mind, not only against the impending evils from without, but also against those treacherous feelings which assailed her from within. Judah no longer, and her despised children are | it, fortifying or endeavouring to fortify her now but the unresisting victims of hostile and military oppression. Well hast thou spoken, Sir Knight,-until the God of Jacob shall raise up for his chosen people a second Gideon, or a new Maccabæus, it ill beseemeth the Jewish damsel to speak of battle or of war." The high-minded maiden concluded the argument in a tone of sorrow, which deeply expressed her sense of the degradation of her people, embittered perhaps by the idea that Ivanhoe considered her as one not entitled to interfere in a case of honour, and incapable of expressing sentiments of honour and generosity. "How little he knows this bosom," she said, "to imagine that cowardice or meanness of soul must needs be its guests, because I have censured the fantastic chivalry of the Nazarenes! Would to Heaven that the shedding of mine own blood, drop by drop, could redeem the captivity of Judah! Nay, would to God it could avail to set free my father, and this his benefactor, from the chains of the oppressor! The proud Christian should then see whether the daughter of God's chosen people dared not to die as bravely as the proudest Nazarene maiden, that boasts her descent from some petty chieftain of the rude and frozen north!" She then looked towards the couch of the wounded knight. "He sleeps," she said; "nature exhausted by sufferance and the waste of spirits, his wearied frame embraces the first moment of temporary relaxation to sink into slumber. Alas! is it a crime that I should look upon him, when it may be for the last time?-when yet but a short space, and those fair features will be no longer animated by the bold and buoyant spirit which forsakes them not even in sleep!-when the nostril shall be distended, the mouth agape, the eyes fixed and blood-shot; and when the proud and noble knight may be trodden on by the lowest caitiff of this accursed castle, yet stir not when the heel is lifted up against him!--And my father!--Oh, my father! evil is it with his daughter, when his gray hairs are not remembered because of the golden locks of youth-What know I but that these evils are the messengers of Jehovah's wrath to the unnatural child, who thinks of a stranger's captivity before a parent's? who forgets the desolation of Judah, and looks upon the comeliness of a Gentile and a stranger?-But I will tear this folly from my heart, though every fibre bleed as I rend it away!" She wrapped herself closely in her veil, and sat down at a distance from the couch of the wounded knight, with her back turned towards TO A SKY-LARK. Ethereal minstrel! pilgrim of the sky! Ivanhoe. Dost thou despise the earth where cares abound? To the last point of vision, and beyond, Leave to the nightingale her shady wood; 1 "Ivanhoe' was received throughout England with a more clamorous delight than any of the Scotch novels had been. The volumes, three in number, were (now for the first time) of the post Svo form, with a finer paper than used for the previous tales, the press-work much more elegant, and the price accordingly raised from eight shillings the volume to ten; yet the copies sold in this original shape were twelve thousand. The reader may be told that Scott dictated the greater part of this romance. The portion of the MS. which is his own appears, however, not only as well and firmly executed as that of any of the 'Tales of My Landlord,' but distinguished by having still fewer erasures and interlineations, and also by being in a smaller hand The fragment is beautiful to look at-many pages together without one alteration. It is, I suppose, superfluous to add, that in no instance did Scott re-write his before sending it to press. been the case with his poetry, the world uniformly received the prima cura of the novelist. As a work of art, Ivanhoe' is perhaps the first of all Scott's efforts, whether in prose or in verse; nor have the strength and splendour of his imagination been displayed to higher advantage than in some of the scenes of this romance. But I believe that no reader who is capable of thoroughly comprehending the author's Scotch characters and Scotch dialogue will ever place even Ivanhoe,' as a work of genius, on the same level with 'Waverley,' or prose Whatever may have the Heart of Midlothian.' I cannot conclude without observing that the publication of 'Ivanhoe' marks the most brilliant epoch in Scott's history, as the literary favourite of his contemporaries."