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honestly will I, if it so please you, employ your money until you come, that you shall receive back your own with interest."

"Nay, nay, good merchant, I am no trader; make thou what thou willest of the gold, so that I do but re. gain my money on my return."

With these words Sir Felix turned to leave the house of the merchant, when Cautus stayed him.

"Sir Knight, stay, Sir Knight, until I can give you a written acknowledgment of the trust, and a bond to return it on your demand."

"Nay, nay, Sir Merchant," rejoined the knight, "no scholar am I. If I cannot believe the word of Cautus, how can his bond profit me?"

Years passed over before the merchant and the knight met again. Mixed fortune had followed the merchant; some of his ventures had gone to wreck, but the majority had come to a good market, and the wealth and reputation of Cautus was greater than ever. Far different had been the fortune of the crusader. His life indeed had been spared to him, but sickness had borne down his frame, and death in every form had destroyed one by one the gallant and faithful band that had followed his person. Eager to regain the small sum he had deposited in the hands of Cautus, the knight made his way to the imperial city.

Meanly clothed in a pilgrim's dress, Sir Felix entered the splendid house of the merchant.

"What news, Sir Pilgrim?" said Cautus. "But little good, Sir Merchant. Disease and war wear down the bodies of the holy warriors, and dissensions weaken their strength. I, too, have suffered; and now I return to redeem the pledge with which I entrusted you on my departure."

"The pledge, good pilgrim-what pledge?" "Dost thou not know me?" asked the knight, as he bared his face and head. "Sore as disease has wasted me, many must there be that know me."

"Sir Pilgrim, I know thee not-who art thou?" "Am not I the knight Sir Felix, and art not thou the merchant Cautus, in whose hands I placed a thousand pieces of gold, when I sailed for the Holy Land."

"Nothing know I of thee or thine, Sir Knight; but come, if that thou sayest be true, show me my bond, and I will pay thee that I owe."

"I have no bond," rejoined the knight.

"No bond, Sir Knight, and yet wouldst persuade a merchant that thou didst entrust him with a thousand pieces of gold? Go to, ask of any man whether the merchant Cautus ever takes a pledge without giving his bond. Go to,-thou art a bold impostor."

"If thou wilt deny thy trust, Sir Merchant, at least have pity on my distress, and of thy abundance give me that which thou dost deny me of my right."

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Away, Sir,-away, Sir; to a case of real woe and misery, the ears of Cautus and his wealth were ever open, but to an impostor he has nothing to give but punishment. Go, Sir Pilgrim, for thy garb's sake I refrain from giving thee up to justice."

Driven from the merchant's house amid the sneers and threats of Cautus and his subordinates, Sir Felix wandered haplessly through the noisy city, and sought the silence of the fields without its walls. Wandering along a bye-road, deeply grieving over his miseries, the knight met an old and feeble woman, dressed like himself in the weeds of a pilgrim. Hardly able to support herself on her staff, the old woman tottered along, stumbling over the stones that lay scattered in her path. In pity on her condition, Sir Felix moved some of the impediments out of her path, and assisted the devotee to a part of the road whereon her shoeless feet might walk with less pain and discomfort.

"Thanks, good father, for thy kindness. Old as I am, and sore worn with fasting, prayer, and travel, methinks my aged features bear a less mournful appearance than thine."

"Good mother," rejoined the knight, "sorely have I suffered in the Holy Land by disease and wounds; but now more grievous is my loss, for he to whom I had entrusted the little remnant of my property denies the pledge, and drives me from his house as an impostor."

When the old devotee heard the whole of the knight's story, she bade him take comfort and follow her advice: then the old devotee sent for a crafty workman, a man of trust and ability, and he made by her order ten large and fair chests of wood, well adorned with ornamented locks and hinges, and enriched with curious devices and colours on the outside. When these chests were well filled, she sent for ten porters, and told them to take the ten chests to the house of Cautus, each successive man to be at least several minutes after his predecessor. With the workman she went herself to the merchant's house, and told Sir Felix to come in with the porter that brought the first chest.

"Good mother," said Cautus, as soon as he saw the old woman come tottering in, and recognised her as a devotee of great repute, "good mother, what can I do for thee?"

"My son," replied the old woman, pointing to the workman, "this my friend leaves Rome to-day for Egypt, and would find some safe place for his great wealth. To thee, my son, for thy known probity, have I brought him; and look, where the first of the ten chests in which it is contained is now being brought hither."

