She, as well as Eudosia, had undertaken to copy from the relievo a very pretty head of a vestal. Eudosia had finished hers, and Adèle, though, as usual, she had hardly worked at all at hers, had, also as usual, told her grandmother that hers was finished; and Madame de Croissy, who never looked at it, asked no more. How ever, as she could not show it to the painter, she decided to show him as her own the head Eudosia had drawn. The painter thought it admirable; it was, indeed, the best Eudosia had ever done. While he still held it in his hand, Madame de Croissy called Adèle into the garden; | she went with her usual heedlessness, without putting by the drawing, and at the same moment Madame d'Aubonne and Eudosia entered by the other door. "Look," said the painter to them, "at this beautiful head, drawn by Mademoiselle Adele."

"By Adele?" said Eudosia, colouring, and looking at her mother.

"I do not think it was done by Adèle," said Madame d'Aubonne.

"I beg your pardon," said the painter, "she told me so herself." And approaching the glass door which opened on the garden, where Adèle, standing on the top of the steps, was talking to her grandmother who was below, "Is not this drawing which you have just shown me, yours, Mademoiselle?" inquired he.

"Yes, Sir," said Adèle, hardly turning her head, lest her grandmother should observe her, and should ask to sce the drawing.

Then the painter again began to praise it. Eudosia expected that her mother would speak, but she was silent, and Eudosia did not venture to say anything. The painter asked to see her drawings; she said she had none; but the painter, seeing a portfolio with her name upon it, drew from it an old head with which Endosia was not satisfied, and which she had brought into the country to correct. He pointed out its faults, coldly praised the taste which it evinced, and then returned to the vestal's head. Eudosia's heart was very full; she looked at her mother as if to entreat of her to speak, but now they were called to breakfast.

The painter, questioned on the subject of the drawings, expressed himself politely in respect to the three other young persons, but said that Adèle possessed a real talent for the art.

"Ah! not so great as Mademoiselle Eudosia," said Madame de Croissy, casting upon Eudosia a look of ironical satisfaction.

"I assure you, madam," said the painter," that the vestal's head, which Mademoiselle Adèle showed me, shows the greatest taste for drawing."

Adèle changed colour, and dared not raise her eyes. "Nevertheless I can assure you," said Madame de Croissy, in the same tone, "that if you heard the advice which Mademoiselle Eudosia gives, you would suppose her to be more talented than any other young person of her age."

The painter looked at Eudosia with surprise. She was indignant; her mother who sat next her pressed her hand beneath the table to try and calm her. She could not eat; and, as soon as she could leave the table, she went into the garden, where her mother followed her; she found her crying with grief and vexation. "What ails you, my Eudosia?" said she, pressing her tenderly in her arms. "Indeed, mamma," said Eudosia, in great agitation, "it is very hard, and Madame de Croissy to

"What harm does Madame de Croissy's injustice do you? Which of us believes anything of what she said?" "The painter believes it. Certainly I would not have said anything before her, but why was it necessary that the painter should think my drawing was done by Adèle? Mamma, you have countenanced Adèle's falsehood," added she, in a reproachful tone.

"Adèle's education does not concern me," replied Madame d'Aubonne, "but yours is intrusted to me; I am obliged to watch over your virtues as my own, and

to point out to you your own duty without thinking of that of others."

"It was not my duty," said Eudosia more gently, "to let it be thought that my drawing was Adèle's." "It was not the duty, certainly, of a person who only aspires to being considered a good artist; but that of a person who wishes to have strength and virtue was to sacrifice her own self-love to preserve the character of her companion. Tell me, my child, if, to save yourself the slight annoyance of being considered the least talented, you had covered Adèle, before this painter, with the shame of a falsehood, would you not now have felt embarrassed before her?"

"Indeed, mamma, I believe I should."

"And you ought to be so; for you would not have had the courage to make a small sacrifice to save her a great humiliation."

"You are right, mamma; but there are sometimes very difficult things to be done, to deserve self-esteem." "And if it were not very difficult, do you not think, my child, that every one would desire it as well as you?"

Although soothed by her conversation with her mother, Eudosia preserved a little rancour against Adèle, and was a part of the day without speaking to her. But she saw Adèle so confused, so occupied in endeavouring to please her, without daring to approach her or speak directly to her, that she could not help feeling the greatest compassion for her. She saw that the most painful feeling in the world is to have a grave fault to reproach oneself with; and felt that it was impossible to preserve resentment against one so unhappy. She spoke to her then as usual, and as soon as she had recovered her good humour she no longer felt any vexation.

