may we not permit our hearts to be admonished by the reptiles also?

[From Leigh Hunt's Journal.]

They stood by her bedside—the father and mother of the maiden—and watched her slumbers. For she had returned weary from Seville, after a long absence from this her Lisbon home. They had not gazed on that fair innocent face for many a month past; and they, too, smiled, and pressed each the other's hand as they marked a radiant smile playing round the mouth of the sleeper. It was a smile brimful of happiness—the welling-up of a heart at perfect peace. And it brought gladness to the hearts of the parents, who-would fain have kissed the cheek of their gentle girl, but refrained, lest it should break the spell—lest even a father's and a mother's kiss should dull the blessedness of the dreamer. So sleep on, Luise! and smile ever as thou sleepest—though it be the sleep of death.

These people were poor in worldly goods, but rich in the things of home and heart. Luise, the first-born, had been staying with a Spanish relative, who had taken charge of her education, and had now come back to her native Lisbon "for good." Three younger children there were—blithe, affectionate prattlers—whose glee at the recovery of Luise had been so exuberant, so boisterous, that they were now sent to play in the neighboring vineyards, that they might not disturb their tired sister's repose.

Long played that smile upon her face; and never were the two gazers tired of gazing, and of smiling as they gazed. Luise, they thought, had seemed a little sad as well as weary when she alighted at the dear familiar door. But this smile was so full of joy unspeakable, so fraught with beatific meaning, so reflective of beatific vision, that it laughed their fears away, and spoke volumes where the seeming sorrow had not spoken even words.

The shrill song of a mule-driver passing by the window aroused the sleeper. The smile vanished, and as she started up and looked hastily and inquiringly around, a shade of mingled disappointment and bewilderment gathered darkly on her brow.

"You must turn and go to sleep again, my child," whispered the mother. "I wish Pedro were not so proud of his voice, and then you might still be dreaming of pleasant things."

"I was dreaming, then?" said Luise, somewhat sadly. "I thought it was real, and it made me so happy! Ah, if I could dream it again, and again—three times running, you know—till it became true!"

"What was it, Luise?" asked her father. "We must know what merry thought made you so joyful. It will be a dream worth knowing, and, therefore, worth telling."

"Not at present," interrupted his wife. "Let her get some more rest; and then, when she is thoroughly refreshed after such a tedious journey, she will make us all happy with realities as well as dreams."

"And are dreams never realities?" asked the girl, with a sigh.

"Child! child! if we're going to be philosophical, and all that, we shall never get you to sleep again. Don't talk any more, my Luise; but close your eyes, and see if you can't realize a dream; that will be the best answer to your question."

"I can't go to sleep again," she answered. "See, I'm quite awake, and it's no use trying. And with the sun so high too! No; you shall send me to bed an hour or two earlier to-night, and to-morrow morning will find me as brisk as a bee. I've so much to hear, and so much to tell, that to sleep again before dusk is out of the question."

So she arose; and they went all three and sat down in the little garden. Luise eyed eagerly every flower and every fruit-tree, and had something to say about every change since she had been there last. But ever and anon she would look earnestly into the faces of her parents—and never without something like a tear in her large lustrous eyes.

Of course, they questioned her upon this. And she, who had never concealed a thought or a wish from them, told them in her own frank, artless way, why she looked sorrowful when she first saw them, after a prolonged separation, and how it was that, in her sleep, thoughts had visited her which were messengers of peace and gladness—whose message it had saddened her to find, on waking, but airy and unreal.

At Seville she had been as happy as kindness and care could make one so far from and so fond of home. But a childish fancy, she said, had troubled her—childish she knew, and a thing to be ashamed of, but haunting her none the less—visiting her sleeping and waking hours; a feeling it was of dejection at the idea of her parents growing old, and of change and chance breaking up the wonted calm of her little household circle. That the march of Time should be so irresistible, that his flight could not be stayed or slackened by pope or kaiser, that his decrees should be so immutable, his destiny so inexorable, and that the youngest must soon cease to be young, and the middle-aged become old—or die! this was the thought that preyed on her very soul. She could not endure the conviction that her own father must one day walk with a less elastic step, and smile on her with eyes ever loving indeed, but more and more dimmed with age—and that her own mother must one day move to and fro with tottering gait, and speak with the tremulous accents of those old people who, it seemed to Luise, could never have been children at all. It was a weak, fantastic thought, this; but she could not master it, nor escape its presence.

And when she met them on the threshold of the beloved home—ah, the absentee's rapid glance saw a wrinkle on her father's cheek that was new to her, and it saw a clustering of gray hairs on her mother's brow, where all had been raven black when Luise departed for Seville. Poor Luise! The sorrows of her young heart were enlarged. Time had not been absent with the pensive absentee.

True, he had stolen no charm from her little playmates. Carlos was a brighter boy than ever; and as for that merry Zingara-like Isabel, and the yet merrier Manuel—they were not a whit changed, unless for the better, in look, and manner, and love. Still the too-sensitive Luise was hurt at the thought that they could not always be children—that Time was bent on effacing her earliest and dearest impressions, removing from her home that ideal of family relationship to which all her affections clung with passionate entreaty. Whatever the future might; have to reveal of enjoyment and endearment, the past could never be lived over again; the past could never be identified with things present and things to come; and it was to the past that her heart was betrothed—a past that had gone the way of all living, and left her as it were widowed and not to be comforted.

"And now I will tell you my dream," said poor foolish Luise; "and you will see why I looked happy in sleeping, and sorry in waking. I thought I was sitting here in the garden—crying over what I have been telling you—and suddenly an angel stood before me, and bade me weep not. Strange as was his form, and sunny in its exceeding brightness, I was not frightened; for his words were very, very gentle, and his look too full of kindness to give me one thrill of alarm. And he said that what I had longed for so much should be granted; that my father and mother should not grow old, nor Carlos cease to be the boy he now is, nor Isabel grow up into a sedate woman, nor Manuel lose the gay childishness for which we all pet him, nor I feel myself forsaking the old familiar past, and launching into dim troublous seas of perpetual change. He promised that we should one and all be freed from the great law of time; and that as we are this day parents and children, so we should continue forever—while vicissitude and decay must still have sway in the great world at large. Can you wonder that I smiled? Or that it pained me when I awoke, and found that the bright angel and the sweet promise were only—a dream?"...

