lofty reef of snowy mountains, icebergs from which drifted over the water-covered plains of Patagonia. We may not enter upon the question of the causes which produced these changes, and the great refrigeration of of the earth's temperature. Suffice it to say, that Sir C. Lyell has pointed out that the latter may be fully accounted for by relative changes of land and sea. The period itself is

known to geologists as the Glacial Epoch, and as one which immediately preceded the present, marked by the introduction of the human race. The all-wise and gracious Creator reserved man for happier times; when, as in the present time, the temperature of our globe is a medium between two extremes of heat and cold, which different configurations of the surface are capable of producing.

-

"MUNICH!" exclaimed old Mr. Gas we were talking of my recent travels in Germany, over the port and walnuts, "ah! how many a strange memory does that one name call up! It was there that life-that is the life of cities--first broke upon me in all its brilliant hollowness; and yet what do I know? Is there more real honesty beside the plough or in the vineyard? Well, no matter, man is man all the world over, but it was not at Munich that I first learnt all the treachery of which man is capable. It was there that I passed some of my happiest hours, and there too that I died."

"Died!" I exclaimed, doubtful whether I heard aright.

"Yes, died," replied the old gentleman in a calm matter-of-fact tone, so that when I had opened my eyes to the full extent allowed by the School of Design to depict the passion of wonderment, and had asked myself two or three times whether he could possibly mean that he had dyed his whiskers there, or had really talked himself into such an autobiographical state, that he thought it necessary to bring the narrative down to his own decease, I came to the conclusion that my old friend was doting.

"I suppose you speak metaphorically?" I suggested.

"Not a bit of it. I can understand that you should be surprised when I

say that I died. But it is a fact, literal, positive, and unqualified, at least ; but, not to spoil a good story, suppose I begin at the beginning."

Now is it not pleasant to hear an old man talk of his youth? Is it not good for us who are entering on life, to learn from one who is leaving it? With one foot in the grave, how calm is the far view he can take of the days of his strength, with all its selfsatisfaction, its worldliness and disappointments. How complete is his experience how valuable the lesson long since drawn and followed, now recalled and preached.

So then I listened.

the

"It is forty years since I went to Munich. I was attaché to the embassy of that dear Lord Emost popular, because the most amiable and liveliest minister that Bavaria has, perhaps, ever known. I had been turned out into this post from Oxford, at one-and-twenty, and had not so much as seen a single London season. My father's seat, Eton, and the University was all I knew of life,

and how little is that! I can say now

without vanity, that I was handsome and distinguished. Besides this, I was very ardent and rather romantic, and I had not been three months in Munich before I was in love, yes,

desperately in love, with Ida Von Frankenstein, a young countess with a large fortune, and justly the Queen of Beauty in the Bavarian capital.

Ida was not vain, but she was a flirt, and therefore, by a common rule of the heart, when she learnt from my silent devotion that my attachment was no mere admiration, of which she had so much, and more than enough, in the-ball rooms of the gay capital, she conceived for me a deep passionate affection. But Ida, being a flirt, never showed it. By no act, word or look could I ever discover that she gave to me one thought more than to the most insignificant of the numberless young fats who laughed and danced and flirted with her. She was a queen in every respect, and she was determined that I should offer my homage submissively. Besides this, she was very clever and full of a brilliant, satirical wit, which sometimes wounded, though I am certain that her heart was too generous and good to hurt another's willingly. Like all monarchs, she felt herself privileged, and believed that it was as easy for her to heal with a mere smile, as to wound with a mere word.

I say I never guessed that she cared the least for me, but had I been more than the simple boy I was, I might have discovered it, for by a series of artifices she contrived to draw me on first into a deeper passion, next into jealousy. To do this without repulsing me entirely, to excite my fears without destroying my hopes, she selected a young officer, of whom certainly I had little cause to be jealous; for, though rather handsome, and very fashionable, he was so intensely vain, and so tiresomely heavy, that often she had delighted me with her clever mimicry of his absurdities. And yet I was jealous, even to hopelessness-but then was I not jealous of the very rose she held in her fair hand?

