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answered Simon, "for all this evening we have footed it merrily with the fays of Brandon Hill; and be patient now, sweet Dicken Utlaw," as the bravo raised his sheathed sword, "and but suffer us to enact for your pleasure one of the dances they taught us, and I will coax my father, the house-steward, to whisper thee in what corner of the cellar thou mayest chance on a magnum of such renowned wine as has scarce filled to-night the empty flagon at thy hand."

Dicken became somewhat quieted; and growling an exhortation to the sentinel to guard all his prisoners well, strode off to avail himself of the ready instructions of old Seix. During his brief absence Simon studied the features of the soldier who rested on his tall spear near the door, and drew comfort from their tranquil and even benevolent expression. Utlaw returned to his seat at the oak table, called the wine good, and gulped it down rapidly: it was of great power, and well did Simon know the fact. But it also seemed capable of making him obliging, for he consented to see the fashion of the dance practised by the hill elves; and accordingly Simon, with a whisper to the child, performed a vagary so grotesque that the drunken savage laughed hoarsely in his cup, and the guard smiled quietly at his post.

Simon continued his frolics till the critical powers of Dicken began rapidly to desert him. Very soon afterwards he slept profoundly, snorting like the swine he was. Simon, now preparing for his most important feat, proposed that Lord Thomas should take a war-horsenamely, an old weapon at hand, and ride it about the hall to the notes of the trumpet. The boy was soon mounted, and Simon, taking up a useless scroll of parchment, and rolling it loosely, applied it to his mouth.

Before he would blow his signal blast, however, he glanced into the face of the sentinel, and afterwards to the half-open door. The man was still smiling good-naturedly at the gambols of the little Lord Thomas; and, in the gloom without Simon caught glimpses of armed men, one of whom presently entered, unseen by the soldier, and bent watchfully over the snoring Dicken. "Now to the charge!" cried Simon, addressing his foster-brother; and to the astonishment of the sentinel, of the knight who had just stealthily come in (Simon's friend at Waterford), and of every one in the castle, a perfect trumpet sound rang through the spacious building.

Dicken sprang to his feet, half-conscious, and was instantly felled to the ground by a blow of the knight's battle-axe. Old Seix

arose, and seized his sword. Simon armed himself with the weapon upon which the child had been astride, and placed himself spiritedly, though grotesquely, before him. The sentinel quickly brought his spear to his hip, and stood upon the defensive, regarding the stranger knight (who wore his vizor down) with a threatening look; but a second knight now gaining that person's side, rendered his hostility vain. Almost at the same moment an uproar and a clash was heard through the castle: presently the lady of Ormonde ran shrieking into the hall; and she shrieked wildly again, though not in the same cadence, as she caught up her child to her bosom. She was quickly followed by Desmond, now the prisoner of some of Simon's friends. The bold lord had fought desperately, and bled from his wounds, though the rage which was upon him did not allow him to think of them.

"What treachery is this? and what villains be these?" he exclaimed as he came in; "who calls himself chief here?"

The knight who wore his vizor down raised his arm, and touched his breast in answer.

"Then call thyself by such name no longer!" continued Desmond; and with that he suddenly freed himself from his guards, snatched the sentinel's long spear, and aimed a thrust at the knight.

"Traitor stay thy hand!" exclaimed his antagonist, in a voice of high and dignified command; "thou knowest not what thou doest, nor that indeed thy feudal sceptre is here broken in pieces. Look at me now!" he exposed his face.

"Richard—the king!" faltered Desmond, dropping on his knee, as the lady of Ormonde and all in the hall knelt with him.

JOHN and MICHAEL BANIM.

VOX POPULI.

When Mazarvan the magician
Journeyed westward through Cathay,
Nothing heard he but the praises
Of Badoura on his way.

But the lessening rumour ended
When he came to Khaledan:
There the folk were talking only

Of Prince Camaralzaman.

So it happens with the poets;
Every province hath its own;
Camaralzaman is famous
Where Badoura is unknown.

HENRY W. LONGFELLOW.

THE SQUIRE'S PEW.