-Lockhart's Lije of Scott. FOUR SONNETS. SPRING. It is not that sweet herbs and flowers alone Start up, like spirits that have lain asleep For months; or that the birds, more joyous grown, THE CHILD-WIFE.1 BY CHARLES DICKENS. Sometimes, of an evening, when I was at home and at work-for I wrote a good deal now, and was beginning in a small way to be known as a writer-I would lay down my pen, and watch my child-wife trying to be good. First of all, And they who late from bough to bough did creep, she would bring out the immense account Now trim their plumes upon some sunny steep, And seem to sing of Winter overthrown: Keeps pace with every movement of the year, SUMMER. Now have young April and the blue-eyed May And in the days to come we live, and feel AUTUMN. There is a fearful spirit busy now; Already have the elements unfurled Their banners: the great sea-wave is upcurled: And quickly will the pale red leaves be hurled In the bleak gusts of Autumn, for the soul This book, and lay it down upon the table, with a Or, if she were in a very sedate and serious state of mind, she would sit down with the tablets, and a little basket of bills and other documents, which looked more like curl-papers than anything else, and endeavour to get some result out of them. After severely comparing one with another, and making entries on the tablets, and blotting them out, and counting all the fingers of her left hand over and over again, backwards and forwards, she would be so vexed and discouraged, and would look so unhappy, that it gave me pain to see her bright Man's bounding spirit ebbs, and swells more high. face clouded-and for me!-and I would go Accordant to the billow's loftier roll. WINTER. This is the eldest of the seasons: he Moves not like Spring with gradual step, nor grows The suns of summer, nor the charms of song, As though to cheat man's ear; yet while he stays He seems as 'twere to prompt our merriest days And bid the dance and joke be long and loud. BARRY CORNWALL. softly to her, and say: "What's the matter, Dora?" Dora would look up hopelessly, and reply, "They won't come right. They make my head ache so. And they won't do anything I want!" 1 From David Copperfield. This work has been always regarded as in a considerable degree autobiographical. Unquestionably it is so in its revelations of the bitter and sweet experiences of the struggle to win a place in literature. In his last preface to the novel, Mr. Dickens wrote, "Of all my books, I like this the best. It will be easily believed that I am a fond parent to every child of my fancy, and that no one can ever love that family as dearly as I love them. But, like many fond parents, I have in my heart of hearts a favourite child. And his name is DAVID COPPERFIELD." This statement endows the story with special interest. The above extract is an example of Mr. Dickens' pathos. Then I would say, "Now, let us try together. Let me show you, Dora." When the debates were heavy-I mean as to length, not quality, for in the last respect they were not often otherwise-and I went home late, Dora would never rest when she heard my footsteps, but would always come down stairs to meet me. When my evenings were unoccu Then I would commence a practical demonstration, to which Dora would pay profound attention, perhaps for five minutes; when she would begin to be dreadfully tired, and would lighten the subject by curling my hair, or try-pied by the pursuit for which I had qualified ing the effect of my face with my shirt collar turned down. If I tacitly checked this playfulness, and persisted, she would look so scared and disconsolate, as she became more and more bewildered, that the remembrance of her natural gaiety when I first strayed into her path, and of her being my child-wife, would come reproachfully upon me; and I would lay the pencil down, and call for the guitar. I had a great deal of work to do, and had many anxieties, but the same considerations made me keep them to myself. I am far from sure, now, that it was right to do this, but I did it for my child-wife's sake. I search my breast, and I commit its secrets, if I know them, without any reservation to this paper. The old unhappy loss or want of something had, I am conscious, some place in my heart; but not to the embitterment of my life. When I walked alone in the fine weather, and thought of the summer days when all the air had been filled with my boyish enchantment, I did miss something of the realization of my dreams; but I thought it was a softened glory of the Past, which nothing could have thrown upon the present time. I did feel, sometimes, for a little while, that I could have wished my wife had been my counsellor: had had more character and purpose, to sustain me, and improve me by; had been endowed with power to fill up the void which somewhere seemed to be about me; but I felt as if this were an unearthly consummation of my happiness, that never had been meant to be, and never could have been. I was a boyish husband as to years. I had known the softening influence of no other