The young girl in her turn uttered a loud y-but it was a cry of joy. cry "I-I, who have so much deserved punishment! Oh! mother, mother, the thousandth part of God's goodness has not been told!" THE SHADOW. AFTER A BALLAD OF HEINE'S. I. "Donna Clara, many years Loved with hopes and loved with fears, Willeth now my heart's undoing; Pierce my heart like poisoned swords. Don Ramiro, conqueror I will dance with thee as one In the darkness, like a stone, II. Merrily the bells have rung, And at coming on of night And a rich and noble throng Donna Clara, envied bride, With pale, passionless countenance, Waited to lead out the dance. "Lady, why this troubled gaze? Why this tremble and amaze?" "Look, Fernando! Who there stands, Cloaked in black, with folded hands? It seems a knightly figure tall" "Lady, a shadow on the wall!" III. But the shadow slowly nears, To her face her spirit rushes, Pale she grows, by turns, and blushes "Don Ramiro!" said she, thickly, And her breath came short and quickly. With a vacant gaze, but steady, "Dance we at thy bridal?" said he. Donna Clara forth he leads; Wildly, wildly round he speeds! "Don Ramiro," Clara spoke, "Wherefore in thy sable cloak?" He, in hollow voice, awe spreading: "Bad'st me come unto thy wedding!" "Don Ramiro, icy cold Are the hands that mine do hold!" Said that hollow voice, awe spreading: "Bad'st me come unto thy wedding!" "Don Ramiro," Clara saith, "Earthy chill and damp thy breath!" Still that hollow voice, awe spreading: "Bad'st me come unto thy wedding!" "Don Ramiro"-faint and low Clara whispered-"let me go!" But that hollow voice, awe spreading: "Bad'st me come unto thy wedding!" Donna Clara on he leads; Wilder, wilder round he speeds. Don Ramiro, at the name, Donna Clara knew no more; IV. Life flows back into her cheek; Does she see?--does some one speak? "Donna Clara, sweetest bride"She is by Fernando's side. Sitting still where she had been When the Shadow glided in. "Donna Clara, sweetest bride," Said a low voice at her side, "Why this fixed and troubled gaze? Why this tremble and amaze?" Ice-blanched Donna Clara's cheek, While her pale lips strove to speak: "Don Ramiro-where?" Her lord Drawing a stern brow at the word, Bent and whispered, firm and low: "Donna Clara, seek not to know!" VERSES. 8. S. CONANT. If I had thought thou couldst have died, That thou couldst mortal be: And still upon that face I look, And think 'twill smile again; But when I speak-thou dost not say, Sweet Mary! thou art dead! If thou wouldst stay, e'en as thou art, I still might press thy silent heart, And where thy smiles have been! I do not think, where'er thou art, And I, perhaps, may soothe this heart, Yet there was round thee such a dawn REV. CHARLES WOLFE DEATH AND THE DRUNKARDS.1 There was in Flanders, once, a company of foolish gallants who spent their time in taverns and stews, and indulged themselves in gambling and debauchery of all kinds. Night and day they did little else but dance to the sound of lutes and harps, and play at dice, and eat and drink beyond their might; so that by such abominable superfluity they, in a cursed manner, made sacrifice to the devil within his own temple; attended in their orgies by tumblers, and young idle fruit-girls, and singers with harps, and old bawds, which be the very devil's officers, kindling and blowing the lecherous fire that is annexed to gluttony. It was grisly to hear these gallants swear, their oaths were so great and damnable; and, as if the Jews had not done violence enough to our blessed Lord, they, in their imaginations, tore his body, each of them laughing at the daring wickedness of the others. These three rioters were one morning drinking as usual in a tavern, and as they sate they heard a bell clink before a corpse which was being carried to its grave. Then one of them called to his boy and said, "Go and ask readily what corpse this is now passing forth by the gate, and look thou report his name well.' "Sir," quoth the boy, "I knew it two hours before you came here. He was an old companion of yours, and was slain suddenly; for as he sate drunken on his bench, there came a secret thief men call Death (that kills all the people in this country), and with his spear he smote his heart in two, and then went his way without speaking. He hath slain a thousand this pestilence; and, master, ere you come into his presence, methinks it were full necessary to beware of him, and to be evermore ready to meet him. Thus taught me my dame." "By Saint Mary," said the host of the tavern, "the child says truly; for this fearful thing hath slain this year, within a village about a mile hence, both men, women, and children, so that I trow he has his habitation there. It were great wisdom to be well advised about him." Then up spake