A slanting ray of evening light
Shoots through the yellow pane,
It makes the faded crimson bright,
And gilds the fringe again;

The window's Gothic framework falls
In oblique shadows on the walls.

And since those trappings first were new
How many a cloudless day,

To rob the velvet of its hue,

Hath come and passed away!
How many a setting sun hath made
This curious lattice-work-of shade.
Crumbled beneath the hillock green,
The cunning hand must be,

That carved this fretted door, I ween,
Acorn and fleur-de-lis,

And now the worm hath done her part
In mimicking the chisel's art.

In days of yore, as now we call,

When the first James was king,
The courtly knight from yonder hall
Hither his train would bring;
All seated round in order due,
With broidered vest and buckled shoe,
On damask cushions set in fringe,
All reverently they knelt,
Prayer-book with brazen hasp and hinge,
In ancient English spelt,
Each holding in a lily hand,
Responsive at the priest's command.

Now streaming down the vaulted aisle
The sunbeam long and lone,
Illumes the characters awhile

Of their inscription-stone,
And there in marble hard and cold,
The knight and all his train behold!
Out-stretched together are express'd

He and my lady fair,

With hands uplifted on the breast In attitude of prayer,

Long visaged clad in armour he, With ruffled arms and bodice she, Set forth in order as they died,

The numerous offspring bend, Together kneeling side by side, As if they did intend For past omissions to atone, By saying endless prayers in stone.

Those mellow days are past and dim,
But generations new,

In regular descent from him,
Still fill the stately pew,
And in the same succession go
To occupy the vaults below.
And now the polished modern squire
With all his train appear.

Who duly to the hall repair,

At season of the year,

And fill the seat with belle and beau,
As 'twas so many years ago.
Perchance all thoughtless as they tread
The hollow sounding floor

Of that dark house of kindred dread,
Which shall, as heretofore,

In turn receive to silent rest
Another and another guest.
The plumed hearse, the servile train
In all its wonted state,

Shall wind along the village lane,

And stop before the gate,
Brought many a distant alley through
To join the final rendezvous.
And when this race is swept away,

Each in their narrow beds,
Still shall the mellow evening ray
Shine gaily o'er their heads,
While other faces, strange and new,
Shall occupy the Squire's pew.

JANE TAYLOR.

BATTLE-HYMN OF THE LEAGUE.

Now glory to the Lord of Hosts, from whom all glories are!
And glory to our Sovereign Liege, King Henry of Navarre!
Now let there be the merry sound of music and of dance,

Through thy corn-fields green, and sunny vines, O pleasant land of France!
And thou, Rochelle, our own Rochelle, proud city of the waters,
Again let rapture light the eyes of all thy mourning daughters.
As thou wert constant in our ills, be joyous in our joy,

For cold, and stiff, and still are they who wrought thy walls annoy.
Hurrah! hurrah! a single field hath turn'd the chance of war,
Hurrah! hurrah! for Ivry, and Henry of Navarre.

O! how our hearts were beating, when, at the dawn of day,
We saw the army of the League drawn out in long array;
With all its priest-led citizens, and all its rebel peers,
And Appenzel's stout infantry, and Egmont's Flemish spears.
There rode the brood of false Lorraine, the curses of our land;
And dark Mayenne was in the midst, a truncheon in his hand:
And, as we looked on them, we thought of Seine's impurpled flood,
And good Coligni's hoary hair all dabbled with his blood;
And we cried unto the living God, who rules the fate of war,
To fight for his own holy name, and Henry of Navarre.

The King is come to marshal us, in all his armour dress'd,
And he has bound a snow-white plume upon his gallant crest.
He look'd upon his people, and a tear was in his eye;

He look'd upon the traitors, and his glance was stern and high.

Right graciously he smiled on us, as roll'd from wing to wing,

Down all our line, a deafening shout, "God save our Lord the King!" "And if my standard-bearer fall, as fall full well he may,

For never saw I promise yet of such a bloody fray,

Press where ye see my white plume shine, amidst the ranks of war,
And be your Oriflamme to-day the helmet of Navarre."

