proof that it does exist, we can point to nothing more convincing than the life of Caspar Hauser itself. No one can doubt that his soul was the victim of a crime, for which the perpetrator, untouched by human laws, stands accused before the throne of God. * * * * * PAMPENEA. AN IDYL. Lying by the summer sea, I had a dream of Italy. Chalky cliffs and miles of sand, Ragged reefs and salty caves, And the sparkling emerald waves Faded; and I seemed to stand, Myself a languid Florentine, In the heart of that fair land. And in a garden cool and green, Boccaccio's own enchanted place, I met Pampenea face to face,-- A maid so lovely that to see Her smile is to know Italy. Her hair was like a coronet Upon her Grecian forehead set, Where one gem glistened sunnily, Like Venice, when first seen at sea. I saw within her violet eyes The starlight of Italian skies, And on her brow and breast and hand The olive of her native land. And knowing how, in other times, Her lips were ripe with Tuscan rhymes Of love and wine and dance, I spread My mantle by an almond-tree: "And here, beneath the rose," I said, "I'll hear thy Tuscan melody!" I heard a tale that was not told In those ten dreamy days of old, When Heaven, for some divine offence, Smote Florence with the pestilence, And in that garden's odorous shade The dames of the Decameron, With each a happy lover, strayed, To laugh and sing, at sorest need, To lie in the lilies, in the sun, With glint of plume and golden brede. And while she whispered in my ear, The pleasant Arno murmured near, The dewy, slim chameleons run Through twenty colors in the sun, The breezes broke the fountain's glass, And woke Aeolian melodies, And shook from out the scented trees The bleachèd lemon-blossoms on the grass. The tale? I have forgot the tale!-- A Lady all for love forlorn; A Rosebud, and a Nightingale That bruised his bosom on a thorn; A pot of rubies buried deep; A glen, a corpse, a child asleep; A Monk, that was no monk at all, I' the moonlight by a castle-wall;-- Kaleidoscopic hints, to be Worked up in farce or tragedy. Now while the sweet-eyed Tuscan wove The gilded thread of her romance, (Which I have lost by grievous chance,) The one dear woman that I love, Beside me in our seaside nook, Closed a white finger in her book, Half-vexed that she should read, and weep For Petrarch, to a man asleep. And scorning me, so tame and cold, She rose, and wandered down the shore, Her wine-dark drapery, fold in fold, Imprisoned by an ivory hand; And on a ridge of granite, half in sand, She stood, and looked at Appledore.