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recollection of my father. I remembered him
dimly, but always as angry and violent with my
mother. My poor, gentle mother! Margaret,
she loved my father; and for her sake I have
tried, since her death, to feel kindly towards
his memory. Soon after my mother's death I
came to know you, my jewel, my treasure!"
After a while he began again. "But, O
Margaret! even now you do not know the
worst. After my mother's death I found a
bundle of law papers-of newspaper reports
about my father's trial. Poor soul! why she
had kept them, I cannot say. They were
covered over with notes in her handwriting;
and, for that reason, I kept them. It was so
touching to read her record of the days spent
by her in her solitary innocence, while he was
embroiling himself deeper and deeper in crime.
I kept this bundle (as I thought so safely!) in
a secret drawer of my bureau; but that wretch
Crawford has got hold of it. I missed the
papers that very morning. The loss of them
was infinitely worse than the loss of the money;
and now Crawford threatens to bring out the
one terrible fact, in open court, if he can; and
his lawyer may do it, I believe. At any rate,
to have it blazoned out to the world,-I who
have spent my life in fearing this hour! But
most of all for you, Margaret! Still-if only
it could be avoided! Who will employ the son
of Brown, the noted forger? I shall lose all
my practice. Men will look askance at me as
I enter their doors. They will drive me into
crime. I sometimes fear that crime is heredi-,
tary! O Margaret! what am I to do?"
"What can you do?" she asked.

"I can refuse to prosecute."

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"That scoundrel Crawford has sent for an answer to his impudent note," said Christie, putting in her head at the door.

"Stay! May I write it?" said Margaret. She wrote:

Whatever you may do or say, there is but one course open to us. No threats can deter your master from doing his duty. MARGARET BROWN. "There!" she said, passing it to her husband; "he will see that I know all, and I suspect he has reckoned something on your tenderness for me."

Margaret's note only enraged, it did not daunt Crawford. Before a week was out every one who cared knew that Doctor Brown, the rising young physician, was son of the notorious Brown the forger. All the consequences took place which he had anticipated. Crawford had to suffer a severe sentence; and Doctor Brown and his wife had to leave their house and go to a smaller one; they had to pinch and to screw, aided in all most zealously by the faithful Christie. But Doctor Brown was lighter-hearted than he had ever been before in his conscious lifetime. His foot was now firmly planted on the ground, and every step he rose was a sure gain. People did say that Margaret had been seen, in those worst times, on her hands and knees cleaning her own doorstep. But I don't believe it, for Christie would never have let her do that. And, as far as my own evidence goes, I can only say that, the last time I was in London, I saw a brass-plate with Doctor James Brown upon it, on the door of a handsome house in a handsome square. And as I looked, I saw a brougham drive up to the door, and a lady get out, and go into

"Let Crawford go free, you knowing him to that house, who was certainly the Margaret be guilty?"

"I know him to be guilty."

"Then, simply, you cannot do this thing. You let loose a criminal upon the public."

"But if I do not, we shall come to shame and poverty. It is for you I mind it, not for myself. I ought never to have married."

"Listen to me. I don't care for poverty; and as to shame, I should feel it twenty times more grievously if you and I consented to screen the guilty, from any fear or for any selfish motives of our own. I don't pretend that I shall not feel it, when first the truth is known. But my shame will turn into pride, as I watch you live it down. You have been rendered morbid, dear husband, by having something all your life to conceal. Let the world know the truth, and say the worst. You will go forth a free, honest, honourable man, able to do your future work without fear."

Frazer of old days-graver, more portly, more stern I had almost said. But, as I watched and thought, I saw her come to the dining-room window with a baby in her arms, and her whole face melted into a smile of infinite sweetness.

THE EXCHANGE.

We pledged our hearts, my love and I, -
I in my arms the maiden clasping;
I could not tell the reason why,

But, oh! I trembled like an aspen.

Her father's love she bade me gain;
I went, and shook like any reed:
I strove to act the man-in vain!
We had exchanged our hearts indeed.

S. T. COLERIDGE.

ROBIN HOOD AND HIS MERRY MEN AT SHERWOOD FOREST.

The merry pranks he play'd would ask an age to tell,
And the adventures strange that Robin Hood befell,
When Mansfield many a time for Robin hath been laid,
How he hath cozen'd them that him would have betrayed;
How often he hath come to Nottingham disguised,
And cunningly escaped, being set to be surprised.
In this our spacious isle I think there is not one
But he hath heard some talk of him and Little John;
And to the end of time the tales shall ne'er be done,
Of Scarlock, George-a-green, and Much the miller's son,
Of Tuck the merry friar, which many a sermon made
In praise of Robin Hood, his outlaws, and their trade.
An hundred valiant men had this brave Robin Hood
Still ready at his call, that bowmen were right good,
All clad in Lincoln green, with caps of red and blue,
His fellow's winded horn, not one of them but knew,
When setting to their lips their little bugles shrill,
The warbling echoes waked from every dale and hill;
The bauldricks set with studs athwart their shoulders cast,
To which, under their arms, their sheafs were buckled fast;
A short sword at their belt, a buckler scarce a span;
Who struck below the knee not counted then a man;
All made of Spanish yew, the bows were wondrous strong;
They not an arrow drew but was a cloth-yard long.