But she had still a great trial to sustain. One day, Honorine, who stopped at nothing when once a whim had entered her head, finding one of the park gates open, chose to go out and run upon the road. Eudosia, who at the time was alone with her, feeling how unbecoming this was for a young lady, begged of her to return.

She saw at a distance some one coming from the house, and, trembling lest Honorine should be seen, she ventured to go herself outside the gate to call her, and keeping close to it, "Honorine !" cried she, "my dear Honorine! come back, I entreat you; oh! come back! come back!" At this moment, thinking she heard the voice of Madame de Croissy, she rushed forward to hasten Honorine who was coming very slowly; her gown, catching in the gate drew it after her, and, while the check threw her down, the gate shut closely, and she and Honorine were left on the outside without the power of re-entering. She tried in vain to open the gate by passing her hand through the bars; the lock was hard; perhaps there was even a secret spring; she could not succeed. In despair she would have called some one to open it, determined, without throwing the blame upon Honorine, to tell what had happened; but Honorine, who had as little courage to sustain a slight reproof, as to avoid deserving a great one, entreated her not to do so She knew that her grandmother was walking in the garden, from whence she might hear them; she said it would be better to return to the château through the court, but to reach this they had to go a good distance round by the road. Eudosia was unwilling to leave the gate; she was at last, however, obliged to follow her cousin, who was resolved to go on, for, if she called her, Honorine's imprudent proceeding would have been discovered.

She went timidly, keeping close to the park walls, walking as fast as she could, terrified lest they should be seen, and continually calling back Honorine, who, on the contrary, was quite delighted with the adventure, and was running in the fields. They were still some distance from the château when a carriage passed them, filled with ladies who were going to dine at Romecourt.

Now Eudosia was in greater despair than ever, fearing that they had been recognised; she redoubled her speed, while Honorine, who began to be afraid, slackened hers to put off the dreaded moment.

Their fears were well-founded; they had been seen. As soon as the carriage had arrived at Romecourt, Eudosia and Honorine were sent for to assist Adèle and Julia to entertain a young girl who had come with her mother and two other ladies. They could not be found. "I think," said a gentleman who had accompanied the ladies on horseback, "that I saw them on the road."

"On the road! alone!" cried Madame de Croissy. "It appeared to me very extraordinary," said one of the ladies, "nevertheless it was certainly they." They were again searched for every where. Adèle knew not what had become of her sister, nor Madame d'Aubonne of her daughter; she went down stairs, and was beginning to feel very anxious, when a servant who saw them entering the court announced that they were coming.

Every one ran out upon the steps, and, from a distance, they saw this assembly waiting to receive them.

Eudosia, though ready to faint with fear and shame, was obliged to draw on Honorine, who was unwilling to come farther. From the middle of the court they heard Madame de Croissy's voice crying, “Is it possible, young ladies? Is it credible?"

"

Madame d'Aubonne ran to meet her daughter; Eudosia," said she, "what has happened? How was it

that

Eudosia could not explain, for Honorine was close behind her, but she pressed and kissed her mother's hand, looked at her and then at Honorine, so that Madame d'Aubonne easily perceived that her daughter was not to blame. They now arrived, amidst the reprimands and exclamations of Madame de Croissy, who, when they were ascending the steps, turned to the strangers and said, "I beg of you to believe that Honorine is not so ill brought up as to have imagined such an escapade by herself; Mademoiselle Eudosia took her, and almost by force; I witnessed it myself." Eudosia was ready to exclaim.

6

Yes, Mademoiselle," continued Madame de Croissy, in an impressive tone, "I was walking in the wood near the gate, and heard you say, Come, I entreat you;' I did not know what you were asking, but I see now, though I could never have imagined it. Deny it, if you dare."

Madame de Croissy had indeed heard, and badly heard, what she had said to Honorine, to try and make her return. Eudosia said nothing; she looked down, and burst into tears.

Madame d'Aubonne looked at her with anxiety, drew her aside, and Eudosia, with many tears, told her all that had occurred.

"I do not know, niece, what story she may be telling you," cried Madame de Croissy, "but I heard it with my own ears, and I hope you will believe me as much as Mademoiselle Eudosia."

