of thorns! And yet forth it went-that lowly, humble, persecuting spirit, and the idols of the heathen fell; and the thrones of the mighty trembled; and Paganism saw her peasants and her princes kneel down, and worship the unarmed conqueror! If this be not the work of Divinity, then I yield to the reptile ambition of the atheist; I see no God— I see no government below; and I yield my consciousness of an immortal soul to his boasted fraternity with the worm that perishes!-Charles Phillips. FRUITS IN ENGLAND IN THE THIRTEENTH AND FIFTEENTH CENTURY. THE only kinds named are apples and pears: three hundred of the latter were purchased at Canterbury; probably from the gardens of the monks. It is believed, however, that few other sorts were generally grown in England before the latter end of the fifteenth century; although Matthew Paris, describing the bad season of 1257, observes that "apples were scarce, and pears scarcer, while quinces, vegetables, cherries, plums, and all shell-fruits were entirely destroyed." These shellfruits were probably the common hazel-nut, walnuts, and perhaps chestnuts; in 1256 the sheriff's of London were ordered to buy two thousand chestnuts for the king's use. In the Wardrobe Book of the 14th of Edward the First before quoted, we find the bill of Nicholas, the royal fruiterer, in which the only fruits mentioned are pears, apples, quinces, medlars, and nuts. The supply of these, from Whitsuntide to November, cost 211. 14s. 14d. This apparent scarcity of indigenous fruits naturally leads to the inquiry, what foreign kinds besides those included in the term spicery, such as almonds, dates, figs and raisins, were imported into England in this and the following century? In the time of John and of Henry the Third, Rochelle was celebrated for its pears and conger-eels; the sheriffs of London purchased a hundred of the former for Henry, in 1223. In the 18th of Edward the First, a large Spanish ship came to Portsmouth; out of the cargo of which the queen bought one frail of Seville figs, one frail of raisins or grapes, one bale of dates, and two hundred and thirty pomegranates, fifteen citrons, and seven ORANGES. The last item is important, as Le Grand d'Aussy could not trace the orange in France to an earlier date than 1333; here we find it known in England in 1290; and it is probable that this was not its first appearance. The marriage of Edward with Eleanor of Castile naturally lead to a greater intercourse with Spain, and consequently to the introduction of other articles of Spanish produce than the leather of Cordova, olive-oil and rice, which had previously been the principal imports from that fertile country, through the medium of the merchants of Bayonne and Bordeaux. It is to be regretted that the series of Wardrobe Books is incomplete, as much additional information on this point might have been derived from them. At all events it appears certain that Europe is indebted to the Arab conquerors of Spain for the introduction of the orange, and not to the Portuguese, who are said to have brought it from China. An English dessert in the thirteenth century must, it is clear, have been composed chiefly of dried and preserved fruits-dates, figs, apples, pears, nuts, and the still common dish of almonds and raisins.-Manners and Household Expenses in England in the Thirteenth and Fifteenth Centuries, by Mr. J. H. Turner, from Original Records. THE PLEASURES OF VICISSITUDE. BY THE LATE richard wESTALL, R.A. And postboys drive us carefully; We lounge and grumble sleepily. Then beds seem hard, and inns are cold, And rear and start confusedly: Alarm the traveller horribly. But if those ills we steer between, Which tired us once confoundedly! Watts's Literary Souvenir, 1835. EARTHLY HONOURS. As withereth the primrose by the river, As melteth snow upon the massy mountains; A CHILD'S LOVE: A FACT OF THE GREAT FRENCH REVOLUTION. (Concluded from page 87.) I was about to observe, that all this mystery might create suspicion in her husband's mind, and therefore, endanger her peace; but she quickly pushed me into the closet, shut and locked the door, and almost at the same instant, I heard a person enter the room, and say in a harsh voice, with a strong accent: "Good day, my dear, good day: kiss me; this unforeseen return astonishes thee: it is because our business was terminated sooner than I expected." This voice, which I heard for the first time in my life, broke upon my ear like a death-knell. Involuntarily, I remembered that I was a fugitive, at the mercy of the Terrorists. Without, therefore, seeing the man, without knowing his features, by means of his voice -that diagnostic which has never yet deceived me-I immediately said to myself, " This man is my enemy.” At this moment, little Lucy returned from school, and having kissed her father, her first question to her mother was: "Where is my dear friend?