political form or system would be better calculated to endure than the present, and in the mutual hatred of Revolutionists and Royalists, who, rather than see their rivals attain to power, would put up with any other mezzo termine.

A third cause of moral strength might have existed for Louis Napoleon-success in uniting the nation cordially with himself: but as yet this is wanting. He has committed the fault of attempting to coneiliate two incompatible principles. He has felt himself condemned to be absolute, and he has tried to be popular. Herein he has failed. Every important measure he has proposed has had for its aim to ingratiate himself with the lower classes, to whom he has perpetually promised what neither he nor any other sovereign could insure. His laws and enactments have had a socialist tendency, and have hitherto been framed more or less in defiance of the rules of political economy. The French people, who are ignorant beyond belief of that science, and therefore more easily deceived than ours would be, have not understood precisely where or how they have been misled, and have merely supposed they were indulged and cared for because they were feared. This has, in a great measure, prevented Louis Napoleon from gaining the popularity he has aimed at; and little by little, as the accomplishment of his impossible promises fails-which it has already done on more than one occasion, on that of the price of bread, for instance the anger of the people will rise in proportion to the disappointment of their expectations, and, far more than for having tyrannized over, they will abuse him for having fooled them. The popularity he was not in the requisite condition to obtain thus failing him, as it probably will, and Louis Napoleon being reduced to the part of a despot-the only one which is, to use the French expression, "logically" his-it remains to be seen whether, when he again has recourse to physical force, that force will be as obe

dient to him and as victorious over his opponents as it was in the beginning. The day may arrive when Napoleon III. has become one with France, and when it may be possible for him to do what M. Decazes, when Minister to Louis XVIII., was always laboring to accomplish, namely, to "royalize the nation, and nationalize royalty." But that day is not yet come. The present Emperor of the French has doubtless more sources of strength, and even stability, than his enemies will allow; but we must not exaggerate the advantages of his position. He has as yet no one class or portion of the French people wholly his. Hated by the aristocracy, (which still exists, whatever we may suppose to the contrary,) abhorred by whatever lays claim to intellectual superiority, he is viewed coldly by the bourgeoisie whom he despises, and who in him vaguely fear an enemy to both influence and purse, and suspected by the masses, whose fidelity to him, as we have said, depends upon the benefits he has pledged himself they shall enjoy under his reign. Louis Napoleon is, we fear, in many respects farther than he was six months after the coup d'état from any possible advance towards liberal institutions; and the existence in Paris of one free-spoken paper, conducted with talent, would be too much for his power. All this is no reason why his power should not endure. As long as he has the upper hand, (no matter by what means,) he may govern France, and even govern it better than could have been believed. His authority, resting mainly on the foundation of physical supremacy, may subsist entire and available longer than we can imagine. But it is on this foundation only that the present Government subsists, and if its present basis fails, unless immense modifications are introduced, there is nothing to fall back upon. We repeat it, the day may come when Napoleon III. can govern with the nation over which he rules; for the present, do not let us deceive ourselves, he governs against it.

THICK, heavy clouds hung low in the sky, pouring out an unceasing deluge of rain. The wind was high and keen, tearing up the flowers, and scattering their dainty petals all over the garden. Gray mists hid the opposite shore, and the deep leaden color of the sea reflected that of the gloomy sky, except where the foam of the rising waves marked it with undulating lines of white. "What a day for July!" was the universal cry of the party assembled in the breakfast-room, and very long were the faces which greeted each other that morning. "No yachting today," said one. "No bathing," echoed another. "The fruit will be spoiled." "The flowers are finished." There we were; the second day of our visit was the first break in the long course of bright summer weather, which had promised us so much enjoyment, and instead of the calm sea and glorious sunshine of the preceding day, we were storm-staid by a promising flood, in an old country-house, for the whole day.

"Where are the newspapers ?" was the inquiry of the host; and it seemed to promise a sort of ray of amusement to the general dullness.

"They have not come, sir," was the an

"Yes, sir, but it has rained heavily all night among the hills, and the river has carried away the foot-bridge, and he has gone round to the bridge of Ardentyre." "Eleven miles round!" said Mr. Grahame, with a look of resignation.