Of archery they had the very perfect craft,
With broad arrow or but, or prick or roving shaft,
At marks full forty score they used to prick and rove,
Yet higher than the breast for comfort never strove;
Yet at the farthest mark a foot could hardly win:

At long-buts, short, and hoyles, each one could cleave the pin.
Their arrows finely paired, for timber and for feather,
With birch and brazil pieced, to fly in any weather;
And shot they with the round, the square, or forked pile,
The loose gave such a twang as might be heard a mile.
And of these archers brave there was not any one
But he could kill a deer his swiftest speed upon,
Which they did boil and roast in many a mighty wood,
Sharp hunger the fine sauce to their more kingly food,
Then taking them to rest, his merry men and he
Slept many a summer's night under the greenwood tree.
From wealthy abbots' chests, and churls' abundant store,
What oftentimes he took he shared among the poor;

No lordly bishop came in lusty Robin's way,

To him before he went, but for his pass must pay.

The widow in distress he generously relieved,
And remedied the wrongs of many a virgin grieved:
He from the husband's bed no married woman wan,
But to the mistress dear, his loved Marian,
Was ever constant known, which, wheresoe'er she came,
Was sovereign of the woods, chief lady of the game;
Her clothes tuck'd to the knee, and dainty braided hair,
With bow and quiver arm'd, she wandered here and there
Amongst the forest wild; Diana never knew
Such pleasures, nor such harts as Mariana slew.

DRAYTON.

THE STORY OF MARULLO.

[Charles Shirley Brooks, born 1815. He studied for the bar, but adopted literature as his profession. He began his literary career as a dramatist, and produced a number of successful plays, amongst them Honour and Riches; The Creole; The Lowther Arcade, &c. He was even more successful as a novelist, and Aspin Court, The Gordian Knot, The Silver Cord, and Sooner or Later obtained a large share of public favour. In 1854 he visited Russia, Turkey, and Egypt; and the letters descriptive of his travels, which first appeared lected and published in Longman's "Travellers' Library." For years he was one of the principal contributors to Punch; and on the death of Mark Lemon, he succeeded him as editor of that journal. Mr. Brooks wrote for the Gentleman's Magazine a series of Tales from the Old Dramatists, and has succeeded in imbuing with new life several of the works of our early play writers. The following is one of the tales; and in this, as in all his writings, will be found humour, delicacy, and vigour.]

in the London Morning Chronicle, were afterwards col

I purpose, with the aid of an old friend, to tell an old story. But I have reasons for thinking that it will not be old to all who may do me the honour of reading it. If I satisfy myself at the end that I have not quite spoiled my friend's tale, I will mention his name; if I do not, I shall only say, "Ah, but you should hear him tell it."

A great many years ago, in a certain magnificent island, rich in all that nature can do for islands, and richer in a race of brave men and virtuous women-take note, if you please, that this is not a satire, nor an allegory, but a story-there was great alarm, confusion, and trouble. For which, this was the reason. A strong nation, that dwelt at some distance from the island, but not too far for war-ships to cross a sea, and throw an overwhelming force upon the coast, coveted larger empire than it possessed, and sent forth a powerful fleet against the islanders. It is convenient to give the island a name, so we will call it Sicily, and we may as well call its ambitious and greedy enemy Carthage. The beautiful city in which most of the incidents of our story occurred, we will name Syracuse.

The Syracusans, I say, were in a state of great alarm. For not only did they know that the Carthaginian fleet was a very strong one, manned by skilful sailors, and bringing soldiers of extraordinary fierceness and admirable discipline, but they knew that they them selves had much neglected the duty of being armed against an enemy. It was not that any Syracusans were of opinion that people