-has Papa seen him ?" **** And there was a moment of frightful silence, meaning, "Who is this dear friend ?" The husband put this question in a dry and imperious tone. "My dear," replied the trembling wife, "be not angry, and you shall know all. During your absence, we have received into the house a stranger: he was almost dying with fatigue, and for want of food; he asked shelter for one night; I granted it, and he went away this morning." All this was uttered in so natural a tone, that Lucy herself was deceived by it. But her mother had not foreseen her grief, which was so violent, that she, as well as her father, in vain tried to calm her. "Gone! gone! he promised faithfully that he would wait for my return. Oh! it is very bad of him ;" and she sank in deep affliction. Suddenly, through the panes of the glass door of the closet in which I was concealed, she perceived, upon an arm chair, the bunch of white roses that she had given me. She then fell into a violent passion: "To go," said she, "without even taking the nosegay-oh! it is infamous. I will get this nosegay, and tear it to pieces. But, who shut this door? where is the key? Mamma, give it to me." "I don't know what has become of it," replied the mother, confusedly; "I think Fanchette lost it." "Let her look for it," replied Lucy, whose impatience burst forth violently-“I will have it." She grew pale, stamped on the floor, repeating loudly, "I will have it-the key! the key! Her father tried to appease her; but, seeing her melt into tears, he said to his wife, sternly: "Come, we must put an end to this: I don't like the child to be teased, it makes her ill. If the key be lost, let a locksmith be sent for, else we must break open the door. But no, I recollect-I have a second key; I'll go and fetch it." He went immediately into his closet, and I involuntarily shuddered, on hearing the young wife exclaim several times: "Ah! the wretched man! he is lost! and it is thou, my daughter!" The husband speedily returned, holding in his hand a key, which he had already placed in the lock, when his wife stopped him. "My dear," said she to him, in a faltering voice, "my dear, do not be angry at what you are about to see. The traveller that I spoke of, and who I told you was gone," "Well ?" "He is here still." "There !" vociferated the husband furiously, “it is then a lover, since you are so interested in concealing him!" As he thus spoke, he pushed aside his wife, and quickly turning the key, the door opened. I advanced instantly, and said: "No, Sir, it is not a lover. Had it been possible, I would long since have terminated this painful suspense this lady has nothing to reproach herself for, in concealing me she only obeyed pity. I am a fugitive" To completely dissipate the jealous suspicion, which I still read in his eyes, I added: "No sacrifice will be too great, on my part, to convince you of the truth: I am the Count de S**!" "You," cried he, "the Count de S***! who is sought every where?" "I am he; and have divulged to you my secret, relying on your honour. When I entered your house, I had not tasted food for forty-eight hours; and your wife did not suppose that to give me bread was a crime." "It is always a crime to save an aristocrate," replied he, in a voice of thunder: then, forcibly pressing my hand, and looking at me fixedly, he added: "thou dost not know, then, that thou art in the house of Joseph Lebou!" "Lebou!" cried I, starting back at his dreaded name. "Yes, Lebou, who boasts never to have pardoned one like thee, and who, in a moment, will decide thy fate." In saying this, he went towards the door, and called the servant. The young wife wept bitterly at the violence of her husband, who, at this moment was inundating his native town with blood, sporting with the anguish of his victims even to the foot of the scaffold, and with his vengeful fury striking terror into the chiefs of the Montagne, who, therefore, called him Le Sanguinaire. I beheld in him no longer a man, but the hideous and threatening phantom of death. After a few minutes' awful silence, a man-servant appeared. "Go immediately to the village," said Lebou, "and ask, in my name, for a guard to accompany a prisoner." The servant took the note, and went out. Meanwhile, Lebou, turning towards me, continued: "Thou shalt stay in this room. It has no outlet but that which leads to my closet; but I shall be there. Thou seest these arms," (producing a brace of pistols, loaded, which he always carried about him,) “and, shouldst