There was no help for it: the gentlemen took refuge in cigars and billiards; and we ladies, after an attempt at work, set off on a tour over the house, under the conduct of Miss Grahame, our host's daughter. The house was large, and very old. It had belonged to the family of the Lords of Geraldyn, and their grim portraits, and old armor, were hung round the

LADY.

entrance hall, for Mr. Grahame was their descendant, and had preserved all their relics with the most scrupulous care. Up and down many stairs, and along many passages we went, until we came to the library. It was a very large room; the roof was of carved oak, the points of which still retained traces of antique gilding. Large book-cases of carved oak rose all round the room, and above the wide, high mantel-piece hung a painting covered with a curtain of dark red silk. My attention was caught by a curious instrument on a stand. It was something like an antique lyre, but larger; the frame was of ebony, richly inlaid with Arabic characters in gold. The instrument seemed very old, but the strings were new, and in perfectly good order.

"What is this, Miss Grahame ?" said I. "It is a lyre," she answered, “and once belonged to this lady;" and she drew back the curtain from the picture.

The

It was an oval painting, a half-length, representing a lady dressed in black, and having a black veil over her head and shoulders. The only spot of color in her costume, was a cluster of brilliant pomegranate blossoms in her hair, and even this was partly covered by the veil. face was eastern, dark, melancholy, and beautiful, and the rich, soft eyes, with their shady lashes, seemed yet living things. The expression of the lovely face was tender and sorrowful, and the small, delicate head, round which masses of silken hair were braided and twined, seemed bending heavily on the slender throat. The picture was evidently the work of a master hand; and we all gazed on it in delight and admiration.

"What do you think of it?" asked Miss Grahame.

"Except the Cenci, I never saw a face to approach that in beauty. What was that lady's name?"

"She was a lady Geraldyn, but in the family legends she is always called the

Dark Lady. We do not know the history of the portrait, which is evidently not so old as her own time, but that really was her lyre. Look at those Arabic characters, Mrs. Morton; she was of Moorish origin, and these words are a spell, binding the spirit of harmony to the lyre."

Miss Grahame offered the lyre to me, but as I took it, a shudder came over me, as I thought how long the fingers had mouldered into dust, which had once drawn music from that lyre.

"I wish I could have heard its notes," I said.

"Do you?" said Miss Grahame. "Well, as it might be difficult to bring the original performer here, I will fill her place."

"You! can you play it ?"

"Yes. My Italian uncle had a mania for curious musical instruments; and a lyre, not unlike this, was one of them. He taught me to play it, and when I came here, I remembered hearing that the Dark Lady's lyre was still in existence. I had a search made for it, and it was discovered along with some very ancient music, which my uncle succeeded in deciphering. The lyre was put in order, but it is still an enchanted lyre, and few

like to hear its sounds."

With these words, Miss Grahame began to play. At first, low, fitful murmurs, sounding faintly, and then dying away, were heard; but the sound gradually became more continued, and a single voice, sad and unearthly as the wail of a captive spirit, seemed to rise from the lyre. Then strengthening, it rose in despairing energy, shooting up to heaven like a loud cry of agony. When this passion was at the strongest, there came, mingling with it, yet never uniting, a low, sweet strain of melody. Like a whisper from the past, it stole into all that fierce pain, heard through its wildness, strengthening and soothing its agony, as prayer does the struggling soul. Beneath it, the passionate storm sunk into a calm, and the harmony becoming more strong, more heavenly, was heard alone. It was a song such as a compassionate angel might sing above the dying, bringing them faint echoes of the music of the wonderful world where they were soon to rest. Wailing chords of sorrow and regret sometimes sounded through all its marvellous sweetness sad thoughts and haunting

-

memories of earth's passions and sufferings; but at length even sorrow was forgotten, and in grand waves of sound the music rose in one last triumphant burst, even when it was at its height, becoming softer and more distant, and dying in long-continued murmurs, each fainter and more sweet, till the lyre was hushed.

None of Miss Grahame's audience felt much inclined to break the silence; at length one said:

"What is the name of that wonderful piece of music ?"

"It was found with the lyre," answered the young lady; "and, perhaps, may have been composed by the Dark Lady herself, for it always appears to me to breathe her history."

There was an immediate demand for the legend; and Miss Grahame, laying down the lyre on its stand, began the following legend.