"Eudosia tells no stories, aunt," replied Madame d'Aubonne, firmly. "Pardon me, but if I am satisfied with her conduct, no other person has reason to complain of it."

"I shall certainly not take that liberty," replied Madame de Croissy, much irritated. "But let her have the goodness to keep apart from her cousins; for the future, she may do whatever she chooses, I shall not trouble myself about it."

Eudosia could bear it no longer. Her mother led her away, embraced and consoled her.

"Mamma," said she, sobbing, "without you, I should never have had courage."

"I am sure that you would, my child; you would have borne all, rather than expose Honorine to her grandmother's anger. But we are friends, and we will support each other. Do you not think that they consider me as much in the wrong as you?"

Eudosia embraced her mother with transport. She was so proud, so happy, to be thus treated as her equal. "But, mamma," said she, "without saying anything to Madame de Croissy, we might tell the others the truth." "You would let them know, then, that Honorine has had the cowardice to let you be accused of a fault, of which she alone was guilty? Would you be weak in your turn? You have only done right in not accusing Honorine; many others would have done the same; but if you are satisfied with that, you have no right to consider yourself generous, you will not be entitled to self-respect."

"Mamma, that is a pleasure, then, that I must buy very dear."

My child, it is only permitted to those who have courage to sacrifice all for it."

Strengthened by her mother's words, Eudosia returned courageously with her into the drawing-room, where they had obtained pardon for Honorine, whom Madame de Croissy would have sent to dine in her room. Her modest and tranquil countenance, the unaffectedly tender manner of her mother towards her, prevented Madame de Croissy from saying more, and inade the others suspect that Eudosia could not have been so much to blame. Madame de Rivey, who knew her well, had already told them, that she considered it impossible. Julia, by dint of questioning, succeeded in gaining the truth from Honorine, and told it to her mother, on condition that she should say nothing to Madame de Croissy; but the rest heard it, and from that time treated Eudosia with a distinction which showed her that, although we must not count upon it, esteem almost always follows actions done solely from a sense of duty.

THE POPULAR YEAR-BOOK.

September 8 is set apart by the Anglican and Latin Churches in honour of the Nativity of the Blessed Virgin Mary. This festival was instituted by Pope Servius, A. D. 695.

September 12. On this day, 1823, the workmen employed in several of the glass-houses of Newcastle and Gateshead made a procession through the principal streets of the above localities, each bearing in his hand a specimen of the art, remarkable either for its curious construction, or its beauty and elegance. The morning was ushered in with the ringing of bells, and, notice of the intended procession having been previously circulated, numbers of persons crowded the streets. A little after twelve o'clock it moved forward along the Close, amid the cheers of the assembled multitude, the firing of cannon, &c, and preceded by the band of the Tyne Hussars. It was composed of the workmen of the Northumberland, the South Shields, the Wear, (Sunderland,) the Durham and British, (Gateshead,) the Stourbridge, (Gateshead,) and the North Shields Glass Companies, arranged according to the seniority of their respective houses, and cach distinguished by appropriate flags. The sky was clear, and the rays of the sun, falling upon the glittering utensils and symbols, imparted richness and grandeur to their appearance. The hat of almost every person in the procession was decorated with a glass feather, whilst a glass star sparkled on the breast, and a chain or collar of variegated glass hung round the neck; some wore sashes round the waist. Each man carried in his hand a staff, with a cross piece on the top, displaying one or more curious or beautiful specimens of art-consisting of decanters, glasses, goblets, jugs, bowls, dishes, &c, the staple articles of the trade, in an endless variety of elegant shape, and of exquisite workmanship; with several other representations, remarkable for excellence of manufac ture, or for curious construction. A glass bugle, which sounded the halts, and played several marches, was much admired for its sweetness and correctness of tone. Several

specimens of stained glass were exhibited; many of the men wore glass hats, and carried glass swords. When the procession arrived at the mansion-house, it halted, while a salute was fired from a fort mounted with glass cannon, to the astonishment of the spectators; it then moved forward, passing along the bridge through Gateshead, and then returned and paraded through the principal streets of Newcastle, to dinners provided at different inns.

THE WHITE ROCK.