sorrows or experiences than those recorded in these leaves. If I did any wrong, as I may have done much, I did it in mistaken love, and in my want of wisdom. I write the exact truth. It would avail me nothing to extenuate it now. Thus it was that I took upon myself the toils and cares of our life, and had no partner in them. We lived much as before, in reference to our scrambling household arrangements; but I had got used to those, and Dora I was pleased to see was seldom vexed now. She was bright and cheerful in the old childish way, loved me dearly, and was happy with her old trifles. myself with so much pains, and I was engaged in writing at home, she would sit quietly near me, however late the hour, and be so mute, that I would often think she had dropped asleep. But generally, when I raised my head, I saw her blue eyes looking at me with the quiet attention of which I have already spoken. "Oh, what a weary boy!" said Dora one night, when I met her eyes as I was shutting up my desk. "What a weary girl!" said I. "That's more to the purpose. You must go to bed another time, my love. It's far too late for you." "No, don't send me to bed!" pleaded Dora, coming to my side. 'Pray, don't do that!" "Dora!" But it was not vanity; it was only harmless delight in my admiration. I knew that very well, before she told me so. "If you think them pretty, say I may always stop, and see you write!" said Dora. Do you think them pretty?" "Very pretty." 66 "Then let me always stop and see you write." "I am afraid that won't improve their brightness, Dora." "Yes it will! Because, you clever boy, you'll not forget me then, while you are full of silent fancies. Will you mind it, if I say something very, very silly?-more than usual?" inquired Dora, peeping over my shoulder into my face. "What wonderful thing is that?" said I. "Please let me hold the pens," said Dora. "I want to have something to do with all those many hours when you are so industrious. May I hold the pens?" The remembrance of her pretty joy when I said Yes, brings tears into my eyes. The next time I sat down to write, and regularly afterwards, she sat in her old place, with a spare bundle of pens at her side. Her triumph in this connection with my work, and her delight when I wanted a new pen-which I very often feigned to do—suggested to me a new way of pleasing my child-wife. I occasionally made a pretence of wanting a page or two of manuscript copied. Then Dora was in her glory. The preparations she made for this great work, the aprons she put on, the bibs she borrowed from the kitchen to keep off the ink, the time she took, the innumerable stoppages she made to have a laugh with Jip as if he understood it all, her conviction that her work was incomplete unless she signed her name at the end, and the way in which she would bring it to me, like a school-copy, and then, when I praised it, clasp me round the neck, are touching recollections to me, simple as they might appear to other men. She took possession of the keys soon after this, and went jingling about the house with the whole bunch in a little basket, tied to her slender waist. I seldom found that the places to which they belonged were locked, or that they were of any use except as a plaything for Jip-but Dora was pleased, and that pleased me. I am so not know how long she has been ill. used to it in feeling, that I cannot count the time. It is not really long, in weeks or months; but, in my usage and experience, it is a weary, weary while. They have left off telling me to "wait a few days more." I have begun to fear, remotely, that the day may never shine when I shall see my child-wife running in the sunlight with her old friend Jip. He is, as it were, suddenly grown very old. It may be that he misses in his mistress something that enlivened him and made him younger; but he mopes, and his sight is weak, and his limbs are feeble, and my aunt is sorry that he objects to her no more, but creeps near her as he lies on Dora's bed-she sitting at the bedside-and mildly licks her hand. Dora lies smiling on us, and is beautiful, and utters no hasty or complaining word. She says that we are very good to her; that her dear old careful boy is tiring himself out, she knows; that my aunt has no sleep, yet is always wakeful, active, and kind. Sometimes the little bird-like ladies come to see her; and then we talk about our wedding-day, and all that happy time. What a strange rest and pause in my life She was quite satisfied that a good deal there seems to be-and in all life, within doors was effected by this make-belief of house-keep- and without-when I sit in the quiet, shaded, ing; and was as merry as if we had been keep-orderly room, with the blue eyes of my childing a baby-house for a joke. So we went on. Dora was hardly less affectionate to my aunt than to me, and