Years passed,

In the time of James III. of Scotland, when the power of the Moors was yet at its height in Spain, the only son of William, Lord Geraldyn, left his fatherland to travel in distant regions. Few missed Amyer de Geraldyn, for he had ever been a silent and haughty youth. Men spoke of long-continued quarrels between the father and son, and no voice of wife or mother was there to come softly between them, for Sybilla de Geraldyn gave life for life, and, from the day of his birth, Amyer was motherless. and he returned not. No whisper of him came back to his native country! No minstrel, in his wanderings, sung of his chivalrous deeds in distant lands; all was silence and almost forgetfulness over his name. Men spoke of how the race of Geraldyn-old even then-was dying away, and pitied the gray-haired lord, the last of his line. Tensilent years rolled on, and God smote the lord of Geraldyn with a lingering sickness, and he knew that it was to be his death. One summer night he said to those at his side:

66

Carry me out to the battlements, and place me with my face to the East, whither my son is gone." And it was done. The sun was setting over the old lord's lands and reddening the sea, when the group on the battlements saw a cloud of dust rising at a distance, and the note of a bugle was borne on the evening wind. A long train wound up the steep road, and stopped at the castle gate, whence,

A red flush rose to Sir Amyer's brow, and the frown of old darkened it, but a low, soft voice spoke at Lord William's knee:

"Scorn me not, O father of my lord!" it said, "for I am a Christian, and, in mine own land, noble even as thou." And so fair was she, and so sweetly fell her words, that the old man smiled and said:

"Truly, there is no defense against beauty;" and he blessed his son and the Dark Lady. But he did not long survive his son's return; and Amyer and the Dark Lady dwelt in the castle.

Now it was an ill reception that the old lord had given the foreign lady, nor soon was it forgotten by the people. They knew that her robes and ornaments were adorned with strange characters, that she had parchments covered with them, and had even been seen to write them. But her greatest magic lay in her lyre, on whose frame the same weird signs appeared, and whose music, added to that of her voice, none could hear unmoved. "It was that voice," said many, "whose unearthly sweetness beguiled the old lord to bless her; yet his first words were the true." And they feared the Dark Lady. But a son was born in the Geraldyn halls, and the lady feared not to kneel at altar and shrine, nor had holy water any terrors for her. And the peasants began to find that it was a good thing to have a lady who had ever a smile and a gentle word for all, an ear ever ready to listen to their complaints, and a hand, as far as her power extended, to redress their grievances. The wonderful knowledge of healing arts, and the skill she had brought from a far country, saved many from the very grasp of Death; and ere three years were past, the peasants, instead of fearing, had learned to bless "The Dark Lady of Geraldyn."

Sweet might have been the change to

was an altered man; he, to whom her smile had once been daylight, now looked on her with frowns; he spent long days hunting with the rude chiefs of the North, and had more than once returned in a state which shocked the young Moorish wife, still mindful of the law which had been that of her fathers, beyond expression. She shrank from him; but he was still her Amyer, whose love had won her from her own sunny land; and all her arts she tried to gain him, wishing, perhaps, that she indeed possessed spells of power to charm him, whom love, and youth, and beauty had not sufficed to bind. Her child was becoming a noble boy, but there was an icy hand on his young mother's heart: Amyer's love for her was gone, and she could not live without it.

The peasants now loved their gentle lady, and resented her injuries as their own; and many a spy watched the wandering path of Amyer. His wife was deaf to all rumors from without against him, yet she knew too well that he often murmured the name of "Matilda" in his sleep, and that a neighboring baron had a blue-eyed daughter of that name. Others could have told her how her lord spent days and weeks in that baron's castle, that he had been heard to speak loving words to the Lady Maude, and that she did not answer him with disdain. But to all these rumors the Dark Lady's ears were closed. She lived in silence, and none knew her grief save by her fading cheek.

Time passed on. Amyer de Geraldyn gave himself up to his new passion, and did not even strive to conceal how weary he was of his unfortunate wife. She could no longer affect to be ignorant of his dislike, yet she never complained, nor was seen to weep; her heart was crushed.

Talk ran very high in the country upon the subject of Lord Geraldyn's altered life. He and Lady Maude were universally blamed and disliked, while the Dark Lady was loved and pitied.

"I almost wish our lady was a witch," said a fisherman one night to his companion, as, resting on his oars, he heard the sound of her lyre borne on the breeze; "for it's well known that Lady Maude is

one."

"Yes," returned his companion, "it's