You might have spared your comrade this duty."| Other mysterious words he continued to murmur, which were almost unintelligible.

"Oh, ho!" said the fisherman to himself; "the secret is out now! Well, how I have been mistaken! I thought my passenger had been something extra ordinary, and now I find he is only a common mason, or hewer of stones. And these French gentlemen have probably come to our parts in order to repair, and build again, those chapels and churches which have been ruined by pirates, or during the wars. A most pious undertaking, and one highly to be commended!" At this moment the eyes of the fisherman were arrested by the sword, which hung at the young man's side, and shaking his head, he continued, "Well, well! If I did not take the fellow for a noble knight! However, it does not matter; since a mason's gold is quite as good for my purpose as that of a man of quality."

In the same manner passed away other twenty-four hours, the young man still preserving the strictest silence, till at last they arrived at Calais, when, for the first time, he addressed the fisherman. "So this is the coast of France!" he exclaimed, as he stood up in the little bark; and looking towards the shore, sighed heavily. The fisherman assented, and asked him where he wished to be landed. The youth seemed overpowered with strong emotion; his breast heaved; his face was flushed; and he took off his hat, and tore open his vest to cool himself, although the rain was falling in torrents. The fisherman, after waiting in vain for an answer, turned the boat's head towards a secluded landing place, at a short distance from the town; and running up close to the little quay, the stranger hastily leaped on shore. A small hut was near, but instead of taking shelter there from the inclemency of the weather, as the mariner advised, the young man told him to hold his tongue; and proceeded himself to inquire, at the cot tager's, the road to the chapel of "Our Lady of Tempests." The inhabitants of the hut described the path to be long and difficult; the young man, however, had already taken his resolution. "By the third day, at furthest," whispered he to the fisherman, "I shall return." Then, wrapping himself in his mantle, and using his sword as a pilgrim's staff to support his steps, he proceeded along the wet and slippery track which had been indicated. By and by he reached a cross erected at the side of the road; and throwing himself on his knees, embraced the cold stone, while tears filled his eyes. "Mother earth! holy ground, where I was born!" he stammered forth, sobbing; "with what changed feelings do I now behold thee! Would to God it had been spared me thus to return as an assassin to the land of my ancestors! Alas! I must again flee from thee, beloved country, as soon as my vow shall be accomplished! . . . Hail once more to the dear land of France; and, oh! dark night! shield me with thy dusky wings, that no one may follow on my track, no one watch the deed I am about to do!" Having said these words, he rose, and walked manfully forward towards a distant field, from which a light glimmered faintly. The rain fell more and more heavily, and the way became more difficult; whilst the damp mantle of the traveller clogged his steps, impeding every motion with its weight. The storm raged without; but more tumultuous still were the feelings which contended within the bosom of the youth. By the time he reached the little church, whence the light had proceeded, his strength was nearly exhausted; and he was obliged to sit down to recover himself, while he tried to distinguish the objects around him. "Here is the church," he murmured, "of which the master spoke. There to the right I can discern the large white cross, still visible through the darkness. On the left I hear the gushing of a brook;-all is, in short, as was described. Courage, then! Advance! If not deceived by the mist, I think I can trace the outline of a building, which I must shortly reach.-There is the goal of my Jabours!"

He was not mistaken, and soon reached the building; it was in the form of a square, and surrounded by a field inclosed by a stone wall, a small gate forming the entrance. The young man sprung over it, and passing by numerous implements of agriculture piled against outhouses, reached the entrance of the building, and climbing up the ruinous steps, gave two loud and quick knocks on the door, which he followed after a second or two by a third, long and resounding. A dog within the house now began to bark. No one came, however, and the stranger was obliged to repeat the signal, which he did in exactly the same manner. At length a man's voice was heard, asking what was wanted.

"I am a poor and hungry pilgrim, who has lost his way," replied the youth. "Can you give me shelter?" After a short pause a light was seen through the window, steps approached, the bolt was withdrawn, and the door opened. The stranger had meanwhile laid his hand on the hilt of the dagger which he wore below his clothes; but his purpose faltered when he beheld the man who advanced to greet him. Benevolence and frankness were depicted on his countenance, as he welcomed the wet and weary wanderer. The hand of the youth sank powerless as he relinquished his dagger, and his tongue stammered as he inquired, if he were now in the presence of the proprietor Gilbert. The man replied in the affirmative.