one of the rioters and said, "What is it such peril to meet with him? I vow by Christ's bones that I'll seek him by stile and street. Hearken, my boys, we three This is a prose version of Chaucer's "Pardonere's Tale," told by one of the Canterbury pilgrims. are one: let each hold up his hand, and become brothers, and we will kill this false traitor Death. Before night he shall be slain, -he that so many slayeth." And so saying, he shouted a terrible oath. Then these three having plighted their troths to live and die by each other, started up, all drunken in their rage, and went towards the hamlet of which the taverner had spoken; and as they went reeling along the way, they roared out with their thick voices, "Death shall be dead if we can catch him." They had not gone half a mile, when lo! just as they were crossing a gate they saw a poor old man, who greeted them full meekly and said, "Now, Heaven save you, lords!" The proudest of these three rioters answered, "What, thou sorry churl, why art thou wrapped so closely over, save thy face? Why dost continue to live in such great age?" At this the old man looked him in the visage, and said, "Because I cannot meet a man, neither in city nor in village, even though I walked into the Indies, who would change his youth for my age; and therefore I must still keep my age as long as Heaven pleases. Death will not have my life, alas! And thus walk I, like a restless caitiff; and, on the ground which is my mother's gate, I knock night and morning with my staff, crying, Dear mother, let me in. Lo! how I vanish flesh and blood. When shall my weary bones be still? Mother, with you would I change the chest that has been so long a time in my chamber, yea, for a hair shroud to wrap me in.' But she will not do me such kindness, for which full pale and welked is my face. Yet, sirs, it is not courteous in you to speak roughly to an old man except he trespass in word or deed; for it is said in holy writ, as you may yourselves see, that ye should not rise against a hoary head; therefore do no more harm now to an old man than ye would a man should do to you in age, if that ye abide so long; and so peace be with you ever! I must go my ways." "Nay, old churl, by St. John thou partest not so lightly," swore one of these rioters. "Thou spakest right now of that traitor Death that slayeth all our friends in this country. Thou art his spy; and believe me thou shalt either tell where he is, or by the holy sacrament thou shalt rue it; for, truly, thou art one of his accomplices to kill us young folk, thou false thief." "Now, sirs," then quoth this old man, "if you truly wish to find Death, turn up this crooked way, for by my faith I left him in that grove under a tree, and there he will stay, nothing hiding himself for all your boasting. See ye that oak? right there shall ye meet him." Thus spake the old man; and away ran these three rioters till they came to the tree, under which behold they found well nigh eight bushels of fine gold florins. They were so glad of this sight that they sought no longer after Death; but looking round them they sate down on the hard roots of the tree, nothing heeding the uneasiness of the seat, so eager were they to be near the precious hoard. Brethren," said the worst of the three, "take heed what I shall say. Fortune hath given us this treasure to the end we may live all our lives in mirth and jollity. As it came lightly, lightly let us spend it. Who would have thought," continued he, swearing a great oath, "that we should have met such luck today? If this gold could but be carried out of this grove home to my house, then were we in high felicity; but it may not be done by day, for men would say we were strong thieves, and hang us for possessing our own treasure; no: it must be carried by night, wisely and slily; therefore I am of opinion that we draw lots, and he who draws the lowest shall run to the town with blythe heart, and bring us bread and wine; while the other two shall subtly keep the treasure, and when it is night we will take it by one assent where we may think best." Then he brought the lots in his hand and bade them draw, and the lowest fell on the young one; and anon he went forth toward the town. Now all as soon as he was departed, the rioter who spake before said thus unto his fellow: "Thou knowest well thou art my sworn brother; therefore will I tell thee thy profit. Our fellow is gone and here is gold, and that full great store, which is to be shared among us three; but if I can shape it so that it may be parted among us two, had I not done a friend's turn to thee?" The other answered, "I cannot think how that may be: he knows well that the gold is with us. What, therefore, should we do? What could we say to him?" "Shall it be