At this moment the porter entered with the first chest, and placed it with apparent difficulty on the ground. Hardly had Cautus expressed his thanks to the old devotee, and her supposed friend, before Sir Felix entered, and not far behind him was seen another porter staggering under the second chest. Only too glad to sacrifice the thousand pieces to obtain the treasure of the ten chests, the merchant hastened to Sir Felix and embraced him with every demonstration of joy.

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'Ah, my friend, my dear knight where have you been? when did you return? Receive, I pray you, the gold you entrusted to my care, and take the interest it has made during thy absence,-three hundred like pieces. Come, my dear friend, receive thine own."

Whilst Cautus was paying Sir Felix his money, the ten chests continued to arrive, until the whole number were arranged on the floor, and gladdened the eyes of the merchant with their external glitter, and apparent weight.

66

My son," said the old devotee, "there be yet more than these ten chests; we will go and see after them; do thou take care of these during our absence."

With these words the old devotee and the workman left the shop of Cautus and followed Sir Felix. Every day, every hour, Cautus expected their return, but they came not; the ten chests were borne into another warehouse, and the merchant regarded them as his own, as he had given no document for them. After much delay, his avarice overcame him, and he proceeded to open the first chest. The labour was great, but endured gladly in the hopes of the treasure within: at last, lock after lock was forced, and the lid kept down by its own weight alone. Sending every one away, Cautus entered the closet and approached the chest: with a trembling hand he raised the heavy lid, and held the lamp over the box, that he might better scan its contents. With a sudden scream he reeled backwards, and the lamp fell from his hand, and was broken on the stones with which the box was filled. With the three hundred pieces he had given to the knight, he had purchased nought but tons of pebbles.

Poetry.

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The slopes around the village

Still verdant meadows show,

But all the meadow flow'rets

Are withered long ago.

Hark! Hark! What from the mountain

Like joy-bells peals along?

What through the dale resoundeth

Like sweetest bridal song?

"Tis, with her herd returning,

The youthful Sennerin ;

Down from the Alps she cometh,

Her home once more to gain.

The fairest of her heifers

Bears tinkling bells with pride,

With fresh flower-wreaths bedecked,

Moves foremost like a bride.

Round her in frolic measure

The whole herd press and play,

As gay young friends together

Make glad some festal day.

The swarthy bull, as stately

As such a chief should be,

Brings up the rear, as Abbot brings

A bridal company.

Before the nearest dwelling

Three times the maiden cries;

Through alp and dale and village

Far, far, the glad sounds rise.

The matrons and the maidens

All quickly round her stand,

And warm and true the Sennerin

Reaches to each her hand.

"A thousand welcomes, fair and fresh,

Brought from green alpine height!

How long, how very long since we

Have met each other's sight!

"For all the long, long summer

I sat there quite alone

With the herd and with the blossoms,

As sunlight-moonlight shone."

With look serene her greeting

She gives to the young men,

To one alone, the bravest,

She gives no greeting then.

He never seems to heed it,

Lets it pass with smiling mien ;-

Can it be true that fair one

So long he hath not seen?

He wears a hat all garlanded

With Alpine roses round ;-

Ne'er blooming in the valley

Are such Alpine roses found.

AN interesting anecdote of Lord Kenyon's sensibility

was related in the House of Commons by Mr. Morris,

in the debates of 1811. Of the occurrence that gentle-

man had been an eye-witness. "On the Home Circuit,"

he said, "some years since a young woman was tried for

having stolen, to the amount of forty shillings, in a

dwelling-house. It was her first offence, and was

attended with many circumstances of extenuation.

The prosecutor appeared, as he stated, from a sense of

duty; the witnesses very reluctantly gave their evidence,

and the jury still more reluctantly their verdict of

guilty. The judge passed sentence of death; she

instantly fell lifeless at the bar. Lord Kenyon, whose

sensibility was not impaired by the sad duties of his

office, cried, out in great agitation from the bench,

'I don't mean to hang you; will nobody tell her I don't

mean to hang her? I then felt,' he justly added, 'as

I now feel, that this was passing sentence, not on the

prisoner but on the law.' This deserved reproach never

startled the learned judge, who was a devout believer

in the perfection of the penal laws; and, without rising

superior to the prejudices of the age in which he lived,

gained a reputation for mercy above his colleagues, by

yielding more frequently than they did to the impulses

of compassion. His humanity, active in cases of life

and death, so far as his conscience would allow, was less

alert in behalf of those criminals to whom secondary

punishments had been awarded; and never slumbered

so soundly, as when a fashionable libertine was to be

amerced in damages; a seditious libeller to be sent to

gaol, or a knavish attorney to be struck off the rolls."-

Townsend's Lives of Eminent Judges.