There was no lack of conversation that evening in that Lisbon cottage. All loved Luise; and she, in the midst of so many artless tokens of affection and of triumph at her return, forgot all the morbid fancies that had given rise to her dream, and was as light-hearted, and as light-footed, as in days of yore. All gave themselves up to the reality of present gladness; every voice trembled with the music of joy; every eye looked and reflected love. There was no happier homestead that evening in Lisbon, nor in the world.

But ere many hours, Lisbon itself was tossing and heaving with the throes of dissolution. The sea arose tumultuously against the tottering city; the ground breathed fire, and quaked, and burst asunder; the houses reeled and fell, and thousands of inhabitants perished in the fall. Among them, at one dire swoop, the tenants of that happy cottage home. Together did these mortals put on immortality.

And thus was the dream fulfilled.

THE HOUSEHOLD OF SIR THO^S MORE.[7]

LIBELLUS A MARGARETA MORE, QUINDECIM ANNOS NATA, CHELSEIÆ INCEPTVS.

This morn, hinting to Bess that she was lacing herselfe too straightlie, she brisklie replyed, "One w^d think 'twere as great meritt to have a thick waiste as to be one of y^e earlie Christians!"

These humourous retorts are ever at her tongue's end; and, albeit, as Jacky one day angrilie remarked, when she had beene teazing him, "Bess, thy witt is stupidnesse;" yet, for one who talks soe much at random, no one can be more keene when she chooseth. Father sayd of her, half fondly, half apologeticallie to Erasmus, "Her wit has a fine subtletie that eludes you almoste before you have time to recognize it for what it really is." To which, Erasmus readilie assented, adding, that it had y^e rare meritt of playing less on persons than things, and never on bodilie defects.

Hum!—I wonder if they ever sayd as much in favour of me. I know, indeede, Erasmus calls me a forward girl. Alas! that may be taken in two senses.

Grievous work, overnighte, with y^e churning. Nought w^d persuade Gillian but that y^e creame was bewitched by Gammer Gurney, who was dissatisfyde last Friday with her dole, and hobbled away mumping and cursing. At alle events, y^e butter w^d not come; but mother was resolute not to have soe much goode creame wasted; soe sent for Bess and me, Daisy and Mercy Giggs, and insisted on our churning in turn till y^e butter came, if we sate up all nighte for't. 'Twas a hard saying; and mighte have hampered her like as Jephtha his rash vow: howbeit, soe soone as she had left us, we turned it into a frolick, and sang Chevy Chase from end to end, to beguile time; ne'erthelesse, the butter w^d not come; soe then we grew sober, and, at y^e instance of sweete Mercy, chaunted y^e 119th Psalme; and, by the time we had attayned to "Lucerna pedibus," I hearde y^e buttermilk separating and splashing in righte earneste. 'Twas neare midnighte, however; and Daisy had fallen asleep on y^e dresser. Gillian will ne'er be convinced but that our Latin brake the spell.

Erasmus went to Richmond this morning with Polus (for so he Latinizes Reginald Pole, after his usual fashion), and some other of his friends. On his return, he made us laugh at y^e following. They had clomb y^e hill, and were admiring y^e prospect, when Pole, casting his eyes aloft, and beginning to make sundrie gesticulations, exclaimed, "What is it I beholde? May heaven avert y^e omen!" with such-like exclamations, which raised y^e curiositie of alle. "Don't you beholde," cries he, "that enormous dragon flying through y^e sky? his horns of fire? his curly tail?"

"No," says Erasmus, "nothing like it. The sky is as cleare as unwritten paper."

Howbeit, he continued to affirme and to stare, untill at lengthe, one after another, by dint of strayning theire eyes and theire imaginations, did admitt, first, that they saw something; nexte, that it mighte be a dragon; and last, that it was. Of course, on theire passage homeward, they c^d talk of little else—some made serious reflections; others, philosophical! speculations; and Pole waggishly triumphed in having beene y^e firste to discerne the spectacle.

"And you trulie believe there was a signe in y^e heavens?" we inquired of Erasmus.

"What know I?" returned he, smiling; "you know, Constantine saw a cross. Why shoulde Polus not see a dragon? We must judge by the event. Perhaps its mission may be to fly away with him. He swore to y^e curly tail."

How difficulte it is to discerne y^e supernatural from y^e incredible! We laughe at Gillian's faith in our Latin; Erasmus laughs at Polus his dragon. Have we a righte to believe noughte but what we can see or prove? Nay, that will never doe. Father says a capacitie for reasoning increaseth a capacitie for believing. He believes there is such a thing as witchcraft, though not that poore olde Gammer Gurney is a witch; he believes that saints can work miracles, though not in alle y^e marvels reported of y^e Canterbury shrine.

Had I beene justice of y^e peace, like y^e king's grandmother, I w^d have beene very jealous of accusations of witchcraft; and have taken infinite payns to sift out y^e causes of malice, jealousie, &c., which mighte have wroughte with y^e poore olde women's enemies. Holie Writ sayth, "Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live;" but, questionlesse, manie have suffered hurte that were noe witches; and for my part, I have alwaies helde ducking to be a very uncertayn as well as very cruel teste.

I cannot helpe smiling, whenever I think of my rencounter with William this morning. Mr. Gunnell had set me Homer's tiresome list of ships; and, because of y^e excessive heate within doors, I took my book into y^e nuttery, to be beyonde y^e wrath of far-darting Phoebus Apollo, where I clomb into my favourite filbert seat. Anon comes William through y^e trees without seeing me; and seats him at the foot of my filbert; then, out with his tablets, and, in a posture I s^d have called studdied, had he known anie one within sighte, falls a poetizing, I question not. Having noe mind to be interrupted, I lett him be, thinking he w^d soon exhauste y^e vein; but a caterpillar dropping from y^e leaves on to my page, I was fayn for mirthe sake, to shake it down on his tablets. As ill luck w^d have it, however, y^e little reptile onlie fell among his curls; which soe took me at vantage, that I could not helpe hastilie crying, "I beg your pardon." 'Twas worth a world to see his start! "What!" cries he, looking up, "are there indeede Hamadryads?" and would have gallanted a little, but I bade him hold down his head, while that with a twig I switched off y^e caterpillar. Neither could forbeare laughing; and then he sued me to step downe, but I was minded to abide where I was. Howbeit, after a minute's pause, he sayd, in a grave, kind tone, "Come, little wife;" and taking mine arm steadilie in his hand, I lost my balance and was faine to come down whether or noe. We walked for some time, juxta fluvium; and he talked not badlie of his travels, inasmuch as I founde there was really more in him than one w^d think.

