THE ALCHYMIST. BY MRS. LAMBERT. “The machine of human life, though constituted of a thousand parts, is in all its parts systematically connected; nor is it easy to insert an additional member, the spuriousness of which an accurate observation will not readily detect.”—_Godwin._ It was midnight. Darkness, deep as the sable of a funeral pall, hung over the streets of Madrid. The wind blew in strong gusts, and the rain fell in torrents. The lightning, which, at brief intervals, rent the clouds, and flashed across the gloom, revealed no living, moving thing. For an instant only, the livid sheets lit up the streets and squares, and glared over the Plaza Mayon, so often the scene of savage bull-fights, of cruel executions, and, in former years, of the horrible _Auto de fé_. And again, as it seemed, a tenfold blackness enveloped every object; convents, colleges and hospitals, closed at every aperture, were shrouded in the general gloom. Man, though the noblest work of his Creator—glorying in his wisdom and in his might—towering in the battle-field—great in council—overweening, arrogant, boastful; in such a night learns to feel his own insignificance. He, who adorned with all the pageantry of wealth, elevates himself far above the lowly individual that seeks his daily bread by daily labor—who looks down as from an immeasurable height upon the poor peasant of the soil—even he, so rich, so powerful, sheltered within his stately walls, listens to the war of the elements that rage without—and inwardly congratulating himself on his rich and comfortable asylum, yet shrinks involuntarily as the blast shrieks by—and silently acknowledges his own impotence. I have said no living thing moved in the street, and every building was closed against the storm; but in the outskirts of the city, in a narrow and solitary lane, built up at intervals with a few houses of mean and wretched appearance—a faint light shone through the gloom. It proceeded from the casement of a house of antique structure, and dilapidated appearance. Years must have gone by since that dwelling was the abode of comfort, for poverty and wretchedness seemed to have long marked it for their own. The exterior gave faithful promise of what was revealed within. In a large and gothic room, the broken and discolored walls of which betokened decay, an aged man was bending over a fire of charcoal, and busily engaged in some metallic preparation. His form was bent by age. The hair of his head, and the beard, which descended to his breast, were bleached by time to a silvery whiteness. His forehead was ample, but furrowed by a thousand wrinkles. His eyes, deep set, small, and still retaining much quickness and fire, yet at times their expression was wild, despairing, even fearful.