"Then I greet you in the name of God, and of St. John, whom we both acknowledge as our patron," said the youth, holding out his hand. "And I call upon you to greet me at my entrance under your roof." At this salutation, Gilbert staggered back astonished, while the mysterious grasp with which the unknown pressed his hand increased his fear and bewilderment.

"Why do you not respond to my greeting? Why not make the sign with your hand?" asked the stranger, boldly. "Brother Perrail, that is not right!"

Ashy pale, Gilbert supported himself against the wall. "Then you know?" he stammered; but soon recovering himself, he continued. "Let us see," said he, "if some rogue is not mocking me. Your pass word?" "Notuma," replied the youth.

"Give me the word!" continued Gilbert, in an anxious and threatening tone. "Tell me the first letter.... I shall then give you the second," answered the stranger.

Gilbert had

In this manner they made out the word. no longer any doubt. He clasped his hands together, and whispered, "Man, what wouldst thou in my house, that thou comest upon me like a thief in the night?" "I want bread, salt, fire, and shelter," replied the stranger.

"Dare I trust you?" inquired Gilbert, with some hesitation.

"Are we not bound by an oath?" said the stranger. "Alas! the oath .. sighed Gilbert, whilst his

head sunk upon his breast. "Calm yourself," rejoined the youth. "I am a runaway like yourself; therefore am I come to you."

Gilbert scrutinized him for some moments with attention, and then shook his head distrustfully. At last he closed the door, and led his singular guest into an apartment, in the corner of which stood a plain, but clean-looking couch. He then set bread and wine before him, and, stirring the fire, proceeded to dry his wet mantle.

"I wish you a sound and peaceful slumber," he then said to the youth, who in silence watched all his proceedings. "You are in perfect safety in my house. To-morrow we shall talk more."

"Gilbert!" cried a soft and pensive voice from an adjoining apartment. "Where are you? With whom are you talking?"

"I am coming," replied Gilbert, calmly, as he shook hands with his guest.

"Is that your wife, Brother Perrail?" asked the latter, in a significant whisper.

The youth long remained standing before the fire, watching the burning embers, and plunged in contemplation. Now and then he pressed his hand on his breast, as though he would thereby calm the tumultuous emotions within. "And shall I bring death into this peaceful house?" said he to himself. "This man, upon whose calm brow is legibly impressed benevolence and truth, utterly incompatible with the perjury of which he is accused, shall I blot him out from the land of the living, and make his wife, whose soft voice so touched my heart, a widow?.... Uncle cruel, cruel uncle what a price hast thou set upon my admission into thy order!' He now paced in great agitation up and down the apartment. Shame on thee, Guy!" said he then to himself. "Dost thou shudder at the trial? Oh ! wherefore did my arm tremble when I entered this abode? Wherefore did I not smite the perjured and accursed one to the earth, thundering in his ears, This is the last greeting of the grand-master and companions, perjured brother of the order?'-then all would have been done. Oh, incomprehensible destiny! why didst thou restrain my arm? Why dost thou compel me to pay hospitality with ingratitude-nay, with bloodshed? for the deed must be done. Oh, that some friendly spirit would warn the unhappy wretch to take flight! If he only would make use of this night's delay happy then should I be; my obligation would be fulfilled, and with pure hands I should return to the brotherhood. May God, and the blessed Virgin, and the holy St. John, direct me what to do!" Then, committing himself to the Divine protection, the agitated youth, overpowered by fatigue, forgot his perplexities, and fell asleep.

Late the next morning, a sudden noise awakened him from a troubled dream. He fancied that he beheld his host standing beside his bed with a drawn sword in his hand, and that he uttered these words:

"Die thyself!-thou who camest to sound my funeral knell!"

Half asleep, and unable to distinguish imagination from reality, he started up with a loud cry, and grasped his sword. Then, for the first time, he became aware of the presence of a very beautiful woman, with an infant in her arms, who stood near his bed. He sank back confused, while the same sweet voice that he had heard the night before calmed his perplexity.

