see them as green as ever.” “And these are your dying words?” “They are.” “And why did you deceive me thus?” He struggled a short time at this question, and then rising almost upright in his bed, exclaimed, “Because I was a monk, and wished for victims of my imposture to gratify my pride! and companions of my misery, to soothe its malignity!” He was convulsed as he spoke, the natural mildness and calmness of his physiognomy were changed for something that I cannot describe--something at once derisive, triumphant, and diabolical. I forgave him every thing in that horrible moment. I snatched a crucifix that lay by his bed--I offered it to his lips. He pushed it away. “If I wanted to have this farce acted, I should choose another actor. You know I might have the Superior and half the convent at my bed-side this moment if I pleased, with their tapers, their holy water, and their preparations for extreme unction, and all the masquerade of death, by which they try to dupe even the dying, and insult God even on the threshold of his own eternal mansion. I suffered you to sit beside me, because I thought, from your repugnance to the monastic life, you might be a willing hearer of its deceptions, and its despair.” “Deplorable as had been the image of that life to me before, this representation exceeded my imagination. I had viewed it as excluding all the enjoyments of life, and thought the prospect blasting; but now the other world was weighed in the balance, and found wanting. The genius of monasticism seemed to wield a two-edged sword, and to lift it between and against time and eternity. The blade bore a two-fold inscription--on the side next the world was written the word “suffer,”--on that opposed to eternity, “despair.” In the utter hopelessness of my soul, I still continued to question _him_ for hope--him! while he was bereaving me of its very shadow, by every word he uttered. “But, must all be plunged in this abyss of darkness? Is there no light, no hope, no refuge, for the sufferer? May not some of us become reconciled to our situation--first patient of it, then attached to it? Finally, may we not (if our repugnance be invincible) make a merit of it with God, and offer to him the sacrifice of our earthly hopes and wishes, in the confidence of an ample and glorious equivalent? Even if we are unable to offer this sacrifice with the unction which would ensure its acceptance, still may we not hope it will not be wholly neglected?--that we may become tranquil, if not happy--resigned, if not content. Speak, tell me if this may be?” “And you wish to extort deception from the lips of death--but you will fail. Hear your doom--Those who are possessed of what may be called the religious character, that is, those who are visionary, weak, morose, and ascetic, may elevate themselves to a species of intoxication in the moments of devotion. They may, while clasping the images, work themselves into the delusion, that the dead stone thrills to their