thou attempt to escape, I will blow thy brains out, or my name is not Lebou." "Do not apprehend any resistance from me," replied I: "if you are the master of my life, it is God's will; and I shall know how to bear my fate, whatever it may be." I bowed to his wife, and went back into the closet; he shut the door, turned the key twice, took it away, and for the second time I was a prisoner. Lebou returned to his closet, which was separated from that in which I was locked, by a very thin partition. I heard him harshly chiding his wife for having wished to expose him by concealing me. The poor woman wept piteously, and then tried to soften the tiger. "Do not send him to Arras," said she: "let others spill his blood. His person is described so minutely, that he cannot escape. Having once sheltered him, let us not give him up. Oh! I beseech you," said she, falling on her knees, “save him." "Save him! though he were my brother, I would not save him," was the ferocious reply, with the addition, "Leave me I must make my report of him to the Committee of Public Safety." The young wife withdrew, in tears, and all again was silent. "It is In a few minutes, I heard a gentle knocking at the closet door. "Who is there ?" said Lebou, angrily. "It is I, dear father." I recognised Lucy's voice. thou, little dear?" said Lebou, immediately opening the door, "come in; what dost thou want with me?" "I want to scold thee." "Me! but why ?" "Because thou hast not yet kissed me." "That is true. As thou saidst, I deserve to be scolded." Then the blood-thirsty Terrorist took his daughter upon his knees, and kissed her. And then, wonderful to relate, the more the child spoke, the more his growling voice softened; as, on the previous day, the terrible Mouton had become gentle when the child said to him: "Kiss the gentleman, instantly, or I will." "Hast thou been a very good girl to-day, at school?" "Oh yes, they were very well satisfied with me." "Then kiss me, to reward thee." "Oh! but," said Lucy, cunningly, "if I kiss thee, it is thou who wilt have the reward." "Thou art right, my child; thy caresses refresh me-refresh my burning blood." "But we agreed about another thing." "What was it, then ?" "Thou well knowest what thou hast promised me." "I have entirely forgotten it." "It is very pretty to forget the promises made to your daughter." Come, help me a little: I am very willing to pay my debts." "Thou toldest me that on the day I could write, thou wouldest give me whatever I should ask." "Well! dear child ?” "Well," said Lucy, in an inexpressibly pretty whisper, "I can write." "Thou canst write! my daughter, write! little dear! Ah! thou art an adorable child for surprising me so. Well then, show me a specimen of thy talent; and, as my name is Lebou, I will give thee whatever thou mayest ask." There was a pause, during which Lucy wrote upon a 66 the room with the order, which he had, doubtless, done by a signal,) "here it is-art thou satisfied now? Cruel girl! for saying that I do not love her, and will cause her death! I!-good Heaven, I!-who would sacrifice every thing to my girl, whom I idolize!" And he seemed as if he would choke her with kisses. "Here, drink, my dear that will calm thee-and, now, rest in my arms." I still heard Lucy's spasmodic sobs, and the father seeking to quiet her by rocking her in his arms, like an infant, saying: "Who would have thought thee so sensitive! Well-do not sleep, then-thou art no longer angry with me! Kiss me, then! See how the colour returns to her cheek; and look, she smiles! What is thy wish, my child?" "I will put thine hair in paper," replied Lucy, bursting from grief into playfulness. 'Silly girl," said the father. "Now, if thou didst see thyself-how pretty thou art." I thought that the warrant was thus torn into curling-papers! Lucy burst into loud laughter, and overwhelmed with caresses her terrible father, in whom all the sensibility that Nature had given him, merged into his love for his daughter. " "Didst piece of hard paper; and, with what extasy of hope did I listen to the grating pen! "Let us see the pretty scrawl," said Lebou; "upon my word, it is beautiful! Thou dost not write very straight, but never mind, it is very legible. What is written there ?" And, Lucy, taking up the paper, read aloud: "I implore the pardon of the fugitive." I was greatly moved, yet listened with breathless attention. "The pardon of the fugitive!" said Lebou, "thou dost not mean it!" "Yes, papa, I will have it." "Thou shalt not have it." "I will." "But "No but." "If-" "No if." "What, then, dost thou mean, Miss? I am master." "I know it well, and that is why I ask thee for it." "Lucy, listen, dear child; I will