—Was there ever anie-thing soe perverse, unluckie, and downright disagreeable? We hurried our afternoone tasks, to goe on y^e water with my father; and, meaning to give Mr. Gunnel my Latin traduction, which is in a book like unto this, I never knew he had my journalle instead, untill that he burst out a laughing. "Soe this is y^e famous libellus," quoth he,... I never waited for another word, but snatcht it out of his hand; which he, for soe strict a man, bore well enow. I do not believe he c^d have read a dozen lines, and they were toward y^e beginning; but I s^d hugelie like to know which dozen lines they were.

Hum! I have a mind never to write another word. That will be punishing myselfe, though, insteade of Gunnel. And he bade me not take it to heart like y^e late Bishop of Durham, to whom a like accident befel, which soe annoyed him that he died of chagrin. I will never again, howbeit, write aniething savouring ever soe little of levitie or absurditie. The saints keepe me to it! And, to know it from my exercise book, I will henceforthe bind a blue ribbon round it. Furthermore, I will knit y^e sayd ribbon in soe close a knot, that it shall be worth noe one else's payns to pick it out. Lastlie, and for entire securitie, I will carry the same in my pouch, which will hold bigger matters than this.

This daye, at dinner, Mr. Clement took y^e Pistoller's place at y^e reading-desk; and insteade of continuing y^e subject in hand, read a paraphrase of y^e 103rde Psalm; ye faithfullenesse and elegant turne of which, Erasmus highlie commended, though he took exceptions to y^e phrase "renewing thy youth like that of y^e Phoenix," whose fabulous story he believed to have been unknown to y^e Psalmist, and, therefore, however poeticall, was unfitt to be introduced. A deepe blush on sweet Mercy's face ledd to y^e detection of y^e paraphrast, and drew on her some deserved commendations. Erasmus, turning to my father, exclaymed with animation, "I woulde call this house the academy of Plato, were it not injustice to compare it to a place where the usuall disputations concerning figures and numbers were onlie oocasionallie intersperst with disquisitions concerning y^e moral virtues." Then, in a graver mood, he added, "One mighte envie you, but that your precious privileges are bound up with soe paynfulle anxieties. How manie pledges have you given to fortune!"

"If my children are to die out of y^e course of nature, before theire parents," father firmly replyed, "I w^d rather they died well-instructed than ignorant."

"You remind me," rejoyns Erasmus, "of Phocion; whose wife, when he was aboute to drink y^e fatal cup, exclaimed, 'Ah, my husband! you die innocent.' 'And woulde you, my wife,' he returned, 'have me die guilty?'"

Awhile after, Gonellus askt leave to see Erasmus his signet-ring, which he handed down to him. In passing it back, William, who was occupyde in carving a crane, handed it soe negligentlie that it felle to y^e ground. I never saw such a face as Erasmus made, when 'twas picked out from y^e rushes! And yet, ours are renewed almoste daylie, which manie think over nice. He took it gingerlie in his faire, womanlike hands, and washed and wiped it before he put it on; which escaped not my step-mother's displeased notice. Indeede, these Dutchmen are scrupulouslie cleane, though mother calls 'em swinish, because they will eat raw sallets; though, for that matter, father loves cresses and ramps. She alsoe mislikes Erasmus for eating cheese and butter together with his manchet; or what he calls boetram; and for being, generallie, daintie at his sizes, which she sayth is an ill example to soe manie young people, and becometh not one with soe little money in's purse: howbeit, I think 'tis not nicetie, but a weak stomach, which makes him loathe our salt-meat commons from Michaelmasse to Easter, and eschew fish of y^e coarser sort. He cannot breakfaste on colde milk like father, but liketh furmity a little spiced. At dinner, he pecks at, rather than eats, ruffs and reeves, lapwings, or anie smalle birds it may chance; but affects sweets and subtilties, and loves a cup of wine or ale, stirred with rosemary. Father never toucheth the wine-cup but to grace a guest, and loves water from the spring. We growing girls eat more than either; and father says he loves to see us slice away at the cob-loaf; it does him goode. What a kind father he is! I wish my step-mother were as kind. I hate alle sneaping and snubbing, flowting, fleering, pinching, nipping, and such-like; it onlie creates resentment insteade of penitence, and lowers y^e minde of either partie. Gillian throws a rolling-pin at y^e turnspit's head, and we call it low-life; but we looke for such unmannerlinesse in the kitchen. A whip is onlie fit for Tisiphone.

As we rose from table, I noted Argus pearcht on y^e window-sill, eagerlie watching for his dinner, which he looketh for as punctuallie as if he c^d tell the diall; and to please the good, patient bird, till the scullion broughte him his mess of garden-stuff, I fetched him some pulse, which he took from mine hand, taking good heede not to hurt me with his sharp beak. While I was feeding him, Erasmus came up, and asked me concerning Mercy Giggs; and I tolde him how that she was a friendlesse orphan, to whom deare father afforded protection and the run of y^e house; and tolde him of her gratitude, her meekness, her patience, her docilitie, her aptitude for alle goode works and alms-deeds; and how, in her little chamber, she improved eache spare moment in y^e way of studdy and prayer. He repeated "Friendlesse? she cannot be called friendlesse, who hath More for her protector, and his children for companions;' and then woulde heare more of her parents' sad story. Alsoe, would hear somewhat of Rupert Allington, and how father gained his law-suit. Alsoe, of Daisy, whose name he tooke to be y^e true abbreviation for Margaret, but I tolde him how that my step-sister, and Mercy, and I, being all three of a name, and I being alwaies called Meg, we had in sport given one the significative of her characteristic virtue, and the other that of y^e French Marguerite, which may indeed be rendered either pearl or daisy. And Chaucer, speaking of our English daisy, saith

Since y^e little wisdom I have capacitie to acquire, soe oft gives me y^e headache to distraction, I marvel not at Jupiter's payn in his head, when the goddess of wisdom sprang therefrom full growne.