often told her of the time when she was afraid she was "a cross old thing." I never saw my aunt unbend more systematically to any one. She courted Jip, though Jip never responded; listened day after day to the guitar, though I am afraid she had no taste for music; never attacked the Incapables, though the temptation must have been severe; went wonderful distances on foot to purchase, as surprises, any trifles that she found out Dora wanted; and never came in by the garden, and missed her from the room, but she would call out, at the foot of the stairs, in a voice that sounded cheerfully all over the house: "Where's Little Blossom?" * wife turned towards me, and her little fingers twining round my hand! Many and many an hour I sit thus; but, of all those times, three times come the freshest on my mind. It is morning; and Dora, made so trim by my aunt's hands, shows me how her pretty hair will curl upon the pillow yet, and how long and bright it is, and how she likes to have it loosely gathered in that net she wears. "Not that I am vain of it, now, you mocking boy," she says, when I smile; "but because you used to say you thought it so beautiful; and because, when I first began to think about you, I used to peep in the glass, and wonder whether you would like very much to have a lock of it. Oh what a foolish fellow you were, Doady, when I gave you one!" "That was on the day when you were was. I must pause yet once again. Oh, my child-painting the flowers I had given you, Dora, wife, there is a figure in the moving crowd and when I told you how much in love I before my memory, quiet and still, saying in its innocent love and childish beauty, Stop to think of me turn to look upon the Little Blossom, as it flutters to the ground! I do. All else grows dim, and fades away. I am again with Dora in our cottage. I do "Ah! but I didn't like to tell you," says Dora, "then, how I had cried over them, because I believed you really liked me! When I can run about again as I used to do, Doady, let us go and see those places where we were such a silly couple, shall we? And take some | lonely by himself, before his child-wife's empty of the old walks? And not forget poor chair!" "Oh, I shall soon do that! I am so much have sat with Dora since the morning, all better, you don't know!" "You won't think what I am going to say, unreasonable, after what you told me, such a little while ago, of Mr. Wickfield's not being well? I want to see Agnes. Very much I want to see her." "I will write to her, my dear." "What a good, kind boy! Doady, take me on your arm. Indeed, my dear, it's not a whim. It's not a foolish fancy. I want, very much indeed, to see her!" "I am certain of it. I have only to tell her so, and she is sure to come." "You are very lonely when you go down stairs now?" Dora whispers, with her arm about my neck. How can I be otherwise, my own love, when I see your empty chair?" "My empty chair!" She clings to me for a little while in silence. "And you really miss me, Doady?" looking up, and brightly smiling. "Even poor, giddy, stupid me?" "My heart, who is there upon earth that I could miss so much?" "Oh, husband! I am so glad, yet so sorry!" creeping closer to me, and folding me in both her arms. She laughs and sobs, and then is quiet and quite happy. "Quite!" she says. "Only give Agnes my dear love, and tell her that I want very, very much to see her; and I have nothing left to wish for." "Except to get well again, Dora." "Ah, Doady! Sometimes I think-you know I always was a silly little thing!-that that will never be!" together. We have not talked much, but Dora has been perfectly contented and cheerful. We are now alone. Do I know now that my child-wife will soon leave me? They have told me so; they have told me nothing new to my thoughts; but I am far from sure that I have taken that truth to heart. I cannot master it. I have withdrawn by myself many times to-day to weep. I have remembered Who wept for a parting between the living and the dead. I have bethought me of all that gracious and compassionate history. I have tried to resign myself and to console myself; and that, I hope, I may have done imperfectly; but what I cannot firmly settle in my mind is, that the end will absolutely come. I hold her hand in mine, I hold her heart in mine, I see her love for me, alive in all its strength. I cannot shut out a pale lingering shadow of belief that she will be spared. "I am going to speak to you, Doady. I am going to say something I have often thought of saying lately. You won't mind?" with a gentle look. "Don't say so, Dora! Dearest love, don't never was." think so!" "I won't, if I can help it, Doady. But I am very happy; though my dear boy is so "We have been very happy, my sweet Dora." "I was very happy, very. But, as years went on, my dear boy would have wearied of |