'Be not alarmed, dear sir," said the fair lady. "You must have had a frightful dream, since you are so agitated by the voice of a weak woman like myself, who now comes to bid you welcome. You have slept long; the sun is now high in the heavens; and I bring you your breakfast."

Heartily ashamed, Guy took a basin of rich soup from the white hands of his hostess, and inquired, hesitatingly, whilst he looked around," Where is Perrail?"

"I do not know whom you mean," replied the beautiful woman. "Of whom do you speak?"

In some confusion Guy struck his forehead, and then spoke more firmly: "Pardon me, I mistook! I meant to ask about your husband, Gilbert."

66

"He has gone to the fish-pond to catch fish," replied Blanche, for that was the name of the fair lady. You know this is maigre-day, and my husband wishes to provide you a good dinner."

"God be praised!" said Guy to himself, in the strong conviction that Perrail had guessed his errand, and was now saving himself by flight from the vengeance of the order. Joyfully he now raised his eyes towards his kind hostess, and sank them again, lost in admiration of her beauty. Her simple attire added nothing to her loveliness, but, on the contrary, borrowed charms from it; while, as she stood before the youth, with the innocent child in her arms, she seemed to him a living image of the Madonna. A rough dog, of enormous size, crouched

"The soup is most excellent," said Guy, as he laid down the empty basin. "May God reward the hospitality you have exercised towards a stranger! And now, pardon me for asking, has your husband explained to you the business which has led me here?"

"I know nothing about it," replied Blanche. "He did not tell me whether he knew you before or not, and has not alluded in any way to the business which brings you here. It is more my duty to attend to our guest, than to ask questions concerning him."

"But has not.... I mean Gilbert, explained. . . . in short, made you acquainted with the circumstances of his past life?" rejoined Guy.

one.

"Oh, yes?" replied Blanche, with the simplicity of a child. "His occupation has always been known to every The life of a master mason is necessarily commonplace, and without adventure, unless during the time passed in travelling to learn the trade. Gilbert's life has been like the rest. He was born in the city of Arles, and journeyed about in his youth, till he became a master. Then he took a fancy to revisit France, the land of his birth, and passing through Calais, got acquainted with my father, to whom this farm belonged, part of the former possessions of the Templars, the ruins of whose hospital can be seen from this window. My father and Gilbert formed a strong friendship, and, after a while, the latter gave up his trade, and took to agriculture, when he married me. My father did not long enjoy the assistance of his honest son-in-law. He died, and was consoled on his deathbed by the thought, that he was leaving me to a kind protector. Believe me, kind sir, Gilbert is one of the best of men, and is respected throughout the whole country. But perhaps you knew him before, and I am tiring you with my talk."

"On the contrary," said Guy, you interest me greatly. But what is keeping Gilbert? He is very long in returning; perhaps the pond is at a distance."

"No," replied Blanche, it is quite near. I begin to wonder also that he is so long."

"God

'God be praised!" whispered Guy's conscience; for all conspired to confirm his previous conjecture. be praised! He has escaped, and I am spared the commission of an act which would have filled me with remorse to the end of my days. My errand is accomplished, and, to avoid any unlucky mischance, I shall instantly return to where I left my little vessel." Then, wrapping himself in his mantle, and grasping his sword, he strode towards the hearth, where Blanche was busily preparing some food. Farewell, kind hostess! . . . ." he hur riedly began, as though he feared to be detained; "accept my warmest thanks for your hospitality. I must depart immediately. Farewell!"

Blanche raised her eyes in astonishment, unable to account for this sudden resolution. "Are you obliged to go?" she inquired. "How? What is this? I know not what you mean? Is it possible that I have offended you?"

"On the contrary, you have gained my esteem and friendship," replied Guy, in great agitation; "and for that very reason I must depart."

"I do not comprehend you. My husband, Gilbert, will be very much grieved when he finds you gone at his return."

"I wish to go before his return," continued Guy. "I wish to spare both him and myself a painful meeting. Unfortunate woman, do not detain me! The happiness of your life is departed, should I remain." Once more he pressed the hand of Blanche, and turned towards the door; but started back as though annihilated. . . . . for on the threshold he met Gilbert.