It was a terrible winter at Munich, where every winter is frightfully severe, and I was not strong. I was beginning to suffer from the intense cold, and Ida's conduct brought suffering of another kind:

was growing rapidly ill; I lost my buoyant spirits of yore, which the novelty of this brilliant life of the Carnaval season had brought out and elated beyond nature's bounds. My love had taken a firm grip of me. I had but that one idea that one face only haunted me by day and night. I never slept

I was never calm for ten minutes. My morning walks were all taken in that quarter where I knew-for love knows so much by instinct-that she would be. My evenings were devoted to meeting her, whether at ball, soirée, or common reception. It is true that she always kept a place for me by her side; that while the heavy Stockenheim was occupied with elaborating some stupid compliment on the other side, she would turn to me with some flow of wit, which the officer strove to catch, and when caught, passed ten minutes in attempting to understand. It is true that I saw and knew all this, and yet I was jealous --and the more so because I adopted the world's narrow reasoning, and said to myself, "This very conduct is a proof of her indifference. If she cared one atom for me, it is not in this way she would show it." And she did not show it. She seemed to keep me, as it were, for her companion, because I was cleverer and quicker than the rest-but I knew that the heart has no rules, and that a woman may be fascinated by mind, but is bound by some sympathy which she cannot explain.

Thus I went on for some time. Beside her I lived, but when away from her one moment a strange depression came over me, and the idea daily grew upon me, that I should soon sink under the excitement of this terrible passion. It was, therefore, that I dreaded more than death to disclose my love. I felt that a refusal would kill me at once, and this dread grew upon me so fearfully that for hours I would lie on my sofa or my bed listless and unable to move. Of course I went to a doctor, for I would not confess to myself that there was no other disease in me than my hidden passion. The man of drugs shook his head, saw through me partly, and recommended change of scene. I never went near him again.

One evening I met Ida at the Duchess of D-- -'s. I had grown daily more excited, and every day I had imagined that she seemed to understand me more. I was now almost beyond self-government, and she was wonderfully kind. Though Stockenheim was there, she danced with me only, and we roamed through the rooms together, and I talked rapidly

and excitedly now about the world in

which I mixed, but which I hated, and now about myself, and my own awful presentiment of death.

At times she listened seriously, I almost thought, sadly; but then when she had drawn me on to speak still more fervently, she would burst out into a laugh, tell me I was mad or a dreamer, or ask me if I had made my will and left her anything.

Once as we quitted the ballroom, I saw her turn, and throw a glance to Stockenheim, who was watching her, as a dog watches his master eating, with a strong appetite in his great unmeaning eyes.

We strolled from room to room, and I did not see that the officer was following us. At last, in a little boudoir, I stopped her short.

"You have laughed at me long enough," I said, and my whole soul was in the words. "You must listen seriously for one moment, and then— then, when you have killed me, you may laugh as you like I cannot help it. I know it will be my death-blow, but I must speak now. I love you

love you more than

For a week I lay on my bed, more dead than living; I nursed my grief, my rage, my despair, and every hour brought me lower. One or two friends came to see me, and one of them-one of those kind, charitable beings who always take care to tell you the news you least wish to hear -brought the intelligence one morning that Ida was engaged to Stockenheim.

"I will not believe it," I cried, hoping against hope, and roused from despair by this new blow. will go and judge for myself."

"I

My vehemence gave me an unnatural strength. I dressed rapidly, and in spite of the entreaties of my faithful valet, who seemed truly attached to me, and had nursed me carefully during that terrible week, I rushed out and arrived at the door of the Frankensteins' hotel. I asked for Madame la Comtesse first, and

when she was denied, boldly demanded admittance to see her daughter. The astonished porter assured me-and I thought I saw a lie in his face that not one of the family was at home.

I turned away in misery, and, by one of those fatalities so common in life, Stockenheim at that moment lounged listlessly up; I bowed stiffly to him, and crossing the street, watched him. He was admitted, and there was now no doubt.

That day I lay in a fearful state. For hours I was unconscious. I was afterwards told the doctor had come and pronounced me in danger. I knew it well myself. I felt so pow erless, so down-stricken, that I could not hope to survive.