This morn, to quiet y^e payn brought on by too busie application, Mr. Gunnell would have me close my book and ramble forth with Cecy into y^e fields. We strolled towards Walham Greene; and she was seeking for shepherd's purses and shepherd's needles, when she came running back to me, looking rather pale. I askt what had scared her, and she made answer that Gammer Gurney was coming along y^e hedge. I bade her set aside her fears; and anon we come up with Gammer, who was puling at y^e purple blossoms of y^e deadly night-shade. I sayd, "Gammer, to what purpose gather that weed? knowest not 'tis evill?"

She sayth, mumbling, "What God hath created, that call not thou evill."

"Well, but," quo' I, "'tis poison."

"Aye, and medicine, too," returns Gammer, "I wonder what we poor souls might come to, if we tooke nowt for our ails and aches but what we could buy o' the potticary. We've got noe Dr. Clement, we poor folks, to be our leech o' the household."

"But hast no feare," quo' I, "of an overdose?"

"There's manie a doctor," sayth she, with an unpleasant leer, "that hath given that at first. In time he gets his hand in; and I've had a plenty o' practice—thanks to self and sister."

"I knew not," quoth I, "that thou hadst a sister."

"How should ye, mistress," returns she, shortlie, "when ye never comes nigh us? We've grubbed on together this many a year."

"'Tis soe far," I returned, half ashamed.

"Why, soe it be," answers Gammer; "far from neighbours, far from church, and far from priest; howbeit, my old legs carries me to your house o' Fridays; but I know not whether I shall e'er come agayn—the rye bread was soe hard last time; it may serve for young teeth, and for them as has got none; but mine, you see, are onlie on the goe;" and she opened her mouth with a ghastly smile. "'Tis not," she added, "that I'm ungratefulle; but thou sees, mistress, I really can't eat crusts."

After a moment, I asked, "Where lies your dwelling?"

"Out by yonder," quoth she, pointing to a shapeless mass like a huge bird's nest in y^e corner of the field. "There bides poor Joan and I. Wilt come and looke within, mistress, and see how a Christian can die?"

I mutelie complyed, in spite of Cecy's pulling at my skirts. Arrived at y^e wretched abode, which had a hole for its chimney, and another for door at once and window, I found, sitting in a corner, propped on a heap of rushes, dried leaves, and olde rags, an aged sick woman, who seemed to have but a little while to live. A mug of water stoode within her reach; I saw none other sustenance; but, in her visage, oh, such peace!... Whispers Gammer with an awfulle look, "She sees 'em now!"

"Sees who?" quoth I.

"Why, angels in two long rows, afore y^e throne of God, a bending of themselves, this way, with theire faces to th' earth, and arms stretched out afore 'em."

"Hath she seen a priest?" quoth I.

"Lord love ye," returns Gammer, "what coulde a priest doe for her? She's is in heaven alreadie. I doubte if she can heare me." And then, in a loud, distinct voyce, quite free from her usuall mumping, she beganne to recite in English, "Blessed is every one that feareth y^e Lord, and walketh in his ways," etc.; which y^e dying woman hearde, although alreadie speechlesse; and reaching out her feeble arm unto her sister's neck, she dragged it down till their faces touched; and then, looking up, pointed at somewhat she aimed to make her see ... and we alle looked up, but saw noughte. Howbeit, she pointed up three severall times, and lay, as it were, transfigured before us, a gazing at some transporting sighte, and ever and anon turning on her sister looks of love; and, the while we stoode thus agaze, her spiritt passed away without even a thrill or a shudder. Cecy and I beganne to weepe; and, after a while, soe did Gammer; then, putting us forthe, she sayd, "Goe, children, goe; 'tis noe goode crying; and yet I'm thankfulle to ye for your teares."

I sayd, "Is there aught we can doe for thee?"

She made answer, "Perhaps you can give me tuppence, mistress, to lay on her poor eyelids and keep 'em down. Bless 'ee, bless 'ee! You're like y^e good Samaritan—he pulled out two-pence. And maybe, if I come to 'ee to-morrow, you'll give me a lapfulle of rosemarie, to lay on her poor corpse.... I know you've plenty. God be with 'ee, children; and be sure ye mind how a Christian can die."

Soe we left, and came home sober enow. Cecy sayth, "To die is not soe fearfulle, Meg, as I thoughte, but shoulde you fancy dying without a priest? I shoulde not; and yet Gammer sayd she wanted not one. Howbeit, for certayn, Gammer Gurney is noe witch, or she woulde not so prayse God."

To conclude, father, on hearing alle, hath given Gammer more than enow for her present needes; and Cecy and I are y^e almoners of his mercy.

June 24.

Yesternighte, being St. John's Eve, we went into town to see y^e mustering of y^e watch. Mr. Rastall had secured us a window opposite y^e King's Head, in Chepe, where theire M^ys. went in state to see the show. The streets were a marvell to see, being like unto a continuation of fayr bowres or arbours, garlanded acrosse and over y^e doors with greene birch, long fennel, orpin, St. John's wort, white lilies, and such like; with innumerable candles intersperst, the which, being lit up as soon as 'twas dusk, made the whole look like enchanted land; while at y^e same time, the leaping over bon-fires commenced, and produced shouts of laughter. The youths woulde have father goe downe and joyn 'em; Rupert, speciallie, begged him hard, but he put him off with, "Sirrah, you goosecap, dost think 'twoulde befitt y^e Judge of the Sheriffs' Court?"

At length, to y^e sound of trumpets, came marching up Cheapside two thousand of the watch, in white fustian, with the City badge; and seven hundred cressett bearers, eache with his fellow to supplie him with oyl, and making, with theire flaring lights, the night as cleare as daye. After 'em, the morris-dancers and City waites; the Lord Mayor on horseback, very fine, with his giants and pageants: and the Sheriff and his watch, and his giants and pageants. The streets very uproarious on our way back to the barge, but the homeward passage delicious; the nighte ayre cool; and the stars shining brightly. Father and Erasmus had some astronomick talk; howbeit, methoughte Erasmus less familiar with y^e heavenlie bodies than father is. Afterwards, they spake of y^e King, but not over-freelie, by reason of y^e bargemen overhearing. Thence, to y^e ever-vext question of Martin Luther, of whome Erasmus spake in terms of earneste, yet qualifyde prayse.