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ture; and probably the glass-houses of Tyre and Sidon | his parents, in spite of their poverty, had him taught

were supplied thence with this material, which may have given rise to the tradition.

According to the Venerable Bede, we are indebted to the Abbot Benedict or Biscop, the founder of the Monasteries of Jarrow and of Weremouth, for the introduction of glass into England: he brought over into our land, from France, glaziers, as well as masons; by which means, the stately Abbey of Weremouth became celebrated, not only for its architectural beauty, but also for the glass windows with which it was decorated. As soon as glass became known in France, it was used as a luxury in the dwellings of the rich; and in this respect they were far before their English neighbours; for it was not until the eleventh century that glass windows were at all commonly used, either in private dwellings, or in public and religious edifices, throughout England. Even as late as the reign of Elizabeth, the glass in the windows of Alnwick Castle was taken down from the nails which attached it to the frames, and laid by, during the absence of the Earl and Countess of Northumberland: and, generally speaking, it was considered rather in the light of moveable furniture, than as forming part of the house. It appears probable, that the art of colouring glass was discovered and prosecuted at a period very little subsequent to that of the manufacture of the article itself the most ancient authors, who have mentioned the existence of the material, have also recorded the fact of its being tinged with various colours, in imitation of gems. It was long, however, before the art of transfusing the colouring matter through the whole mass of the glass became known. The date of true painting on glass may be fixed about the middle of the fifteenth century; its tints were then enamelled by the action of fire, and thus remained in pristine beauty, as long as a fragment was left of the window they had adorned. Jacques l'Allemand, and the celebrated Albert Durer, in Germany; Henri Mellein at Bourges, and Leprince at Beauvais, were the first men of genius who responded to the call of the newly awakened science: but while they were occupied in developing all its powers, and applying them to their noblest use in decorating the Cathedrals and Churches of their native land, others, again, thought that it might likewise be employed on porcelain, so that the potteries of modern Europe should rival those of the ancient world.

It may be well, before we enter on the life of the singular man to whom the art of the potter is so much indebted, to give some account of that peculiar branch of it which he brought to a high degree of perfection; and, in doing so, the connexion between painting on glass, and the production of porcelain, will become evident. Enamel is glass made opaque by the oxide of tin, and rendered fusible by the oxide of lead: all glazes that contain lead participate in the properties of enamel : it is necessary to vary the composition of the glaze, in order to suit the different materials that form the body of the ware; since that would be a very fine glaze for one mixture of earths, which would be wholly inappropriate to another, proving deficient in lustre, and being liable to crack. No philosopher had then discovered, as long afterwards Reaumur did, that "the Chinese porcelain was a semi-vitrified compound, in which one portion vitrifies at that degree of heat, and enveloping the infusible part, produces that smooth, compact, and shining texture, as well as transparency, which are distinctive of true porcelain." At the time Bernard de Palissy was seeking the secret of enamel, only the coarse earthenware was known in France, which served for the commonest purposes; and, if not its inventor, he had at least the merit of discovering it as it were a second time, and of introducing it into his native country. He was born near Biron, a village in the old diocese of Agen, in 1499;