Hurrah! the foes are moving. Hark to the mingled din

Of fife, and steed, and trump, and drum, and roaring culverin.
The fiery Duke is pricking fast across Saint Andre's plain,
With all the hireling chivalry of Guelders and Almayne.
Now by the lips of those we love, fair gentlemen of France,
Charge for the golden lilies,-upon them with the lance.

A thousand spurs are striking deep, a thousand spears in rest,
A thousand knights are pressing close behind the snow-white crest;
And in they burst, and on they rush'd, while, like a guiding star,
Amidst the thickest carnage blazed the helmet of Navarre.

Now, God be praised, the day is ours. Mayenne hath turn'd his rein.
D'Aumale hath cried for quarter. The Flemish Count is slain.
Their ranks are breaking like thin clouds before a Biscay gale;
The field is heap'd with bleeding steeds, and flags, and cloven mail.
And then we thought on vengeance, and, all along our van,
"Remember St. Bartholomew!" was pass'd from man to man.
But out spake gentle Henry, "No Frenchman is my foe:
Down, down, with every foreigner, but let your brethren go."
Oh! was there ever such a knight, in friendship or in war,
As our Sovereign Lord, King Henry, the soldier of Navarre!

Ho! maidens of Vienna; ho! matrons of Lucerne;
Weep, weep, and rend your hair for those who never shall return.
Ho! Philip, send, for charity, thy Mexican pistoles,
That Antwerp monks may sing a mass for thy poor spearmen's souls.
Ho! gallant nobles of the League, look that your arms be bright;
Ho! burghers of Saint Genevieve, keep watch and ward to-night.
For our God hath crush'd the tyrant, our God hath rais'd the slave,
And mock'd the counsel of the wise, and the valour of the brave.
Then glory to his Holy Name, from whom all glories are;
And glory to our Sovereign Lord, King Henry of Navarre.

THOMAS BABINGTON MACAULAY.

THE PURLOINED LETTER. 1

[Edgar Allan Poe, born in Baltimore, January, 1811; died in the Baltimore hospital, 7th October, 1849. The story of Poe's life is one of the saddest. Left an orphan at three years of age, he was adopted by Mr. Allan of Baltimore, who educated him, and made many endea vours to save him from the ruin in which his reckless habits ultimately involved him. Gifted with considerable genius, which won for him many friends who were anxious to help and to respect him, and who afforded him repeated opportunities to redeem his character, he had, unhappily, too little self control to overcome the evil habits which he frankly owned and despised. His tales of the Gold Bug (the Gold Beetle it is called in the English editions of his works); the Murders in the Rue Morgue; the Mystery of Marie Roget; and the Purloined Letter, were received with much favour. His poem of the Raven obtained for him remarkable popularity; but he was unable to derive much advantage from the reputation he achieved. He exhausted the patience of his friends one after another, and at length died in an hospital from the effects of a cold caught during a drunken orgy. A writer in Fraser's Magazine says: "Poe's great power lay in writing tales, which rank in a class by themselves, and have their characteristics strongly defined." Admiring his talent, we can only think of his career with the more regret.]

"Nil sapientiæ odiosius acumine nimio."-SENECA. "There is nothing more odious in knowledge than too much acuteness."

At Paris, just after dark one gusty evening in the autumn of 18-, I was enjoying the twofold luxury of meditation and a meerschaum, in company with my friend C. Auguste Dupin, in his little back library, or book-closet, au troisième, No. 33, Rue Dunôt, Faubourg St. Germain. For one hour at least we had maintained a profound silence; while each, to any casual observer, might have seemed intently and exclusively occupied with the curling eddies of smoke that oppressed the atmosphere of the chamber. For myself, however, I was mentally discussing certain topics which had formed matter for conversation between us at an earlier period of the evening-I mean the affair of the Rue Morgue, and the mystery attending the murder of Marie Roget. I looked upon it, therefore, as something of a coincidence when the door of our apartment was thrown open and admitted our old acquaintance, Monsieur G, the prefect of the Parisian police.

