an inkstand as large as the Spanish sea, and a pen that would reach from Dockum to Rome, I should completely fail in endeavoring to give you any adequate description of it. The streets were all golden, and glittered so with precious stones, that no mortal eye could for a moment gaze on them. In this world of splendor and magnificence, I could not see a single body; but millions of souls were flitting about, so small that eleven thousand might dance upon the point of a needle.'

"When the man had related many more of the extraordinary scenes he beheld in the regions of bliss, his friend from Dockum arose and told his dream.

6

"It is very singular,' he began, that you have dreamed you were in heaven, and I, that I visited hell. As I was walking one evening in the Keppels, there met me two persons in the garb of blacksmiths, who seized hold of me by the hand, and dragged me to the fiery pool at Stavoren. Then we sank down with the rapidity of lightning until we reached the bottom, when I found myself standing as it were in the midst of a vast common, on which nothing grew or flourished but moorgrass and rushes. After we had groped about in it for a long time, we ascended a very steep hill, on approaching the summit of which one of the black men exclaimed, "Take care; we are

at the brink of hell."

These were the only words they uttered. Having crept to the very edge, I ventured to look over, with my neck stretched out like a stork's, on the sea of fire beneath. It roared and hissed, it crackled and snapped, and the foaming

flames poured forth their smoke like a caldron in a violent state of ebullition. This awful sight struck terror into my bosom, and I drew back as frightened as a young weasel. My dark companions bound two wings to my arms, and flew with me until we arrived just over the burning abyss, where I remained shaking my wings, like a seamew about to dart upon its victim in the depth beneath. But, comrades, when I think of what I saw then, my skin crawls up my arms. I heard the immense bellows creak and puff, which forever blew up the infernal flames; while the suffocating heat, which continually rose to the top of this awful gulf, made me swoon away, and the sparks flew about so thickly that the very hair of my head was singed. In these abodes of torment I beheld the inhabitants killing one another, and troops of devils flying hither and thither with curses on their tongues.'

66

During the narration of these two dreams, the peasant pretended he was in a sound sleep, although he had heard every word that was spoken. As soon as the men of Dockum had finished, they called out

to him to rise and tell his dream. He immediately woke up, and appearing much alarmed, fixed both his eyes on them like a person who has been aroused from a deep slumber, and asked, in a shrill voice, Who are you?'

"What!' said they; 'do not you know us?'

"You?' he asked again—' you? What! are you returned?'

"Returned!' said they; we have not been away.' "What! indeed, you have not been away? Then I must be mistaken. I suppose I

dreamed it!'

But it is

"What have you dreamed?' asked one of his companions; tell us your dream.'

666

Well,' said Rouke, 'I thought that one of you had flown to heaven, under the care of two angels, and that the other was gone to hell with two black fellows. It seems only just now that you left me. At first I gazed after you as long as I could, and when you were out of sight, I waited and waited; but as neither of you made his appearance, I thought to myself, both the men of Dockum will never come back again; and because you had no more need of any thing to eat, I have in my solitude (for the secret must come out) despatched the whole cake!'"

Here the tale finished; the nieces from Aldega

had listened with such attention that you could have heard them breathe; at the end they all four heaved a deep sigh.

In the mean while, Saske had prepared the coffee, of which each guest now partook, while the clergyman's nephew was thinking of the story he in his turn should relate to the company.

LOVE'S MEMORY.

MRS. GRAY.

I WOVE a wreath; 'twas fresh and fair;
Rich roses in their crimson pride,
And the blue harebell flowers, were there;
I wove and flung the wreath aside:
Too much did those bright blossoms speak
Of thy dear eyes and youthful cheek.

I took my lute; methought its strain
Might wile the heavy hours along;
I strove to fill my heart and brain

With the sweet breath of ancient song:
In vain; whate'er I made my choice
Was fraught with thy bewitching voice.

And down I laid the restless lute,

And turned me to the poet's page; And vainly deemed that converse mute,

Unmingled, might my heart engage:

But in the poet's work I find

The fellow-essence of thy mind.