Towards night, however, I recovered a little. I became conscious. But I lay without a movement, with one hand stretched upon the counterpane, cold as ice. The first thing I recognised was something warm beneath this hand. It was the broad muzzle of my dear old dog Cæsar, who had watched beside my bed, fearful to disturb me, and now, that wonderful instinct which God gives the dog that he may be man's friend, had perceived that I was con scious, and quietly assured me thus of his presence and love.

bv

I tried to speak, and in low, gurg ling sounds I bade my valet be kind to poor Cæsar.

"I am dying, Karl," I said. "I know I cannot live over to-night. You have been a faithful servant, and to you I leave all that belongs to me in the way of personal property. In return, you must take care of the dog. Never leave him; promise me you will not. And-and when I am gone you must write home and tell them all."

I could say no more, for I felt death was stealing fast upon me. The man bent over me, and wept like a child amid his promises.

Then came the awful thoughts of death. From what a life of careless worldliness was I passing into eternity. I had been gay, indifferent, thoughtless. I had lived for the world, and with it. How many a vice or sin, which I had once thought trivial, now reproached me with its glaring wickedness; and as eternity seemed to open upon me, and the

awful judgment threatened, how vain, how wicked did all my life seem. Even that treasure, that one thought to which I had now long devoted my whole heart and soul, was a trifle, a folly, a vanity before God and that awful awakening. I was too weak to pray-I could only dread --and gradually my thoughts grew dimmer and dimmer. My memory passed; I felt that life was going from me. It was dreadful. I struggled to keep it. I drew a long breath. It was in vain. The breath came quick and thick; I felt it growing weaker and weaker. My head, my brain seemed to melt even, and then the last breath rattled up through my throat, and I was-dead.

*

*

You ask me what were my sensations in death. I had none. If death be what I suffered, or rather underwent, then the soul must be asleep or unconscious. I know not. I am a Christian and not a Sadducee, and yet that strange experience has a right to have shaken my faith.

What I did feel, however, when feeling returned, I will tell you. At first it was an icy coldness, far surpassing any winter chill that you can imagine; no outer cold, but a complete absence of warmth, within as well as without, even in the breath of my nostrils. Still I felt it most in my hands and feet. My next sensation was one of utter powerlessness, and that too of will as well as of muscle. I lay-I was conscious of existence-but there was no thought in my mind, no movement in my body. My heart may have beat, probably it did so, but I knew it not. I scarcely even felt the breath pass through my open mouth, and as much as I did feel was cold and heavy. I say I was conscious. But that was all. I might have been dead. This might have been the grave. I knew not. All thought all memory was gone.

Then little by little my feeling grew sharper. I felt the cold more keenly still, and it was frightful agony. Then, too, I felt a strange pain in my stomach, as if it was shrivelled up.

I know not how long I endured this, but it seemed to rouse my dormant will, and as that returned, the use of my other senses returned likewise. My eyes were closed, but

I knew that I could see, for I perceived a weight of darkness above the shut lids. Presently, too, I grew aware that there was something in my right hand, and as my senses grew keener ard keener, and the agony of cold and weakness became still more unbearable, my will grew stronger, my thought returned dimly, though my memory was utterly gone, and I determined to make an effort to move. I had no idea that I was dead, for I had no memory that I had ever been alive, but I was conscious of existence, and instinct, I suppose, prompted self-preservation.

My first attempt was to open my eyes, and in this I at length succeeded. But I saw nothing. All was dark. Only when I had lain for some time, gazing upwards, did I know that there was a space of dark air above, and that I was not shut in close.

My next effort was to feel what was in my hand. Whatever it might be, I knew that it was smooth, and somewhat warmer than the icy flesh that held it. Then I strove to raise this arm. But in vain. Again and again I tried, till suddenly with an unexpected jerk it bounded up, the muscles not being wholly under my will, and as it did so, I felt some hot drops fall on my face.