We gave him a hearty welcome; for there was nearly half as much of the entertaining as of the contemptible about the man, and we had not seen him for several years. We had been

From Tales of Mystery, Imagination, and Humour. By Edgar Allan Poe. London: Ward, Lock, & Tyler.

sitting in the dark, and Dupin now arose for the purpose of lighting a lamp, but sat down again without doing so, upon G.'s saying that he had called to consult us, or rather to ask the opinion of my friend about some official business which had occasioned a great deal of trouble.

"If it is any point requiring reflection," observed Dupin, as he forebore to enkindle the wick, "we shall examine it to better purpose in the dark."

"That is another of your odd notions," said the prefect, who had a fashion of calling everything "odd" that was beyond his comprehension, and thus lived amid an absolute legion of "oddities."

"Very true," said Dupin, as he supplied his visitor with a pipe, and rolled towards him a comfortable chair.

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Be a little more explicit," I said.

“Well, I may venture so far as to say that the paper gives its holder a certain power in a certain quarter where such power is immensely valuable." The prefect was fond of the cant of diplomacy.

Still I do not quite understand," said Dupin.

to the one in question, opens it, pretends to read it, and then places it in close juxtaposition to the other. Again he converses for some fifteen minutes upon the public affairs. At length, in taking leave, he takes also from the table the letter to which he had no claim. Its rightful owner saw, but, of course, dared not call attention to the act, in the presence of the third personage, who stood at her elbow. The minister decamped, leaving his own letterone of no importance—upon the table.”

"Here, then," said Dupin to me, "you have precisely what you demand to make the ascendency complete the robber's knowledge of the loser's knowledge of the robber."

"Yes," replied the prefect; "and the power thus attained has, for some months past, been wielded, for political purposes, to a very dangerous extent. The personage robbed is more thoroughly convinced every day of the necessity of reclaiming her letter. But this, of course, cannot be done openly. In fine. driven to despair, she has committed the matter to me.

"Than whom," said Dupin, amid a perfect whirlwind of smoke, "no more sagacious agent could, I suppose, be desired, or even imagined."

No? Well. The disclosure of the document to a third person, who shall be nameless, would bring in question the honour of a per- | sonage of most exalted station; and this fact 'You flatter me," replied the prefect; "but gives the holder of the document an ascendency it is possible that some such opinion may have over the illustrious personage whose honour and been entertained." peace are so jeopardized."

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'But this ascendency," I interposed, "would depend upon the robber's knowledge of the loser's knowledge of the robber. Who would dare"

"The thief," said G., "is the minister D, who dares all things, those unbecoming as well as those becoming a man. The method of the theft was not less ingenious than bold. The document in question-a letter, to be frank-had been received by the personage robbed while alone in the royal boudoir. During its perusal she was suddenly interrupted by the entrance of the other exalted personage, from whom especially it was her wish to conceal it. After a hurried and vain endeavour to thrust it in a drawer, she was forced to place it, open as it was, upon a table. The address, however, was uppermost, and, the contents thus unexposed, the letter escaped notice. At this juncture enters the minister D. His lynx eye immediately perceives the paper, recognizes the handwriting of the address, observes the confusion of the personage addressed, and fathoms her secret. After some business transactions, hurried through in his ordinary manner, he produces a letter somewhat similar

"It is clear," said I, "as you observe, that the letter is still in possession of the minister, since it is this possession, and not any employ ment of the letter, which bestows the power. With the employment the power departs."

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True," said G.; "and upon this convie tion I proceeded. My first care was to make thorough search of the minister's hotel; and here my chief embarrassment lay in the nece sity of searching without his knowledge. Be yond all things, I have been warned of the danger which would result from giving him reason to suspect our design."

"But," said I, "you are quite au fait in these investigations. The Parisian police hav done this thing often before."

"O yes; and for this reason I did not de spair. The habits of the minister gave me, too. a great advantage. He is frequently abest from home all night. His servants are by ne means numerous. They sleep at a distanc from their master's apartment, and being chie Neapolitans, are readily made drunk. I have keys, as you know, with which I can open ar chamber or cabinet in Paris. For three month a night has not passed during the greater part of which I have not been engaged personaly

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