give thee every thing but that." "And I ask nothing but that. Thou must keep thy promise." "But, my love, it is not in my power." "Oh yes, dear father, thou saidst just now, thou art master; and thou art, I know. If thou writest, he will be killed; and if thou writest not, he will be saved. Mamma told me so just now. And, if he were killed, little Lucy would be the cause of it; for, had it not been for me, thou wouldst not have gone to get the key; without the key, thou couldst not have seen him, and "Well, then," said the melting father, "now thou art hadst thou not seen him, he would not be killed. He no longer ill.” "No." "Well, then, get down, and killed! oh no, 'tis impossible." "But, my dear-" return me my key-I want it." But the dear child would "Oh! I must tell thee: thou dost not know that I love not thus give up possession. "Oh, no, I keep that." him!" "Thou lovest him! and why ?" "Why ?—I "Lucy!" "Dear father!" "Must we begin again?" don't know-but, I love him-with all my heart: I love "No-for thou wouldst not make me ill again.' him because I saved him; yes, yes, it is I who saved him, thou hear, Lucy, that the guards are waiting?" " “Well, with Mouton. He is my prisoner, and not of any one then, let them wait." "But they cannot wait for ever." else; he belongs to me. Oh! if thou hadst seen him "In a moment, thou shalt let them in; but," added she, pale and starving, and heard him say: 'Little dear, have in a whisper," then he will be gone.' "Gone!-how can pity on me!' thou wouldst have done as I did-for thou he escape? there is no outlet." "Yes." "Where?" hast a good heart, though they think thee harsh and cruel: "The window of thy closet: this." "The window? but little Lucy knows thee too well. I know thou art thou art crazy." "Come, come, listen to me," said she, good: I have more than once seen thee weep when em- placing her little hand upon his mouth; "thou shalt shut bracing me. Ha! thou art crying now!" "My girl, thine eyes, like that-dost thou understand? I, during my girl, leave me," cried the relenting father, with audi- that time, will fetch the poor fugitive with this key. Thou ble emotion. But Lucy replied, in an emboldened tone : shalt remain as if asleep; we will stride over the bottom "No, I will not leave thee before thou hast given me the of the window-he shan't hurt himself, and down we'll paper thou hast just written." "It is impossible." jump into the garden. I will manage the rest." "And, "Mamma told me it is the warrant by which he is con- if they asked me how he escaped-what must I answer?" demned. It is for that reason I will have it." 66 Lucy, Say I don't know what. Thou art more clever than I be a good girl." "I will have it, I tell thee." Lucy, I am: say thou hast made a mistake, and taken the stranger shall be angry with thee." "I don't care." "What do for another; and that he is now on his journey. Whatyou say? that is very naughty: you are not afraid of ever thou sayest, they will believe thee, and they shall go offending your dear father." "But thou, thou," cried as they came. Ay? tell me-wilt thou? Oh yes, thou Lucy, violently bursting into tears: "it is an hour since I art quite willing," said Lucy, loading her father with asked thee -thou dost not even listen to me. Oh! I see kisses; "say that thou wilt, dear father." well-they are right when they say that thou art cruel; At that moment, Lucy's voice was so sweet, and yet so and I say so too, for thou dost not love thy daughter." powerful, that she moved all the strings of my heart. And "I!-I do not love my daughter!" "No, thou dost not thus, she, doubtless, acted upon her father; for, after a love her, since thou makest her cry, and dost not care if she moment's pause, I heard him say to her: "Lucy, Lucy, dies." "What dost thou say?" 66 Yes, I shall certainly you greatly take advantage of my weakness, and of the die for thou dost nothing but vex me. I feel very ill-power you have over me!" Oh, no, I do not,”—and O heaven-I am choking." she immediately stopped his mouth with kisses. "Thou dost not know what thou askest, my girl. The man whom thou wishest to save is thy mortal enemy!" He? oh! thou dost not know him, nor how much he loves me-for thou didst not see how he caressed thy little Lucy, as thou dost. Oh! I am quite sure if ever I want him, I shall find him.