THE inhabitants of the sea coast, from Bayonne to Finisterre, live by coasting, fishing, and shipwrecks. It is the profound belief of these ignorant people that every shipwrecked vessel is under the curse of God, and that it is only to come to the assistance of justice from on high, to finish what the tempest has begun, by pillaging the unhappy vessel, and stripping the sailors and passengers, without mercy.

If a merchant vessel, borne by a favourable wind, land in one of their solitary bays, the people are transformed to beasts of burden, unloading the ship, and carrying the merchandise (genenerally contraband) on their backs, to the nooks known only to themselves, where the vigilant eye of the custom-house cannot discover them. In the intervals of idleness-and they are long the wrecker turns fisherman. He sets off at night in his frail boat, returns towards the middle of the day, and then carries the produce of his hazardous adventure to the town. But winter is his favourite season. Not because numerous ships then land on the dangerous coast,--not that fishing is more productive, but because the winter, with its furious hurricanes, its winds broken loose, its clouded sky, is the season of perils, misfortunes, and shipwrecks.

Towards the middle of February of the year 1835, I was invited to join one of those great parties for shooting wild ducks, of which the ancient bed of the Adour is often the theatre. I had seen storms in the bosom of the Pyrenees, but never yet had I witnessed, in all its terrible grandeur, a real tempest, a tempest which, without hindrance from any obstacle (for it raged on a naked coast), tore up the earth, drove it into ravines and caverns, or heaped it up into moving mountains, which it destroyed, or carried elsewhere with a breath.

In the morning my host, with an attention which was for me unfortunate, almost forced me to mount on horseback to follow all the details of the chase, which often occupies more than a league.

When the wind, becoming more violent, had begun to tear up the sand, and large drops of rain announced the coming torrents, my horse, without being excited by the least movement, began to prance, and turning round, galloped away in the direction of the shore. All my efforts to restrain him were useless; I was obliged to limit myself to guiding his furious course as much as possible, and I endeavoured to preserve all my presence of mind.

After five minutes of this frightful flight, the horse, of his own accord, slackened his speed, and, soon turning to the right, to a rock which stood alone, like a solitary giant in the midst of this naked plain, he stopped, with a prolonged neighing, at the door of a wretched cabin built against the rock, which served it as a wall and prop. At this noise a large railed door opened, and a poor woman, in the patois of the country, asked me what I wanted. I replied that my horse, being terrified by the tempest, had carried me thither, and that I requested to wait under the roof till the storm

He then took my horse by the bridle, and disappeared behind the cabin. I entered.

The appearance of the interior of the cabin denoted extreme poverty. The wind whistled through the cre vices in the walls, and the rain fell in regular drops through the thatch. One of those resin candles which, under the name of "ponzoneros," form the sole light of the peasants of Landes, shed its dim and glimmering light through the fisherman's hut. Cones, turf, and logs of dry wood were lying on the hearth; a truckle bed occupied one corner; and at its foot stood one of those enormous rustic trunks, which serve the purpose of chest of drawers and press. Here and there lay nets, hooks, lines, and other implements of the fisherman's trade.

I seated myself on a joint-stool in the corner of the hearth, and silently observed the preparations for my frugal supper. I did not know how to reconcile the savage appearance of my hosts with the obliging attentions of which I was the object; and already my mind was tormented with suspicions. The husband returned, and apologised for the bad supper and poor lodging which he offered me. "But," added he, "if we had better, Monsieur, believe me, we should be happy to offer it to you; and we willingly share with you the little that the good God has given us."

I reassured these good old people, and did my best to do honour to the repast, which was composed of thick milk, and fish cooked upon the gridiron. When my hunger was a little appeased, the old woman said to her husband, "Pierre, shall we ask this good gentleman to read us the letter?"

"Ah! I did not think of it. You are right, wife; go and look for it."

The old woman lifted the enormous lid of the trunk, and took out a letter carefully folded in a linen cloth. She presented it to me, begging me to read it for them. It was from their son, a sailor on board a merchant vessel. He wrote from Guadaloupe to his old parents, that his ship was about to sail for home, and that, if no misfortune happened, he hoped to have the pleasure of embracing them towards the end of the month of February.