reading and writing, which at that time was a great
deal. A land surveyor, who had come to Agen to lay
Bernard's singular precocity, and the attention with
down a plan of that part of the country, remarked young
which he watched his operations, and asked his parents'
leave to take him away with him to learn his business.
This was readily granted, and such progress did he
make in practical geometry, that he was often employed
in making out charts of contested property by the local
authorities, and in mapping out districts, when he had
scarcely ended his apprenticeship: but, besides this,
which was his regular avocation, he occupied himself in
drawing and in painting on glass, and was sent for to
many places, as his name became known, to adorn both
churches, and the castles of the nobles, with windows of
stained glass. In 1539, Palissy quitted his native village,
here he had the mortification of seeing his various modes
and established himself at Saintes, where he married:
of obtaining a livelihood become daily less profitable, and
employment itself was often not to be had. In the com-
parative idleness which thus was forced upon him, he
gave himself up more and more to the indulgence of
scientific theories; he felt the working within him of
energies which had never yet been called into full
action, and, in this state of mind, a beautiful cup of
enamelled porcelain, which had probably been made at
Faenza, in Italy, fell into his hands. This happy
accident gave a fresh impulse to his genius, and was
the means of leading him into the path in which he was
destined to excel: from that moment he thought only
of how to produce a similar vase; what had once been
accomplished he knew might be done again, but he had
not the power of obtaining the experience of others,
and his first essays were made in the dark. Giving him-
self wholly to this one object, he entirely abandoned
painting on glass, which, however unproductive he had
found it, had at least sufficed to give bread to his family.
Palissy burnt the clay himself, mixed it with various
ingredients, covered it with ever varying preparations,
and tried them, with constantly renewed hope, in the
furnaces of glaziers, and those of potters; but he was
doomed as constantly to disappointment. He repre-
sents himself in his "Traité de l'Art de Terre" as alter-
nately building and demolishing his furnace, for on
this, he found at last, that his success would ultimately
chiefly depend. In those days, a man who, like him-
self, was endowed with genius, which placed him in ad-
vance of his neighbours, and with perseverance to carry
out his views, was almost sure to be suspected of sor-
cery, and his friends soon began to look upon him with
terror; others imagined him to be a coiner of false
money, from which one would have thought his poverty
must have been a safeguard, and the more charitable
thought him mad: but worse than all this was the,
consciousness of the poverty to which he was reducing
his family.

His wife and children continually implored him, with tears, to renounce his chimerical hopes, and to return to any one of his former honest employments, which would bring back comfort to his home. He has described in terms of bitterest feeling the conflict in his own breast at this time, and we cannot fully applaud his determination under such circumstances to persevere in his perilous course; yet he bore outwardly a cheerful countenance, and strove to inspire them with the confidence he felt himself, that he should one day place them in affluence, and be enabled to overpay with happiness all the privations they were enduring then. Fifteen years thus passed away: Palissy was still firm in his conviction, and yet had not succeeded; and nothing short of producing enamel in all its perfection would satisfy him.

One day, when he thought himself on the very point of attaining the great object of his life, a workman, whom he had engaged to assist him in his labours, suddenly announced his intention of leaving him, and

insisted on receiving the wages that were due to him: Palissy had no money, and paid him with the few clothes he had left. He had now to do all his work alone, to prepare his colours, and to heat and watch the furnace that his own hands had made. Once more he found himself on the verge of success: he placed in his oven a vase, on which his last hopes were centred, and ran for wood to feed the fire; but what was his consternation at finding it all consumed? He stood for a moment overwhelmed with despair, but it was only for a moment;he rushed to his garden, and tore up the trellis that supported his fruit-trees, broke it in pieces, and heated his furnace up sprang the flame once more, then sunk into the deep red glow that promised the fulfilment of his desires; but again it burnt low, and this time, he lost no time; for want of fuel, he had recourse first to his chairs and tables, then to the doors; after them, the window frames were consumed, and at last the very flooring of his house fed the furnace.

It was the final effort of the artist, but this effort insured his triumph. One long shout of joy echoed through the dismantled dwelling; his wife and his children ran to him. Was it a cry of exultation or of despair? Palissy showed them the vase he had just taken out of his furnace: it was bright with the imperishable colours that till then he had only seen in dreams, since he had once beheld the goblet of Faenza! While yet they scarcely could believe that their trials were over, he was again calm: he had always expected to succeed sooner or later, and he had now to perfect his discovery. It was not long before his beautiful works found their way into all parts of France, and fortune smiled at låst on the man of genius who had endured so

much.

The king, Henry the Second, wished for vases and figures to adorn the gardens of his palace, and Palissy was commissioned to make them: soon afterwards he sent for him to Paris, and gave him apartments at the Tuileries, with a patent, which set forth that he was the inventor of a new kind of pottery, and under the especial protection of the king, the queen, (Catherine de Medicis), and the Constable de Montmorenci: he was known at Paris by no other name than that of Bernard des Tuileries.