-I am sure of it." : 66 Here, I conclude, Lucy, suffocated by her tears, fainted; for I heard her father cry, "My daughter! she faints! Lucy, my dear girl! Well, then, yes-that paper-thou shalt have it; but listen-Good heaven! she is as pale as death!" At this moment, I heard a violent pull at the bell, and a man-servant enter. "Go, and fetch a doctor -no-she_recovers. But it is my fault: look up, my child, it is I, thy father Lebou. Give me a glass of sugar and water, Baptiste. Now, that will do." "Citizen," (for the word Sir was not then used at Lebou's) "Citizen," said Baptiste, "thou art not, perhaps, aware that the guard thou hast sent for is here." At the word "guard," Lucy, doubtless, shuddered; for I heard her say instantly in a tremulous voice," Dear father-the paper ""Hold, here it is, my child," replied Lebou, (as the servant left 66 Here, as if the ferocious Citizen foresaw the change of fortune which smote him a few months later, and, as if moved by his daughter's assurance of finding the victim, when wanted, he replied: Well-go, and save the fugitive, but hasten back." Lucy raised a shout of joy at her triumph over that heart which she alone could move. She slipped from her father's knees, advanced on tiptoe to the closet door, and gently put the key into the lock-when the door opened for the second time. "Come directly," said she to me, in a low voice; "they are there, but I will guide thee." I knew not whether I was awake, or in a dream. I suffered myself to be led-and followed my delivering angel. In crossing the fatal closet, I found myself face to face with Lebou: he was no longer the tender father, but the stern republican; and his air was as harsh as his voice. "My daughter has saved thee," said he to me-"I will not have her save thee only half-way. Here, take this passport, which I destined for another purpose: insert in it thy name, and description, and it will enable thee to reach the frontier. Thou canst hereafter boast of being the first aristocrate that ever escaped alive from the hands of Lebou; but, believe me, don't come again." After this laconic address, he pointed to the open window, from which I jumped, with Lucy, into the garden. ** It began to grow dark, ere we reached the door in the park wall, which led into the open country, and through which I had entered the premises, on the preceding day. There, at length, I parted with my little benefactress. "Adieu !" cried she, with a stifled sigh and sob. "Adieu, dear" I could say no more, for a flood of tears. "Thou wilt not forget me ?" asked the lovely creature. "Never." "I shall always think of thee; of thee, for ever!" was her parting word. At this moment, we heard a slight noise, and Lucy gently pushed me out, and closed the gate. I journeyed onward, and by means of the precious passport, reached Calais, and the English shore, in safety. I never saw Lucy again, and I do not even know whether she be still alive. Many years have elapsed, many loves have passed away, affections withered, and hopes blighted: but, I shall never forget that CHILD'S LOVE! THE MINSTREL'S CURSE. TRANSLATED PROM THE GERMAN OF UHLAND, IN days of yore a castle reared its head so high and grand, The elder swept the chords, and so wonderful the stroke, So sweet as if a chorus of spirits it had been. A Journal especially recommended by the judgment of its literary department, as well as by its general value as a newspaper.-ED. L. S. J. They sing of spring and love, and of golden days of bliss, ween; I Then snatched his sword, which right through the younger's So loudly that the castle and the gardens round replied In vain be all thy struggles for crowns of bloody fame,- No tree its cool shade offers, no spring steals through the sand, The monarch's name nor song nor legend book rehearse, "Tis buried and forgotten!-This is the minstrel's curse! A. R. LIGHT FOR ALL NATIONS. THE Editor of the Sea pie has obligingly enabled us to present our readers with the annexed details of this important mechanical labour. This light-house, about to be erected upon the Goodwin Sands, will be placed upon the north caliper head of the sand off Deal, and about five miles distant from that place. It will be constructed upon a foundation formed within the caissoon, prepared in the Admiralty yard, at Deal, according to the principles for which her Majesty's letters patent have been obtained by the inventor and projector, Mr. William Bush, for the construction of foundations under water. The idea of ever obtaining a foundation upon these dangerous quicksands, at first startles us; and, without reflection, we feel almost prepared to pronounce the proceeding impracticable: yet the reverse is the fact. But, in order to demonstrate the soundness of the project, it will be necessary to describe the sands themselves, together with the general principles upon which this caissoon has been constructed, and then the modus operandi by which this important and national undertaking is proposed to be accomplished. The Goodwin Sands are generally considered to have been, |