"If Luther be innocent," quoth he, "I woulde not run him down by a wicked faction; if he be in error, I woulde rather have him reclaymed than destroyed; for this is most agreeable to the doctrine of our deare Lord and Master, who woulde not bruise y^e broken reede, nor quenche y^e smoaking flax." And much more to same purpose.

We younger folks felle to choosing our favourite mottoes and devices, in which y^e elders at length joyned us. Mother's was loyal—"Cleave to y^e crown though it hang on a bush." Erasmus's pithie—"Festina lente." William sayd he was indebted for his to St. Paul—"I seeke not yours, but you." For me, I quoted one I had seene in an olde countrie church, "Mieux être que paroitre," which pleased father and Erasmus much.

Poor Erasmus caughte colde on y^e water last nighte, and keeps house to-daye, taking warm possets. 'Tis my week of housekeeping under mother's guidance, and I never had more pleasure in it: delighting to suit his taste in sweete things, which, methinks, all men like. I have enow of time left for studdy, when alle's done.

He hathe beene the best part of the morning in our academia, looking over books and manuscripts, taking notes of some, discoursing with Mr. Gunnell and others; and, in some sorte, interrupting our morning's work; but how pleasantlie! Besides, as father sayth, "varietie is not always interruption. That which occasionallie lets and hinders our accustomed studdies, may prove to y^e ingenious noe less profitable than theire studdies themselves."

They beganne with discussing y^e pronunciation of Latin and Greek, on which Erasmus differeth much from us, though he holds to our pronunciation of y^e theta. Thence, to y^e absurde partie of the Ciceronians now in Italie, who will admit noe author save Tully to be read nor quoted, nor anie word not in his writings to be used. Thence, to y^e Latinitie of y^e Fathers, of whose style he spake slightlie enow, but rated Jerome above Augustine. At length, to his Greek and Latin Testament, of late issued from y^e presse, and y^e incredible labour it hath cost him to make it as perfect as possible: on this subject he soe warmed, that Bess and I listened with suspended breath. "May it please God," sayth he, knitting ferventlie his hands, "to make it a blessing to all Christendom! I look for noe other reward. Scholars and believers yet unborn, may have reason to thank, and yet may forget Erasmus." He then went on to explain to Gunnell what he had much felt in want of, and hoped some scholar might yet undertake; to wit, a sort of Index Bibliorum, showing in how manie passages of holy writ occurreth anie given word, etc.; and he e'en proposed it to Gunnell, saying 'twas onlie y^e work of patience and industry, and mighte be layd aside, and resumed as occasion offered, and completed at leisure, to y^e great thankfullenesse of scholars. But Gunnell onlie smiled and shooke his head. Howbeit, Erasmus set forth his scheme soe playnlie, that I, having a pen in hand, did privilie note down alle y^e heads of y^e same, thinking, if none else w^d undertake it, why s^d not I? since leisure and industrie were alone required, and since 'twoulde be soe acceptable to manie, 'speciallie to Erasmus.

THE STOLEN FRUIT.—A STORY OF NAPOLEON'S CHILDHOOD.

The boy who advanced toward the grotto differed from the generality of children of his age in the size of his head, the massive form of his noble brow, and the fixed examining expression of his eyes. He walked slowly—looking at the bright blue sea—and unconscious that his proceedings were closely watched by two pair of little bright black eyes.

"Here I am my own master!" he said as he entered the grotto. "No one commands me here!" And seating himself royally on a bench within the dark entrance, he continued, "This is my birthday. I am eight years old to-day. I wish I lived among the Spartans, then I should be beyond the control of women; but now I have to obey such a number of people—old Severia among the rest. Ah, if I were the master!"

"Well, and if you were the master, what would you do?" cried Eliza, thrusting forward her pretty little head.

"First of all, I'd teach you not to come listening at doors," replied Napoleon, disconcerted at being overheard.

"But, brother, there's no door that I can see."

"No matter, you have been eaves-dropping all the same."

"Eliza!—Panoria!" cried a loud voice. "Where can these children have gone to?"

The young ladies came out of their leafy lurking-place in time to meet the little Bonapartes' nurse, Severia—a tall old woman, who carried on her arm a basket filled with the most luscious tempting pears, grapes, and figs.

"A pear, Severia!" cried Napoleon, darting forward, and thrusting his hand into the basket.

"The saints forbid, child!" exclaimed Severia. "They are for your uncle the canon!"

"Ah!" said Napoleon, drawing back his hand as quickly as if a wasp had stung him.

Panoria burst out laughing.

"I never saw such people!" she said, as soon as her mirth allowed her to speak. "My uncle the canon seems the bugbear of the whole family. Is Severia afraid of him, too?"

"Not more than I am," said Napoleon, boldly.

"And yet you were afraid to take a pear?"

"Because I did not wish to do it, Panoria."

"Did not dare do it, Napoleon!"

"Did not wish to do it, Panoria."

"And if you wished it, would you do it?"

"Certainly I would."

"I think you are a boaster, Napoleon; and in your uncle's presence would be just as great a coward as Eliza or Pauline?"

"Come, children, follow me," said Severia, walking on.

"You think I am a coward?" whispered Eliza to her little friend. "Come into the house, and see if I don't eat as much of uncle's fruit as I please. Mamma is gone out to pay a visit, and will not be home until to-morrow."

"Then I'll help you," said Panoria. And the little girls, fixing their wistful eyes on the tempting fruit, followed Severia to the house.

Napoleon remained some time longer in his grotto; and when supper-time approached, he went into the house. Feeling very thirsty, he entered the dining-room, in which was a large cupboard, where fresh water was usually kept. Just as he was going in, he heard a noise: the cupboard doors were quickly shut, and he caught a glimpse of a white frock disappearing through the open window. Instead, however, of looking after the fugitive, he went quietly to get a glass of water in the cupboard. Then, to his dismay, he saw his uncle's basket of fruit half empty! While, forgetting his thirst, he looked with astonishment at the fruit, considering who could have been the hardy thief, a voice behind him roused him from his reverie.

