Upon the air at that moment she heard the soft notes of a flute. She listened attentively:—it ceased. There are times when the spirit is troubled—when the mind, after the tumult of dissipated and active life, requires rest and seeks to be alone. Then thoughts crowd in upon us so fast, that we hardly know how to bear them; conscience reflects upon every former action; and the heart within trembles, as if in dread of approaching evil. The scene around was calculated to inspire every serious reflection. The awful majesty of the ruined building, ill accorded with the loud laugh and the jests of the merry party now entering its walls. Once those walls had been, perhaps inhabited by beings thoughtless and gay. Where were they now? had they memory of the past? knowledge of the present? or were they cold, silent, insensible as those deserted scenes? how perishable is human happiness! what recollection has the mind of any former state? in the eye of a creator can a mite, scarce visible, be worth either solicitude or anger? “Vain the presumptuous hope,” said Calantha to herself. “Our actions are unobserved by any but ourselves; let us enjoy what we can whilst we are here; death only returns us to the dust from whence we sprung; all hopes, all interests, all occupations, are vain: to forget is the first great science; and to enjoy, the only real object of life. What happiness is here below, but in love.” So reasoned the unhappy victim of a false judgment and strong passion. I was blest; I am so no more. The world is a wilderness to me; and all that is in it, vanity and vexation of spirit.... Whilst yet indulging these fallacious opinions—whilst gazing on the western turret, and watching the shadows as they varied on the walls, she again heard the soft notes of music. It seemed like the strains of other times, awakening in the heart remembrances of some former state long passed and changed. Hope, love and fond regret, answered alternately to the call. It was in the season of the year when the flowers bloomed: it was on a spot immortalized in ancient story, for deeds of prowess and of fame. Calantha turned her eyes upwards and beheld the blue vault of heaven without a cloud. The sea was of that glossy transparency—that shining brightness, the air of that serene calm that, had it been during the wintry months, some might have thought the halcyon was watching upon her nest, and breathing her soft and melancholy minstrelsy through the air.