ought not to defend themselves when attacked, or that a government with false economical principles had starved their armaments, for they lived a great many years ago, and had not arrived at that point of enlightenment. But the fact is, that the Syracusans were rich and luxurious; and though, as has been told, the island was rich in brave men and virtuous women, it abounded also with men and women who were neither rich nor virtuous, and these had given the tone to public opinion, such as it was. They had splendid houses, lovely gardens, beautiful equipages, and large wealth; and while they could enjoy these things, all good in their way, they cared nothing about the general welfare. There was a show of an army and a navy, and the services were favourites, especially with the ladies. The naval and military reviews enabled the young officers to display themselves in gorgeous uniforms, and to look like heroes; but the heroic spirit was wanting. When the time came for the hard and cruel work of war, the Syracusans shrunk from it, and felt that they had no chance against men with whom soldiering meant business, and not an excuse for delightful and picturesque spectacle. I need not say that everybody, at the crisis, began to lay the blame of the helplessness on everybody but himself, and rushed about declaring that the people who had brought the island into such a shameful condition ought to be burned; but such declarations, though they might be true, did very little good. The Carthaginian fleet was coming, and people told one another of the terrible cruelty of the nation, and how captives were put to death by prolonged tortures when Carthage wanted a particularly pleasant holiday.

Some little comfort they found (while the better among them were showing a good example, hastily fortifying, drilling volunteers, and acting the part of brave men, who would not go down without a fight) in saying that the Carthaginian admiral was but a weak young fellow, named Gisco, whose life had been passed in admiring himself and making ladies admire him, and who would be seized with a headache if he wore his helmet and plume. That was not much. But there was better comfort for them. The wiser men among them had met in council, and had resolved on sending to ask aid from another state-let us say Corinth. The Corinthians had a great general and a fine army, and their rulers were not deaf to the argument that if Carthage took Sicily, Corinth would be in danger; for in those days statesmen looked

ahead a little, and were not content with | starved, no consideration was paid to their keeping matters smooth for their own time. But the Corinthians imposed certain very stringent conditions. They were not going to fight for an ally that might ruin them by imbecility. If they sent Timoleon, their general, with his army to help Syracuse, the islanders must accept him as a dictator for the war-time, and submit to whatever he chose to ordain for the good of the cause. This the vainer part did not like at all, but they were overruled by the wiser part; and General Timoleon arrived to take command in Syracuse, and to defy the Carthaginians.

ones.

So much for public affairs; now for private The Prætor or Mayor of Syracuse was named Archidamus, and he had a son called Timagoras, and a beautiful and spirited daughter named Cleora. This young lady was of the kind to which the best women of all ages belong. She could love devotedly, but her love must rest upon a noble object, and she would be her lover's friend, confidante, and helpmate, not his toy and slave. She was as chaste as fair, and her nobility of nature was well known throughout Syracuse. The showsoldiers and the fops and idlers knew better than to ask her in marriage, but there were two men, either of whom she might have wedded without self-sacrifice. One of these, at this time, had been got rid of. His name was Pisander, a gallant gentleman from Thebes, who was every way worthy of her. But her brother Timagoras favoured another suitor, Leosthenes, who was also a gallant soldier, but of a jealous and suspicious nature, though not a mean one. Whether the young lady had cared for Pisander or not does not matter now; he had been sent back, not over civilly, to Thebes, through the influence of the brother over the father. Leosthenes now found things in his favour, for Cleora had all admiration for the brave men who rallied for the defence of Syracuse, and he meant to win her love by some desperate achievement against the Carthaginians. On the whole, therefore, the brave Leosthenes was the only man who was altogether pleased with the condition of public affairs-such is the power of love.

comforts: they were left without food till their owners had wearied themselves out at their banquets, and were obliged to lie about on the floors or the stairs until, perhaps far into the night, their tyrants had done their revel, when woe to the slave who did not spring at the first call to be ready with the torch and the carriage. They were oppressed more than was prudent, to rest the case no higher, for they murmured and repined, and made no secret of their joy that the Carthaginians were coming to reduce the haughty Syracusans to the same condition as that of their unhappy slaves. Among them was a tall, handsome, and clever man, named Marullo, whom the prætor had bought as an attendant on Cleora's carriage, or to aid in carrying her litter when she chose that means of visiting. He did his duty well, but there was danger in his eye. He was never beaten: Cleora would not have permitted that, and if she would, I think that the angriest master would have thought twice before rousing Marullo's blood.

The Corinthian general came, and all the great folks of Syracuse assembled in the senatehouse to receive him. He was already a favourite with the ladies, by reason of his renown and by reason of his being a novelty; and while they sat waiting for him, some of the friskier matrons declared that they should be happy to kiss him. We may be sure that Cleora joined in none of this vulgar flippancy. She rejoiced that Syracuse was to be defended, but she felt with her father, and other grave men, that the terms of Corinth were humiliating to the Syracusans. Timoleon came, and after a proper reception he addressed them in a very stern way. He declared that he would not take the command unless they ratified the agreement that he was to be absolute. He was so far from kissing the ladies that the frisky sort pronounced him a bear, and set themselves against him. But the Syracusan authorities could only submit, and he was made absolute lord. Then did Timoleon make them a still sterner speech, pointing out how while they had spent worlds of gold in folly and luxury, and to please their wives (here more scowls from the matrons), they had neglected their defences and starved their sol

ordered that all money in the possession of private people should be brought into the public treasury.