"What are you doing there, Napoleon? You know you are not permitted to help yourself to supper."

This was uncle the canon himself—a short, stout old man with a bald head, whose otherwise ordinary features were lighted up with the eagle glance which afterward distinguished his grand-nephew.

"I was not taking any thing, uncle," replied Napoleon. And then suddenly the idea occurring to him that he might be accused of having taken the fruit, the blood rushed hotly to his cheeks.

His confusion was so evident, that the canon said, "I hope you are not telling a falsehood, Napoleon?"

"I never tell falsehoods," said the boy, proudly.

"What were you doing?"

"I was thirsty; I came to get some water."

"No harm in that—and then, my boy?"

"That was all, uncle."

"Have you drunk the water?"

"No, uncle; not yet."

The archdeacon shook his head. "You came to drink, and you did not drink; that does not hang well together. Napoleon, take care. If you frankly confess your fault, whatever it may be, you shall be forgiven; but if you tell a lie, and persist in it, I warn you that I shall punish you severely."

The entrance of M. Bonaparte, M. Fesch, and Joseph, Napoleon's eldest brother, interrupted the conversation; and for some minutes the elder gentlemen spoke to each other on political subjects; when a sudden exclamation from Severia, as she opened the cupboard, attracted the attention of all.

"Santa Madona! who has taken the fruit?"

"This is the mystery discovered!" said the canon, turning toward Napoleon. "So you stole the fruit?"

"I never touched it," replied the boy.

"Call in the other children," said the archdeacon.

In a few minutes five beautiful children, three boys and two girls, formed a group round their father, who, looking at each one in turn, asked, "Which of you has taken the fruit that was gathered in your uncle the canon's garden?"

"I did not!" "Nor I!" "Nor I!" cried they all. But Eliza's voice was lower and less assured than those of the others.

"And you, Napoleon?"

"I have said, papa, that I did not do it."

"That's a falsehood!" exclaimed Severia, who, being an old domestic, took great liberties.

"If you were not a woman!" said Napoleon, shaking his small clenched hand at her.

"Silence! Napoleon," said his father, sternly.

"It must have been you, Napoleon," said Severia; "for after putting the fruit into the cupboard, I never left the ante-room, and not a soul passed through except the archdeacon and yourself. If he has not taken them—"

"I wish truly I had," said the old gentleman, "and then I should not have the grief of seeing one of my children persist in a lie."

"Uncle, I am not guilty," repeated Napoleon firmly.

"Do not be obstinate, but confess," said his father.

"Yes," added the canon; "'tis the only way to escape punishment."

"But I never touched the fruit—indeed, I did not."

"Napoleon," said his uncle, "I can not believe you. I shall give you five minutes; and if, at the end of that time, you do not confess, and ask for pardon, I shall whip you."

"A whip is for horses and dogs, not for children!" said the boy.

"A whip is for disobedient, lying children," replied his father.

"Then 'tis unjust to give it me, for I am neither a liar nor disobedient." So saying, Napoleon crossed his arms on his chest, and settled himself in a firm attitude.

Meantime his brothers and his sister Pauline came close to him, and whispered good-natured entreaties that he would confess.

"But how can I, when I have not done wrong?"

"So you are still obstinate?" said his uncle. And taking him by the arm, he led him into the next room. Presently the sound of sharp repeated blows was heard, but not a cry or complaint from the little sufferer.

Madame Bonaparte was away from home, and in the evening her husband went to meet her, accompanied by Joseph, Lucien, and Eliza. M. Fesch and the canon were also about to depart, and in passing through the ante-room, they saw Napoleon standing, pale and grave, but proud, and firm-looking as before.

"Well, my child," said his father, "I hope you will now ask your uncle's pardon?"

"I did not touch the fruit, papa."

"Still obstinate! As the rod will not do, I shall try another method. Your mother, brothers, Eliza, and I, will be away for three days, and during that time you shall have nothing but bread and water, unless you ask your uncle's forgiveness."

"But, papa, won't you let him have some cheese with his bread?" whispered little Pauline.

"Yes, but not broccio."

"Ah do, papa, please let him have broccio 'tis the nicest cheese in Corsica!"

"That's the reason he does not deserve it," said his father, looking at the boy with an anxious expression, as if he hoped to see some sign of penitence on his face. But none such appearing, he proceeded toward the carriage.

Joseph and Lucien took a kind leave of their brother, but Eliza seemed unwilling and afraid to go near or look at him.

The three days passed on, heavily enough for poor Napoleon, who was in disgrace, and living on bread, water, and cheese, which was not broccio. At length the party returned, and little Panoria, who was watching for her friend Eliza, came with them into the house.

"Good-morning, uncle," said Madame Bonaparte to the archdeacon, "how are you? And where are Napoleon and Pauline?"

"Here I am, mamma," said the latter throwing her arms around her mother's neck.

"And Napoleon?"

"He is here," said the canon.

"Has he confessed?" asked his father.

"No," replied the uncle. "I never before witnessed such obstinacy."

"What has he done?" asked his mother.

The canon, in reply, related the story of the fruit; but before he could finish it, Panoria exclaimed—

"Of course, poor fellow, he would not confess what he never did!"

"And who did take the fruit?" asked the canon.

"I and Eliza," replied the little girl without hesitation.

There was a universal exclamation.

"My poor child," said the archdeacon, embracing Napoleon tenderly, "why did you not undeceive us?"

"I suspected it was Eliza," replied Napoleon; "but I was not sure. At all events, I would not have told, for Panoria's sake, who is not a liar."

The reader may imagine how Napoleon was caressed and rewarded to make him amends for the pain he had unjustly suffered. As to Eliza, she was severely and rightly punished: first for her gluttony; and then for what was much worse—her cowardice and deceit in allowing her innocent brother to suffer for her fault.

WILBERFORCE AND CHALMERS.

