There was a pang yet to be felt-and a pleasure. It was still in the power of the dying man to lift to h's embrace his innocent victim. A moment's return of consciousness enabled her to feel his embrace, his warm tears upon her cheek, and to hear his words of entreaty and tenderness imploring forgiveness. And speech was vouchsafed her to accord it. "I forgive thee, my Cœlius-I forgive thee, and | bless thee, and love thee to the last. I know that thou would'st never do me hurt of thy own will; I know that thou wert deceived to this—yet how, oh, how, when my head lay upon thy breast at night, and I slept in peace, could'st thou think that I should do thee wrong!" "Why," murmured the miserable man, "why, oh, why?" "Had I but told thee, and trusted in thee, my Cœlius?" "Why did'st thou not." "It was because of my brother's persuasion that I did not-he wished not that thou should'st come to evil." "And thou forgiv'st me, Aurelia-from thy very heart thou forgiv'st me?" The "All, all—from my heart and soul, my husband." "It will not, then, be very hard to die!" An hour after and the chamber was silent. wife had yielded first. She breathed her last sigh upon his bosom, and with the last effort of his strength he lifted her gently and laid her in the sarcophagus, composing with affectionate care the drapery around her. Then, remembering the picture, he looked around him for his sword with which to obliterate the portraits which his genius had assigned to so lamentable an eternity; but his efforts were feeble, and the paralysis of death seized him while he was yet making them. He sunk back with palsied limbs upon the bier, and the lights, and the picture, faded from before his eyes, with the last pulses of his life. The calumny which had destroyed his hopes, survived its own detection. The recorded falsehood was triumphant over the truth; yet may you see to this day, where the random strokes of the weapon were aimed for its obliteration. Of himself there is no monument in the tomb, though one touching memorial has reached us. The vaulted chamber buried in the earth was discovered by accident. A fracture was made in its top by an Italian gentleman in company with a Scottish nobleman. As they gazed eagerly through the aperture, they beheld an ancient warrior in full armor, and bearing a coronet of gold. The vision lasted but a moment. The decomposing effects of the air were soon perceptible. Even while they gazed, the body seemed agitated with a trembling, heaving motion, which lasted a few minutes, and then it subsided into dust. When they penetrated the sepulchre, they found the decaying armor in fragments, the sword and the helmet, or crown of gold. The dust was but a handful, and this was all that remained of the wretched Lucumo. The terrible picture is all that survives— the false witness, still repeating its cruel lie at the expense of all that is noble in youth and manhood, and all that is pure and lovely in the soul of woman. THOUGHTS. BY MARIE ROSEAU. I HAVE thoughts that like the eagle soar to a daring height, away. I have thoughts that spread deep shadows of unholy, dark distrust, I have thoughts that bow me to the dust in stupor-like That like a fearful whirlwind lay high hopes within the despair, That bind my soul with fetters to keep it always there; That whisper I can never rise, that my spirit has no wings, But must ever be content to lie amid earth's blighted things. dust; That recall forgotten mem'ries to a gloomy, clouded mind, Of broken friendships, trusts betrayed, and words and looks unkind. Ah, then suspicion dark and drear spreads forth her chilling blight, I have gentle, holy thoughts that come with sweet and And sick at heart I turn away, as withers in my sight soothing power Instilling vigor in my heart, as dew upon the flower; I have thoughts that breathe unholy air, that bring a chill- Upon each better feeling, each principle of right: Vain, foolish, envious, wicked thoughts that fill my heart with pain; That pour wild tumult in my breast, and fever on my brain. I have thoughts that come like zephyrs in the spring-time of the year, That bear sweet memories of my friends-those who are ever dear; And some who at another time might seem but friends in name, Are made by those same gentle thoughts a friendship true to claim. I think me of the kindly deeds, the pleasant word or smile, Which sometimes served in sadder hours a sorrow to beguile; Oh, then I raise my heart in prayer for every one I know, And ask our common God to bless and shield them from each wo; Bright hopes of future happiness-sweet friendships held most dear, And I seem to live 'mid shattered wrecks, in strange, unearthly fear; And I start to hear a kindly word, and my spirit dreads a smile, Lest the word should be deceitful, or the smile be meant in guile: And I deem that the wide world contains no friend who loves me well, And I long to go away from earth to where the faithful dwell. I would not have them ever glad, those many thoughts of mine I would not with unclouded beams life's sun should ever shine : For He who sends the clouds and rain knows when they are needed best, And I would upon his guiding care with firm reliance rest: But I would my thoughts were ever right-were ever firm and strong, Such thoughts as nerve the heart in might to conquer what is wrong, I would not that my spirit breathe the taint of impure air, But that only holy, heaven-sent thoughts should have an influence there. STANZAS. BY MRS. O M. P. LORD. THERE's music in thy voice, love; God's angels talked with men ; But always seeks to praise. Like summer cloud thy brow, love, The heaven without looks in, love, Soon, soon, we all must sleep, love, Through long and dreamless night; So changed, so clear and white; |