(To be concluded in our next.)

Poetry.

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

THE MOWER'S MAIDEN.1

(See Engraving, p. 33.)

"Good morrow to thee, Mary! right early art thou laden!
Love hath not made thee slothful, thou true and stedfast maiden!
Ay, if in three brief days, methinks, thy task of work be done,
I shall no longer have the heart to part thee from my son."

It was a wealthy farmer spake, it was a maiden listened:
Oh, how her loving bosom swelled, and how her full eye glistened!
New life is in her limbs, her hand outdoes her comrades all;
See how she wields the scythe, and see how fast the full crops fall!

And when the noon grows sultry, and the weary peasants wend To sleep in pleasant thickets, and o'er cooling streams to bend ; Still are the hunming-bees at work beneath that burning sky, And Mary, diligent as they, works on unceasingly.

The sun hath sunk, the evening bell gives gentle summons home;

"Enough," her neighbours cry, "enough! come, Mary, prithee come!"

Shepherds, and flocks, and husbandmen, pass homeward through

the dew,

But Mary only whets her scythe, and goes to work anew.

And now the dews are thickening, the moon and stars are bright; Sweet are the new-mown furrows, and sweet the songs of night;

But Mary lies not down to rest, and stands not still to hear;
The rustling of her ceaseless scythe is music to her ear.

Even thus from morn till evening, even thus from eve to morn,
She toils, by strong love nourished, by happy hope upborne;
Till when the third day's sun arose, the labour was complete,
And there stood Mary weeping, for joy so strange and sweet.
"Good morrow to thee, Mary! How now?-the task is done!
Lo, for such matchless industry, rich guerdon shall be won;
But for the wedding-nay, indeed-my words were only jest
How foolish and how credulous we find a lover's breast!"

He spake and went his way, and there the hapless maid stood still, Her weary limbs they shook, they sank, her heart grew stiff and chill;

Speech, sense, and feeling, like a cloud, did from her spirit pass, And there they found her lying upon the new-mown grass!

And thus a dumb and death-like life for years the maiden led
A drop of fragrant honey was all her daily bread.

Oh, make her grave in pleasant shades, where softest flow'rets grow,

For such a loving heart as hers is seldom found below!

From the German of Uhland.

LAMENT OF THE HEATHEN SAGE.
[BY S. M.]

I KNOW thou art returned to dust again,
That wert unto my soul its only star,-

I know that prayer is vain, and tears are vain,
And words of comfort, oh, how vainer far!
What shall I do, or by what power sustain
The desolation of my heart, the war
Of my resistful spirit, which at length
Lies prostrate in the fulness of its strength?

(1) From German Ballads, Songs, &c. London: Burns. 1845.

And I have striven to think it is not so,
Have bid my heart remember the quick life
So eloquently speaking in the glow

Of thy young cheek, in every gesture, rife
With health that seemed invincible-the brow
Serene, as if disdainful of the strife

Death holds with meaner things-itself, a throne, Where Life and Inspiration sate alone.

And my too faithful heart remembers well
(Would it were more forgetful!) every line,
And lineament and feature, which can tell,
Of all I had, that is no longer mine;

I summon thee before me by the spell

Of tortured Memory,-I see them shine,

Thy clear, bright, living eyes-oh mockery! Why?It is impossible that thou couldst die!

Yet thou art dead, and we are severed, for
I saw the gradual blighting of that form;
The quenching of those sun-bright eyes I saw,
The freezing of that heart so fresh and warm;—
Yes, with mine agony subdued to awe,

I stood beside thee, keeping down the storm

In my wrung bosom, until all was past,
And my delirium may break forth at last.

And friends come round to comfort-idle task!
What can their busy voices say to me?
Vain is the love of Patience, and the mask,
The smooth deception of Philosophy.
Oh, hollow that ye are ! I need but ask
If ye can set death's fettered captive free,
And Silence answers me-then let them prate,
Mine ears are deaf, and I am desolate!

But Thou-Great Heaven! Can any power put out
The stedfast watchfire of thy love? Can I
Be sad, and thou unconscious? Bitter doubt,
Resolved by such despairing certainty!

