ANICA. NOT A DREAM. IT was a lovely night. The busy hum of the village was hushed. The moon had climbed above the mountain's summit, and thrown her magic tints upon the landscape. One of our party proposed a promenade. Bonnets and cashmeres were soon adjusted for protection against the falling dew, and our escort led the way, with hat in hand, until the gate closed after us. We strolled along the bank, overlooking a beautiful inland bay. The light was so pure as to render the features of the scene distinct to our vision, and its effects so enchanting, that we were tempted to prolong the enjoyment. Often did we pause to admire and wonder and adore, until the queen of night, walking in majesty, had reached her highest point, and, “in mid-heaven, her orb" seemed like "the eye "Of Providence, wide watching from the sky, Suddenly, our attention was arrested by a voice of lamentation, and leaving my companions I hastened to the little enclosure whence the sound proceeded. A lady, in deep-mourning, lay prostrate on a newmade grave, embracing the sods that covered it, wildly exclaiming, "Anica! O my child-my child! Have I been the murderer of your precious soul! Tell me, Anica-are you happy-or are you miserable? Tell your wretched mother!" I recognised an old acquaintance, and attempted to raise her up; but she clung to that little mound with a frenzied grasp; and in mute astonishment I listened to the almost agonizing confession and appeals that were ever wrung from a mother's heart. She had no tears to shed. Hers was the burning anguish that drinketh up the spirit—the anguish of remorse! In that narrow cell, her hopes were all interred. She had buried her idol, and despair, like a scowling spectre, haunted her soul. She had no God to go to in her affliction. She had apostatized from the faith she had once professed, and rejected the gracious invitations of the Saviour to repent, return and live. She had trampled on the blood of the covenant, and "done despite unto the Spirit of grace." She felt that she could not lift her eyes to the throne of mercy, for she remembered that it was written, "Vengeance belongeth unto me; I will recompense, saith the Lord." When she had become so much exhausted as to offer no farther resistance, I gently raised her. The moonbeams fell upon her marble features; her lips were cold and livid, and her eyes gleamed with an expression of unutterable horror. In vain did I attempt to sooth her-she dashed the cup of consolation from her lips. I had known Anica in early childhood, when her rosy fingers gathered the violet and the jessamine; when her fairy footsteps quickened in pursuit of the wanton butterfly, pausing, but still eluding her little out-stretched arms. Even now, her sylph-like form seems bounding before me with all the glee and animation of that perfect health which "Bloomed on her cheek and brightened in her eye." Yet in the midst of her sports, she always evinced an inquisitive mind, and would stop to examine whatever appeared new or curious— "Now with young wonder touch the sliding snail, And then, attracted by the buzz of a humming-bird, she would lean against the trellis to watch "the little dweller in the sun-beam, flitting from flower to flower," gathering nectared sweets; now roving on the wing with the rapidity of thought, then plunging headlong into the bignonia to pump out honied treasures with its long, cleft, tubular tongue. She was indeed a lovely child. No cloudy frown was seen upon her sunny brow-nothing darker than the auburn curls which parted there, to cluster over her polished neck and shoulders. Bright as a cherub, gay visions of the future were always dancing in her young imagination. She possessed that peculiar sweetness and vivacity which gave a pleasing turn to every incident, contributing to the happiness of all around her, and rendering her an object of general interest among the friends of her family. To her observing and devoted parents each day developed some new trait or talent which they treasured up as bright precursors of the consummation of their hopes, resolving to afford her every facility for a highly finished education. After much consulting, it was decided that the genial clime of France, and its celebrated institutions of learning, would be most favourable to the intellectual expansion of this child of promise. There too she would acquire all the external polish and graces so essential to the elevated sphere in which she was destined to move, and Rouen was fixed upon for Anica. I never think of Rouen without a train of gloomy associations. It was there the young enthusiast Joan of Arc was delivered to the Inquisition. Devotion to her country, to the descendant of St. Louis, and the sacred lilies, had induced her, at the age of eighteen, to appear at the head of an army bearing the sword and sacred banner, animating the besieged to 'deeds of noble daring,' which ultimately achieved the coronation of Charles VII. She became a prisoner of war-was sold to Henry VI.-accused by her own countrymen-condemned by her church as a heretic—and sentenced by the Inquisition at Rouen to be burnt for sorcery by a slow fire, and her ashes to be thrown into the Seine. When the fatal cap was placed upon her head she said to her attendants, "By the grace of God I shall this evening be in Paradise." The sentence was fully executed. Yet after this horrible transaction, Pope Calixtus III. committed a revision of the process against Joan to the Archbishop of Rheims, the Bishop of Paris and Constance, and a member of the Inquisition; who, when they had strictly investigated the whole matter, pronounced the articles against her false, and declared her entirely innocent. Her 'statue still remains in Rouen, with her coat of arms containing two golden lilies and a sword pointing upward, bearing a crown. Perhaps Anica's sensa |