voyage, and earnestly entreated him to transfer
the passage to a much larger and better ship,
which would sail in a month's time.

The money having, however, been paid, this
arrangement was found impracticable, and they
sailed as originally intended. Nothing important
happened until the voyage was nearly completed,
when one morning Captain B., hitherto in perfect
health, was stricken with paralysis. There
was no medical man on board, and the sufferer,
on reaching England, was conveyed on shore in
an almost hopeless condition.

Contrary to expectation, he rallied considerably,
and Mrs. B. was beginning to feel more
at ease respecting him, when one day, after
dining with appetite and conversing with
unusual animation, he remarked that he felt a
little tired, and would lie down on the sofa. He
did so, and slept.

As his wife sat watching his tranquil features,
the remembrance flashed into her mind that this
was the actual anniversary of their marriage.
She stooped over to kiss him in affectionate
commemoration, but started back in terror. A
change had come into the sleeper's face. He
was dead!

II. THE BOUDOIR.

The Marquis de C., a French nobleman of
large property, possesses a handsome mansion
in the Champs Elysées, Paris. It was his
fortune to espouse a very beautiful woman, to
whom he was fondly attached, and a château of
the marquis's, some forty miles from tlie capital,
became their constant residence. Here,
however, the marchioness was at length attacked
with severe illness, and, although her life was
saved, continued to suffer from agonising pains
in the head, the sole alleviation of which seemed
to consist in having her beautiful hair, which
touched the ground, combed for several hours a
day, the marquis himself, when her maid was
tired, frequently taking his turn in this occupation.

The seeds of disease were, however, too
deeply sown, and, after many alternations of
sickness and amendment, the poor young wife
ultimately died.

In despair at her loss, the marquis left the
château for ever, and, returning to Paris, shut
himself up in his house, refusing all comfort
and all society excepting that of one intimate
friend, Monsieur Alphonse F., who had been a
frequent visitor at the Château de C.

It happened that a process, commenced some
time previous to the marchioness's death,
rendered it incumbent on the widower to produce
certain papers essential to the case, which had
been placed in a cabinet at the château. But
the bereaved husband positively refused to
revisit the scene of his former happiness, and,
despite the arguments of his legal adviser, remained
inexorable, when Alphonse F., entering while
the discourse continued, volunteered to spare
his friend's feelings by visiting the château and
obtaining the required papers.

The marquis thanked him cordially, adding,
that the relief was the greater, inasmuch as he
would have been compelled to enter their favourite
sitting-room, in which their last, as well as
so many happier, hours were passed.

"You will find the papers," he added, "in
my escritoire beside the door. They are tied
with red tape, and are deposited in the second
pigeon-hole at the end furthest from the door."

With these instructions, Alphonse F. started
on his journey, and, on reaching the château,
was allowed by the old custodian to prosecute
his search. Passing through the rooms,
furnished with every imaginable luxury that might
gratify the taste of the departed mistress—
through the chamber, with its couch draped
with crimson satin, its rich fauteuils, its
splendid ottomans, its glittering mirrors—
through the sumptuous breakfast-saloon, with
its gaudy furniture abandoned to the spider
and the moth, Alphonse reached the apartment
he sought.

A cold, damp vapour seemed to pervade the
room, and he hastened to complete his task and
begone. Recalling, in spite of himself, the image
of the fair and blissful being he had met there,
he slowly opened the escritoire, and at once
descried the papers described by his friend.
Carefully removing them, he was in the act of
reclosing the escritoire, when he felt, or fancied
that he felt, a light pressure on his shoulder.
He turned, and beheld the—marchioness!

She was dressed in white, her face was deadly
pale, and her beautiful black silken tresses were,
as he had often seen them in later days, flowing
unconfined to her very feet. He let fall the
papers, and, rushing through the deserted rooms,
never stopped till he reached the court-yard,
where his horse awaited him.

He was about to mount and gallop from the
haunted spot, when the reflection of his friend's
disappointment, and the incredulity with which
his explanation would certainly be met, induced
him to make an effort to overcome what he
began to consider superstitious weakness. He
reascended the stairs, traversed the rooms without
glancing to the right or left, entered the
boudoir, seized the papers, and was departing,
when again a touch was laid upon his shoulder.
The figure he had before seen stood close beside
him, holding what seemed to be a comb in its
hand, and offering it to him, as if inviting him
to use it on the black tresses that covered her
like a shroud!

Hardly knowing what he did, A. seized the
comb, made an attempt to pass it through the
flowing hair, failed, and fell back insensible.
How long he remained in that state he never
knew. The moment he regained consciousness
he tottered from the room, mounted his horse,
and made his way to Paris, where he lay for
weeks, prostrated with brain fever.

Monsieur Alphonse F. still lives, and himself
related this anecdote to the narrator.

III. THE CLANDESTINE MARRIAGE.

Mrs. J. (the next narrator) had two cousins
residing in Cadogan-place, Chelsea. Their
brother was with the army under the Duke
of Wellington, at that time engaged in the
Peninsular war.