Oh, could I leap into my grave, without

The knowledge that mine eyes had seen thee die!
Thou canst not hear me-thou? Ah, maddening thought!

I speak to that which is not-thou art nought!

And in the music of the twilight breeze
I cannot dream thy spirit speaks to me;
And when cool night descends upon the seas
I hold no voiceless communings with thee,
The notes of thy familiar melodies

Stir up a passion in my memory,
But bring no peace-for I stood, helplessly,
And saw Decay consume thy soul and thee!

Oh for that blessed ignorance which paints
A world where severed souls may reunite!
Oh, how the weakness of my wisdom faints
In the chill radiance of its own vain light!
Why should I lade the air with weak complaints?
Let me sit down beneath the starless night,
Which weighs upon my spirit, and repeat,
Thou art no more, and we no more may meet!

Yet was thy soul so beautiful, methinks
It could not perish. Was it by the scorn
Of some unpitying, callous Fiend who drinks
The tears of bleeding hearts, that thou wert born
To wind thee round my spirit? Those sweet links
Twined they so closely only to be torn?
And were two hearts so moulded into one
That sterner ravage might by Death be done?

Oh, for some knowledge! Oh, for light, to shine
Through this sepulchral darkness, chill and black!
How would I clasp Death with these arms of mine,
If I had hope that Death could give thee back!
"Tis agony-this heart that seeks a sign-
These feet that wander, and can find no track.
Ah God, unknown, if any God there be,
Annihilate, or else enlighten me!

ANCIENT CHAPLETS.

THE garland long ago was worn

As time pleas'd to bestow it;

The Laurel only to adorn

The conqueror and the poet.
The Palm is due, who, uncontroll'd,

On danger looking gravely,

When fate had done the worst it could,
Who bore his fortunes bravely.
Most worthy of the Oaken wreath
The ancients him esteemed,
Who, in a battle, had from death

Some man of worth redeemed.
About his temples Grass they tie,
Himself that so behaved

In some strong siege by th' enemy
A city that hath saved.

A wreath of Vervain heralds wear,

Amongst our garlands named,

Being sent that dreadful news to bear,

Offensive war proclaimed.

The sign of peace who first displays
The Olive-leaf possesses:
The lover with the Myrtle spray
Adorns his crisped tresses.

In love the sad forsaken wight
The Willow garland weareth:

The funeral wan, befitting night,
The baleful Cypress beareth.
To Pan we dedicate the Pine,

Whose slips the shepherd graceth:

Again the Ivy and the Vine

On his swoll'n Bacchus placeth.

Miscellaneous.

Drayton, 1593.

"I have here made only a nosegay of culled flowers, and have brought nothing of my own, but the string that ties them."-Montaigne.

GALLANTRY OF A YOUNG INDIAN.

A FEW years ago, a Pawnee warrior, son of "Old Knife," knowing that his tribe, according to their custom, were going to torture a Paduea woman, whom they had taken in war, resolutely determined, at all hazards, to rescue her, if possible, from so cruel a fate. The poor creature, far from her family and tribe, and surrounded only by the eager attitudes and anxious faces of her enemies, had been actually fastened to the stake. Her funeral pile was about to be kindled, and every eye was mercilessly directed upon her, when the young chieftain, mounted on one horse, and, according to the habit of the country, leading another, was seen approaching the ceremony at full gallop. To the astonishment of every one, he rode straight up to the pile, extricated the victim from the stake, threw her on the loose horse, and then vaulting on the back of the other, he carried her off in triumph!

"She is won! we are gone-over bank, bush, and scaur;

silver medal, bearing a suitable inscription, which they presented to the young Red-skin, as a token of the admiration of white skins at the chivalrous act he had performed, in having rescued one of their sex from so unnatural a fate. Their address closed as follows:-

"Brother! accept this token of our esteem: always wear it for our sakes; and when again you have the power to save a poor woman from death, think of this, and of us, and fly to her relief."

The young Pawnee had been unconscious of his merit, but he was not ungrateful:

"Brothers and sisters!" he exclaimed, extending towards them the medal which had been hanging on his red naked breast, "this will give me ease more than I ever had, and I will listen more than I ever did to white men.