It was this that saved me; this, as it were, that awoke me. These drops brought the blood more quickly through my icebound veins and thawed me into life. Then I knew at once that I held a bottle in my hand, and in my frightful gnawing hunger, instinct guided it to my mouth. I poured half the contents down into my throat, and oh! how fearfully they burned, yet how completely they restored me.

It was brandy, and my memory returned sufficiently for me to know that it was so. Yet I guessed nothing from that. My mind could not do more than perceive. I was too powerless to draw an inference.

But now the pain was lessened, my blood was warmed, I felt that my heart beat. I was conscious that I was alive. And now, too, though I was still unable to move, I could feel that I was shut up in some narrow casing. My feet touched something upright below them. My arms were laid close to my sides, and my fingers

and elbows found something upright and wooden on each side. I was frightfully cramped, and this was a new pain, and a source too of a vague fear. I felt my strength returning, and longed to be free. Yet I could not move. I felt as if imprisoned, and this feeling was almost worse than the rest.

I raised my arm again with an effort and swallowed some more brandy. Then my sight became clearer, and I discovered a dim, grey light, as of the morning twilight, stealing upon the darkness.

Presently I could move my arms. I passed them about my body, and felt a number of brass buttons, and the smooth cloth of a coat, and the smoother satin of a large embroidered waistcoat. This taught me nothing. I thought it quite natural, but that was all. I remembered nothing at all.

Then I tried to pass my arms over the wooden casing that held me, and when I had succeeded in doing so, I found something crisp and flimsy, which reminded me of muslin, and something limp and smooth, which my returning memory told me was ribbons.

I asked myself what all this meant, whether I was alive or dead, dreaming, or awake. In vain I tried to remember anything about myself: my memory seemed bound up beyond those simple limits. But I could bear it no longer. I made a great effort, and by the aid of my arms, raised myself into a sitting posture.

Oh how dreadful was the scene. I was surrounded by dead bodies in coffins in every direction, and corpses, too, not in a natural state for corpses to be in, but decked in fine clothes, and surrounded with flowers -sham flowers, made of crape or muslin, and gay ribbons,-corpses in marriage garments.

For

I knew not what it meant. some minntes I gazed in simple unconsciousness. Next to me was an old man with white hair, his cheeks sunken in on both sides, his jaw broken down, as it were, from his face; and he was in the blue and red uniform of a general, and a starmockery!-upon his breast, and around his coffin, roses and tulips of every gaudy hue. His eyes were

closed, but on his face was a look of pain.

On the other side of me was a fair girl, of nineteen perhaps. She was in a ball dress of white; and oh! how that brought my memory back. I remembered that I had often seen such a dress. I knew not where or on whom, but the memory seemed painful to me.

This girl was lovely. Her face was still round; her white lips parted in a gentle, heavenly smile; her white shoulders still smooth, but the young bosom that had once, perhaps, throbbed with love, now cold, sunken, still. I looked long at the face. It was beautiful. It produced pleasure in me. I did not remember it, and yet as I gazed I thought I had seen it somewhere-in some dream. There were many other bodies, and I stared at them all-at least all that the dim light allowed me to see ;—but suddenly I shook, shuddered, and trembled. I had at last remembered that this must be death, and then I knew that I was really alive, and the thought of being alive amid the dead was awful.

I made a desperate effort, raised myself on my sinking legs, and crawled from my coffin. Before me was a large glass door. I remembered it must be a door. I crawled to it in agony-fearful agony,-the pain of longing to escape, and the impossibility of doing so from weakness. At last I reached it, and by another effort stood up and looked out, and in the grey moonlight-for such it was-I saw a vast grave-yard. Oh ! even that sight, all alone as I was, was cheerful compared with what was behind me the dead. I sought to open the door. I felt and found a handle, but it was useless. I tried to scream, and my voice fell almost without sound back into my lungs. Yet even its slight sound terrified me. I feared lest it should wake some of those bodies behind me, and this terror lent an unnatural force to my weak, wasted limbs.

I shook the door with all my might. I thrust my fist through the glass, and then I uttered a wild piercing shriek.

Oh! how terrible was that solitude. The sound echoed through the deadhouse, and passed over the white, quiet tombstones, and there was no