I have seldom observed a more amusing and pleasing contrast between two great men than between Wilberforce and Chalmers. Chalmers is stout and erect, with a broad countenance—Wilberforce minute, and singularly twisted: Chalmers, both in body and mind, moves with, a deliberate step—Wilberforce, infirm as he is in his advanced years, flies about with astonishing activity, and while, with nimble finger, he seizes on every thing that adorns or diversifies his path, his mind flits from object to object with unceasing versatility. I often think that particular men bear about with them an analogy to particular animals: Chalmers is like a good-tempered lion—Wilberforce is like a bee: Chalmers can say a pleasant thing now and then, and laugh when he has said it, and he has a strong touch of humor in his countenance, but in general he is grave, his thoughts grow to a great size before they are uttered—Wilberforce sparkles with life and wit, and the characteristic of his mind is "rapid productiveness." A man might be in Chalmers's company for an hour, especially in a party, without knowing who or what he was—though in the end he would be sure to be detected by some unexpected display of powerful originality. Wilberforce, except when fairly asleep, is never latent. Chalmers knows how to vail himself in a decent cloud—Wilberforce is always in sunshine. Seldom, I believe, has any mind been more strung to a perpetual tune of love and praise. Yet these persons, distinguished as they are from the world at large, and from each other, present some admirable points of resemblance. Both of them are broad thinkers, and liberal feelers; both of them are arrayed in humility, meekness, and charity: both appear to hold self in little reputation: above all, both love the Lord Jesus Christ, and reverently acknowledge him to be their only Saviour.—Hanna's Memoirs of Chalmers.

MY NOVEL; OR, VARIETIES IN ENGLISH LIFE.

During the last two or three minutes, and just before that approving "good" had responded to the Parson's popular sentiment, a door communicating with an inner room had been gently opened, and stood ajar; but this incident neither party had even noticed. But now the door was thrown boldly open, and the traveler whom the Parson had met at the inn walked up to Mr. Dale, and said, "No! that's not the end of the matter. You say the boy's a 'cute clever lad?"

"Richard, have you been listening?" exclaimed Mrs. Avenel.

"Well, I guess, yes—the last few minutes."

"And what have you heard?"

"Why, that this reverend gentleman thinks so highly of my sister Fairfield's boy that he offers to pay half of his keep at college. Sir, I'm very much obliged to you, and there's my hand, if you'll take it."

The Parson jumped up, overjoyed, and, with a triumphant glance toward Mrs. Avenel, shook hands heartily with Mr. Richard.

"Now," said the latter, "just put on your hat, sir, and take a stroll with me, and we'll discuss the thing business-like. Women don't understand business; never talk to women on business."

With these words, Mr. Richard drew out a cigar-case, selected a cigar, which he applied to the candle, and walked into the hall.

Mrs. Avenel caught hold of the Parson. "Sir, you'll be on your guard with Richard. Remember your promise."

"He does not know all, then?"

"He? No! And you see he did not overhear more than what he says. I'm sure you're a gentleman, and won't go agin your word."

"My word was conditional; but I will promise you never to break the silence without more reason than I think there is here for it. Indeed, Mr. Richard Avenel seems to save all necessity for that."

"Are you coming, sir?" cried Richard, as he opened the street door.

CHAPTER XIV.

The Parson joined Mr. Richard Avenel on the road. It was a fine night, and the moon clear and shining.

"So, then," said Mr. Richard thoughtfully, "poor Jane, who was always the drudge of the family, has contrived to bring up her son well; and the boy is really what you say, eh?—could make a figure at college?"

"I am sure of it," said the Parson, hooking himself on to the arm which Mr. Avenel proffered.

"I should like to see him," said Richard. "Has he any manner? Is he genteel? or a mere country lout?"

"Indeed he speaks with so much propriety, and has so much modest dignity, I might say, about him, that there's many a rich gentleman who would be proud of such a son."

"It is odd," observed Richard, "what difference there is in families. There's Jane now—who can't read nor write, and was just fit to be a workman's wife—had not a thought above her station; and when I think of my poor sister Nora—you would not believe it, sir, but she was the most elegant creature in the world—yes, even as a child (she was but a child when I went off to America). And often, as I was getting on in life, often I used to say to myself, 'My little Nora shall be a lady after all.' Poor thing—but she died young."

Richard's voice grew husky.

The Parson kindly pressed the arm on which he leaned, and said, after a pause,

"Nothing refines us like education, sir. I believe your sister Nora had received much instruction, and had the talents to profit by it; it is the same with your nephew."

"I'll see him," said Richard, stamping his foot firmly on the ground, "and if I like him, I'll be as good as a father to him. Look you, Mr. —— what's your name, sir?"

"Dale."

"Mr. Dale, look you, I'm a single man. Perhaps I may marry some day; perhaps I shan't. I'm not going to throw myself away. If I can get a lady of quality, why—but that's neither here nor there; meanwhile, I should be glad of a nephew whom I need not be ashamed of. You see, sir, I'm a new man, the builder of my own fortunes; and, though I have picked up a little education—I don't well know how—as I scrambled on, still, now I come back to the old country I'm well aware that I am not exactly a match for those d——d aristocrats; don't show so well in a drawing-room as I could wish. I could be a Parliament man if I liked, but I might make a goose of myself; so, all things considered, if I can get a sort of junior partner to do the polite work, and show off the goods, I think the house of Avenel & Co. might become a pretty considerable honor to the Britishers. You understand me, sir?"

"Oh, very well," answered Mr. Dale smiling, though rather gravely.

"Now," continued the New Man, "I'm not ashamed to have risen in life by my own merits; and I don't disguise what I've been. And, when I'm in my own grand house, I'm fond of saying, 'I landed at New York with £10 in my purse, and here I am!' But it would not do to have the old folks with me. People take you with all your faults, if you're rich; but they won't swallow your family into the bargain. So if I don't have my own father and mother, whom I love dearly, and should like to see sitting at table, with my servants behind their chairs, I could still less have sister Jane. I recollect her very well, and she can't have got genteeler as she's grown older. Therefore I beg you'll not set her on coming after me; it won't do by any manner of means. Don't say a word about me to her. But send the boy down here to his grandfather, and I'll see him quietly, you understand."

"Yes, but it will be hard to separate her from the boy."