The joy of the parents was at first silent, and only expressed itself by large tears, which the mother let flow freely, but which the old fisherman hastily wiped away with his hard hand, as if ashamed of showing so much feeling. After talking a little of the young sailor, of the sea and its dangers, my hosts offered me their bed, which I refused, declaring myself perfectly satisfied with the stool in the chimney-corner. After some more unsuccessful solicitations, the old couple wished me good-night, and went to bed. As for me, I made my preparations for passing the night comfortably: I threw some turf on the fire, and was lulled to sleep by the noise of the tempest, which was then at its height. I was awakened by a slight noise in the hut. Without making the least movement, I opened my eyes, and perceived my hosts already dressed, and out of bed.

"Come, Margaret," said the husband, "be quick. I distinctly heard two cannon shots in the direction of the White Rock. We shall have a windfall."

Meanwhile the old woman hung two lanterns at the extremities of a stick, and fastened in the form of a cross to a pole eight or ten feet high. The husband took a short-handled axe, and a pole armed with an iron hook, called a gaff, and they went out stealthily.

66

They have taken to the boat, but they will be very skilful if they pass the White Rock."

This speech was interrupted by a frightful clamour of distress; I distinctly heard the cries, "Help! help!" Then the silence of death succeeded.

The boat had sunk; all was accomplished; the sea had swallowed up its prey, and trunks, chests, hogsheads, planks, and broken yards and masts, were strewed over the sand.

The old woman laid her fatal watchlight on the ground, and they were both occupied in drawing the remnants of the shipwreck beyond the reach of the waves. But what cry do I hear? a cry of anguish, of mingled prayer and imprecation. No, it is no illusion. I hear a faint and stifled voice crying with the energy of despair, Help! help! I am drowning!" And, at four fathoms from the shore, I distinguished a head and two arms struggling.

At this appeal, Pierre ran towards the unfortunate man, armed with the gaff, as I thought, to hold it to him as an instrument of safety; but no; raising the iron headed pole with all his strength, and bringing it down with violence upon his victim, he plunged the sharp hook into his back. A last cry of agony was heard through the roaring of the waves. The crime was accomplished. The murderer drew the body towards him, and, frightful to relate, but a thousand times more frightful to see, Margaret, a woman, completed it with repeated blows of the axe!

At this horrible spectacle I fell motionless at the foot of the rock; but I did not remain long in this state of insensibility; the torrents of rain which fell soon restored me to consciousness, and, when I came to myself, and threw a last look upon the scene of this bloody tragedy, I saw the two wretches approach five bodies successively, and coolly turn them over to ascertain whether they were really dead.

The last was still warm: it was he whom the fishers had killed. The murderers bent over the body, and held the lantern to the disfigured face. Hardly had the pale light fallen on the victim, when a frightful scream was heard; the lantern fell from the hands of Margaret, and the wretched woman fell lifeless by the side of her son's body.

They were buried the next day, side by side. Pierre dragged on his life and his remorse for two years. At last death took pity on the murderer father: one night he was found lifeless at the foot of the White Rock.

Poetry.

[In Original Poetry, the Name, real or assumed, of the Author, is printed in Small Capitals under the title; in Selections, it is printed in Italics at the end.]

THE STORY OF SIR TUDOR AP GRONO,1

Showing how he made himself a knight, and how the king was incensed thereat, and how Sir Tudor justified himself by the laws and constitutions of King Arthur, in manner as followeth;

I.

THE king is gone into the wood, and the queen into her bower; The king is gone into the wood, but his face is dark and dour: To take his pleasure is he gone, but his face is dour and grim, And lords and gentles throng around to seek what aileth him. II.

Now list, all ye that seek his grief, and ye shall know the same, How tidings to King Edward from the wild Welsh country came, Of Tudor, son of Grono, (2) which himself a knight had made, Nor sought of prince or belted earl the knightly accolade.

III.

(1) See Engraving, page 305.

(2) Sir Tudor ap Grono, an ancestor of the Royal House of Tudor, actually claimed the honour of knighthood in the presence of King Edward III., upon the grounds assigned in the text.

(3) In the choir of St. David's Cathedral, there remain two recumbent effigies in armour, representing two members of this family. On the breast and back of each figure is sculptured a lion rampant, that on one of them being differenced by a label of five points.

(4) The Red dragon was the ancient crest of Wales.

(5) The Cloudy sea, is the Welsh name for the German Ocean. (6) Owen Tudor, the grandson of Tudor ap Grono, married Queen Catherine, the widow of Henry V., and their son Jasper Tudor, Earl of Richmond, was the father of Henry VII.