Here it must be mentioned that in Syracuse the domestic institution of slavery existed, and the unfortunate slaves were generally ill-diers. This they could not deny. He then treated. Of course there were exceptions to this rule; there were some kind masters and mistresses. But for the most part the slaves were beaten on the least provocation, or without any; they were treated worse than beasts, for they were neglected and starved, or if not

A terrible outcry arose, but the dictator crushed opposition. He pointed out that they might deny the money if they liked, but that

the Carthaginians would come and would triumph, and then he drew a black picture of the desolation that would follow, the victors seizing the wealth that should have been employed against them, plundering and ransacking, carrying off wives and daughters, and selling sons for slaves. So effectively did he depict the catastrophe that the beautiful Cleora was excited out of her maidenly silence, and coming forward with blushes, but with spirit, she delivered some eloquent words in support of Timoleon, and laid down her own costly jewels at his feet as a contribution to the treasury. This fired them all, the decree was assented to, and every man tried to show himself more earnest than the others in suggesting means of defence. One reminded them that they could arm the slaves and make them fight. But Cleora's spirit again broke out, and she asked them proudly whether they would confide the patriot's noblest duty to such despicable hands. The idea was rejected. Marullo, in waiting on his young mistress, heard her words, and bade some fellow-slaves meet him next night in secret. Then he attended his proud and beautiful lady home. Every man was soon in arms, Leosthenes, I need not say, among the rest. He ventured to seek Cleora, and in a passionate interview he declared his love. She gave him hers in return, and promised to be his when the enemy should be driven from Syracuse. But even then, at a moment when the beautiful girl's frank heart might be seen through her eyes, the doubting nature of Leosthenes was his enemy. He dared to hint that in his absence she might forget him, and that the addresses of other suitors might be listened to. Yet her loving heart conquered her pride, and she did not say that he who could doubt her was no mate for her. What think you she did? It would not have occurred to the most devoted maiden of our time, but what I tell is true. Cleora commanded him to obey her on pain of losing her. He could but obey. She gave a last look at the sun then glowing above them, and declared that she would see it no more until the return of that distrustful man. Then she bid him bind her kerchief over her eyes. It was done, and she begged him to guide her to his lips, on which she set the last kiss she would receive until he came back. She did more: she vowed that she would not even speak to any one until they should meet again. These were the vows of a time when follies were done; but if you deserve to hear of such a girl as Cleora, you will not smile at her devotion.

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The lords, and the gentlemen, and the soldiers went bravely forth to the battle, and Syracuse was left to the women and the slaves. To the slaves! Marullo had not listened in vain, nor met his fellows in vain. He had held his council, and some he had inflamed with speech, some with wine. He put a new spirit into the trampled men, and he bade them change places with their masters. city was their own. Let them seize treasure, houses, luxuries, wives, and daughters, and revel in the enjoyment of liberty. Only— they must shed no blood.

The

The fire spread, the slaves flew exultingly to their vengeance, and in an hour all was changed, and the slaves were masters. Marullo, no longer a slave, demanded an interview with Cleora. The splendid bondman had dared to love her.

Love her, but how? This is not a Frenchman's story. Here would come in his lurid and powerful wickedness, and he will give me his artistic pity for throwing away the effect he would have made. But I am in a friend's hands, and he bids me tell of no atrocity.

Marullo could command an entrance, but he entreated it, and, followed to the door of the house by his furious adherents, drew his sword and menaced death to any man who should dare come a step further and affright Cleora. Then, sheathing his sword and baring his head, he trod gently into the lady's presence. He then begged leave to tell his story to the blindfolded girl. But he would not even venture to begin it until she gave some gracious sign that she would be pleased to hear him. His voice must have been gracious, for Cleora held out her hand, which he reverently kissed. Then he in his turn declared his love and his knowledge that Leosthenes was his favoured rival. He could have slain Leosthenes, he said, with more ease than he could tell of his power; but love, seconded by duty, bade him remember that Cleora loved the man. It was so? he asked, and Cleora bowed her head in token of assent and thankfulness. But Leosthenes was gone, he went on, yet then, when the baser passions of Marullo were chiding him for neglecting his opportunity, and reminding him that he could now, without let or stay, carry off Cleora and make her his own, he was still master of himself. He asked nothing but what could be freely yielded. He told once more the story of his ardent love, and had nought else to say save that not only hope was gone, but that at the end of the war he must expect torture and death. But he defied all, and would remain to protect her,

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