"I am glad that my brothers and sisters have heard of the good act I have done. My brothers and sisters think that I did it in ignorance; but I now know what I have done.

"I did it in ignorance, and did not know that I did good; but by giving me this medal I know it!”— Quarterly Review.

REPORTERS FOR THE ENGLISH PRESS.

WHAT most extraordinary men are these reporters of the English newspapers! Surely, if there be any class of individuals who are entitled to the appellation of cosmopolites, it is these; who pursue their avocation in all countries indifferently, and accommodate themselves at will to the manners of all classes of society. Their fluency of style as writers is only surpassed by their facility of language in conversation, and their attainments in classical and polite literature only by their profound knowledge of the world, acquired by an early introduction into its bustling scenes. The activity, energy, and courage which they occasionally display in the pursuit of information, are truly remarkable. I saw them during the three days at Paris, mingled with canailie and gamins behind the barriers, whilst the mitraille was flying in all directions, and the desperate cuirassiers were dashing their fierce horses against those seemingly feeble bulwarks. There stood they, dotting down their observations in their pocket-books, as unconcernedly as if reporting the proceedings of a reform meeting in Finsbury Square; whilst in Spain, several of them accompanied the Carlist and Christino guerillas in some of their most desperate raids, exposing themselves to the danger of hostile bullets, the inclemency of winter, and the fierce heat of the summer sun..-Borrow's Bible in Spain.

THAT implicit credulity is a mark of a feeble mind, will not be disputed; but it may not, perhaps, be as generally acknowledged, that the case is the same with unlimited scepticism.-STEWART.

ON parent knees, a naked new-born child,
Weeping thou sat'st, while all around thee smil'd;
So live, that, sinking in thy last long sleep,
Calm thou may'st smile, while all around thee weep.
Translated from the Persian, by Sir W. Jones.

The Chances of Fortune.... Rural Sketches, No. III..... Paim Leaves.-II. Almet's Vision

A Night in the Forest......
The Martyred Templar...... 44

London:-Published by T. B. SHARPE, 15, Skinner Street, Snow-hill Printed by R. CLAY, Bread Street Hill.

THE Castle of Naworth, the baronial seat of the Earl of Carlisle, which has been recently destroyed by fire,' was the most complete and interesting specimen of a border fortress and a feudal castle of which the kingdom could boast; preserved, too, nearly in the state in which it appeared before the union of England and Scotland. It was one of the greatest "lions" of the North, and was visited by persons from all parts of England, and by foreigners. Its scathed and blackened ruins are eleven miles north-west of Carlisle, and about one mile south of the priory-church of St. Mary, Lanercost, near the edge of the wild district of Bewcastle, Spade-Adam-Waste, and the rude hut, to which celebrity has been given by the novel of Guy Mannering, under the name of Mumps' Ha'.

Sir Walter Scott, speaking of Naworth, says"This gothic edifice was, in former times, one of those extensive baronial seats which marked the splendour of our ancient nobles, before they exchanged the hospitable magnificence of a life spent among a numerous tenantry for the uncertain honours of court attendance, and the equivocal rewards of ministerial

favour. If we allow that the feudal times were times of personal insecurity, we must also admit that they were favourable to the growth of manly and decided virtue; rude and unpolished in its structure, perhaps, but forcible and efficient in its operation. The evils of the institution were in some measure corrected by other qualities inherent in its system, while the good was pure and unmixed. There is a principle of affinity, more or less obvious, in everything. The vast and solid mansions of our ancient nobility were like their characters,greatness without elegance; strength without refinement; but lofty, firm, and commanding. The solemn grandeur of Naworth Castle claimed for it a high distinction among these baronial edifices."3

At the time of the Norman Conquest, the barony of Gilsland, of which Naworth Castle has been for upwards of five centuries the baronial seat, was the possession of Gilles Bueth. He was promptly ejected, and the lordship was granted to the family of De Vallibus or Vaux, who were eminent among the northern baronial families. In the reign of Henry III. it was transferred, by the marriage of an heiress, to the De Multons. And again, in like manner, it passed to the Dacres, a family once of the highest importance in Cumberland. "Their vigour and ability, displayed as Wardens of the Marches,

(3) Border Antiquities.