"Stuff! all boys are separated from their parents when they go into the world. So that's settled! Now, just tell me. I know the old folks always snubbed Jane—that is, mother did. My poor dear father never snubbed any of us. Perhaps mother has not behaved altogether well to Jane. But we must not blame her for that; you see this is how it happened. There were a good many of us, while father and mother kept shop in the High-street, so we were all to be provided for anyhow; and Jane, being very useful and handy at work, got a place when she was a little girl, and had no time for learning. Afterward my father made a lucky hit, in getting my Lord Lansmere's custom after an election, in which he did a great deal for the Blues (for he was a famous electioneerer, my poor father). My Lady stood godmother to Nora; and then most of my brothers and sisters died off, and father retired from business; and when he took Jane from service, she was so common-like that mother could not help contrasting her with Nora. You see Jane was their child when they were poor little shop-people, with their heads scarce above water; and Nora was their child when they were well off, and had retired from trade, and lived genteel: so that makes a great difference. And mother did not quite look on her as her own child. But it was Jane's own fault; for mother would have made it up with her if she had married the son of our neighbor the great linendraper, as she might have done; but she would take Mark Fairfield, a common carpenter. Parents like best those of their children who succeed best in life. Natural. Why, they did not care for me till I came back the man I am. But to return to Jane: I'm afraid they've neglected her. How is she off?"

"She earns her livelihood, and is poor, but contented."

"Ah, just be good enough to give her this," (and Richard took a bank-note of £50 from his pocket-book). "You can say the old folks sent it to her; or that it is a present from Dick, without telling her he had come back from America."

"My dear sir," said the Parson, "I am more and more thankful to have made your acquaintance. This is a very liberal gift of yours; but your best plan will be to send it through your mother. For, though I don't want to betray any confidence you place in me, I should not know what to answer if Mrs. Fairfield began to question me about her brother. I never had but one secret to keep, and I hope I shall never have another. A secret is very like a lie!"

"You had a secret, then," said Richard, as he took back the bank-note. He had learned, perhaps, in America, to be a very inquisitive man. He added point-blank, "Pray what was it?"

"Why, what it would not be if I told you," said the Parson, with a forced laugh—"a secret!"

"Well, I guess we're in a land of liberty—do as you like. Now, I dare say you think me a very odd fellow to come out of my shell to you in this off-hand way. But I liked the look of you, even when we were at the inn together. And just now I was uncommonly pleased to find that, though you are a Parson, you don't want to keep a man's nose down to a shop-board, if he has any thing in him. You're not one of the aristocrats—"

"Indeed," said the Parson, with imprudent warmth, "it is not the character of the aristocracy of this country to keep people down. They make way among themselves for any man, whatever his birth, who has the talent and energy to aspire to their level. That's the especial boast of the British constitution, sir!"

"Oh, you think so, do you?" said Mr. Richard, looking sourly at the Parson. "I dare say those are the opinions in which you have brought up the lad. Just keep him yourself, and let the aristocracy provide for him!"

The Parson's generous and patriotic warmth evaporated at once, at this sudden inlet of cold air into the conversation. He perceived that he had made a terrible blunder; and, as it was not his business at that moment to vindicate the British constitution, but to serve Leonard Fairfield, he abandoned the cause of the aristocracy with the most poltroon and scandalous abruptness. Catching at the arm which Mr. Avenel had withdrawn from him, he exclaimed:

"Indeed, sir, you are mistaken; I have never attempted to influence your nephew's political opinions. On the contrary, if, at his age, he can be said to have formed any opinion, I am greatly afraid—that is, I think his opinions are by no means sound—that is, constitutional. I mean, I mean—" And the poor Parson, anxious to select a word that would not offend his listener, stopped short in lamentable confusion of idea.

Mr. Avenel enjoyed his distress for a moment, with a saturnine smile, and then said,

"Well, I calculate he's a Radical. Natural enough, if he has not got a sixpence to lose—all come right by-and-by. I'm not a Radical—at least not a destructive—much too clever a man for that, I hope. But I wish to see things very different from what they are. Don't fancy that I want the common people, who've got nothing, to pretend to dictate to their betters, because I hate to see a parcel of fellows, who are called lords and squires, trying to rule the roast. I think, sir, that it is men like me who ought to be at the top of the tree! and that's the long and short of it. What do you say?"

"I've not the least objection," said the crest-fallen Parson, basely. But, to do him justice, I must add that he did not the least know what he was saying!

CHAPTER XV.

Unconscious of the change in his fate which the diplomacy of the Parson sought to effect, Leonard Fairfield was enjoying the first virgin sweetness of fame; for the principal town in his neighborhood had followed the then growing fashion of the age, and set up a Mechanics' Institute; and some worthy persons interested in the formation of that provincial Athenæum had offered a prize for the best Essay on the Diffusion of Knowledge—a very trite subject, on which persons seem to think they can never say too much, and on which there is, nevertheless, a great deal yet to be said. This prize Leonard Fairfield had recently won. His Essay had been publicly complimented by a full meeting of the Institute; it had been printed at the expense of the Society, and had been rewarded by a silver medal—delineative of Apollo crowning Merit (poor Merit had not a rag to his back; but Merit, left only to the care of Apollo, never is too good a customer to the tailor!) And the County Gazette had declared that Britain had produced another prodigy in the person of Dr. Riccabocca's self-educated gardener.

Attention was now directed to Leonard's mechanical contrivances. The Squire, ever eagerly bent on improvements, had brought an engineer to inspect the lad's system of irrigation, and the engineer had been greatly struck by the simple means by which a very considerable technical difficulty had been overcome. The neighboring farmers now called Leonard "Mr. Fairfield," and invited him on equal terms to their houses. Mr. Stirn had met him on the high road, touched his hat, and hoped that "he bore no malice." All this, I say, was the first sweetness of fame; and if Leonard Fairfield comes to be a great man, he will never find such sweets in the after fruit. It was this success which had determined the Parson on the step which he had just taken, and which he had long before anxiously meditated. For, during the last year or so, he had renewed his old intimacy with the widow and the boy; and he had noticed, with great hope and great fear, the rapid growth of an intellect, which now stood out from the lowly circumstances that surrounded it in bold and unharmonizing relief.

It was the evening after his return home that the Parson strolled up to the Casino. He put Leonard Fairfield's Prize Essay in his pocket. For he felt that he could not let the young man go forth into the world without a preparatory lecture, and he intended to scourge poor Merit with the very laurel wreath which it had received from Apollo. But in this he wanted Riccabocca's assistance: or rather, he feared that, if he did not get the Philosopher on his side, the Philosopher might undo all the work of the Parson.