Bernard de Palissy is worthy of our admiration, not only for the intelligence, and the love of the beautiful, evinced by his discovery, but also for its utility. It was to him in process of time that France owed her transparent porcelain, which even now England can scarcely rival: he may be styled the father of ceramic art; but the services he rendered to his country did not end here. He showed himself no less persevering in imparting to others the knowledge he had won with so much toil and sorrow, than he had been in obtaining it for his own advantage. He formed the first cabinet of natural history that France had ever possessed: he lectured on this science, as well as on those of chemistry and agriculture, before the ablest physicians and the profoundest scholars of his day; and in his lectures he substituted positive facts, and ocular demonstration, for the fanciful and superstitious doctrines of the science of that period. Palissy had thought deeply, and struggled long to bring forth his thoughts into actual realities, and now he spoke simply, but with the eloquence of truth, knowing that neither his words, nor his life, would fail of influencing the minds of his audience. Thus also he wrote with singleness of purpose, and in a style which, though he knew neither Latin nor Greek, reminds one of the style of Montaigne. Every page of his "Traité de l'Art de Terre" breathes an unspeakable charm; there he tells us the story of twenty years of anxiety, labour, and dire privation, and we feel our hearts sink at the recital of so much suffering. Bernard de Palissy warmly embraced the principles of the Reformation. He was arrested at the time of the first edict against Protestants, framed at Ecouen by Henry the Second in 1559 : he recovered his liberty in consequence of the intercession made for him

by the Constable de Montmorenci to the queen, and it was owing to the same powerful protection that he escaped from the massacre of Saint Bartholomew. In the course of time, however, he was again accused of heresy, and dragged to the Bastile, within whose dismal walls he died with consistent firmness when he had passed his ninetieth year. E. 0.

SOME PASSAGES FROM THE JOURNAL OF A WILTSHIRE CURATE.' December 20.-This day passed quietly, though I cannot say very pleasantly; for Loster, the grocer, sent me in his bill. It was larger than I expected, considering what we have had from him, although we never sent for anything without writing it down ourselves. But, though it agreed with our account, he had increased the prices of every single thing The worst is, there are still some arrears from last year, which he begs me to pay, as he is in great want of money. The whole amounts to eighteen shillings.

I went to Mr. Loster, a civil and well-behaved man; and hoped to persuade him to take half on account, with the promise that I would pay the remainder at Easter. But he was inflexible, and regretted that necessity might oblige him to have recourse to extreme measures. If it had been possible, he said, he would willingly have waited, but he was obliged to make a remittance within three days, and, in trade, punctuality is everything. I saw that any further remonstrances were useless, and as I could not run the risk of being arrested for debt, as he threatened, I sent him the entire sum by which means, I now possess but eleven shillings in the world! Please God, the actor may soon repay my loan; if not, I know not where to turn for help. But if you know not, weak and doubting man, there is One who knows it! Why is your heart so troubled! You have no crime wherewith to reproach yourself, and in the eyes of God poverty is no sin!

December 24-After all, what slight things will make one happy. We are all delighted with Jenny's new gown, in which she looks as lovely as a bride. She church on Christmas-day. She tells me every evening means to appear in it, for the first time in public, at how small the day's expenses have been. To be sure, she sends us all to bed at nine o'clock, to save coals and candles: but there is not much harm in that the girls work harder in the day-time, and they lie chattering together till past midnight. We have a good provision of potatoes and dried vegetables, and some bacon; and Jenny thinks we can manage to get on for six or eight weeks without running into debt: which would indeed be a great feat; and, before that time, we trust Fleetman will repay me honourably what I have lent him. If I ever express the slightest doubt upon the subject, Jane gets quite angry with me; she will let no one speak ill of the actor. He is constantly the subject of our conversations; it is strange how much the two girls have to say about him. His appearance was a great event in the uniformity of our life, and will give us something to talk about for at least half a year. Jenny's indignation is really quite amusing when Polly teazes her, by saying, "What a pity he is nothing but a player!" She tells her of all the great performers in London, who have been known even to dine with royal princes, and says she is certain Fleetman will become one of the very best actors in the world: that he has great abilities, much grace and dignity, and a beautiful choice of language in speaking.

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Yes, indeed," said Polly, slily; a beautiful choice language, for he called you an angel !" "And you too!" said Jane, half angrily.

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I was thrown in to the bargain, but his eyes were fixed on you when he said it."

(1) Continued from page 7.

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