counsel, then?" said the first: "If so, I will tell you in few words how we can bring it about." And the other answered, "I plight thee my troth that I will not betray thee." "Now," quoth this wicked hazarder, "thou knowest well that we are two, and two of us shall be stronger than one. Look, when he is set down, that thou rise anon, and make as though thou playest with him, and while ye are struggling as in game, I will stab him through his two sides; and do thou do the same with thy dagger. And then, my dear friend, shall this gold be parted 'twixt thee and me; and so shall we be able to fulfil our desires, and play at dice at our own will." Thus these two hazarders agreed to slay the third, who, as he went along the road kept rolling up and down in his heart the beauty of these bright and new florins. "O Lord!" quoth he, "that I might but have this treasure to myself alone! There would be no man under the heavens that should live so merry as I." And at the last the fiend put it into his thought that he should buy poison to slay his fellows: for the fiend found him living in such a wanton way, that he lusted to bring him to sorrow; therefore he made this hazarder determine to do the homicide, and never to repent. So he went straightways unto an apothecary in the town, and prayed him that he would sell some poison to kill the rats in his house, and there was also a polecat that, as he said, slew his capons, and he would fain be rid of such destroying vermin. The apothecary answered, "Thou shalt have a thing, that if it be taken by any creature in this world, though it be no more in quantity than a grain of wheat, he shall anon lose his life; yea, he shall wither away in less time than thou wilt go a mile, the poison is so strong and violent.' " Then this cursed man took into his hand the poison in a box, and went into the next street and borrowed three large bottles, and poured the poison into two of them, keeping the third clean for his own drink. And when with sorry grace he had filled his great bottles with wine, he repaired again to his fellows. What need is there to say more? For even as they had planned his death, even so they slew him, and that quickly. And when it was done, thus spake the worst of these rioters : "Now let us sit and drink, and make us merry, and afterwards we will hide his body in the ground." And with these words he took the bottle where the poison was and drank, and gave it to his fellow; and anon there came upon them strange signs of poisoning, and they perished. Thus ended be these two homicides; and also their false companion; and thus did they find Death under the oak in the old grove. "BECAUSE." FROM VICTOR HUGO'S "PUIS QU' ICI TOUTE AME." Because every soul Feels incessant desire To give to some other Its fragrance and fire; Because all things give, Below and above, Their roses or thorns To that which they love; Because-May gives music Gives Nepenthe in dreams; Because the sky gives The bird to the bower, And morn drops its dew In the cup of the flower; Because when the wave Falls asleep on the strand, It trembles, and gives A kiss to the land; For these reasons, my own, I have in my mind. I give my sad thoughts, My griefs, and my fears; Take these, as the earth Takes the night's shower of tears. Of my infinite longing, Take, dearest, thy part; Take my light and my shadow, O child of my heart! Take the unalloyed trust Which our intercourse blesses; And take all my songs, With their tender caresses. Take my soul, which moves on As its star evermore. And take, O my darling, JAMES FREEman Clarke, THE COBBLER OF DUDDINGSTONE. In the little picturesque village of DUDDINGSTONE, which lies sweetly at the foot of Edinburgh's great lion, Arthur Seat, and which is celebrated for its strawberries and sheephead broth, flourished, within our own remembrance, a poor and honest mender of boots and shoes, by name ROBIN RENTOUL. Robin had been a cobbler all his days to very little purpose. He had made nothing of the business, although he had given it a fair trial of fifty or sixty years. He was born, and cobbled-got married, and cobbled-got children, and cobbled-got old, and cobbled, without advancing a step beyond his last. It "found him poor at first and left him so!" To make the ends meet was the utmost he could do. He therefore bore no great liking to a profession which had done so little for him, and for which he had done so much; but in truth, his want of liking may be considered as much a cause as an effect of his want of success. His mind, in short, did not go with his work; and it was the interest, as well as duty and pleasure, of his good wife Janet, to hold him to it (particularly when he had given his word of honour to a customer) by all the arts common to her sex-sometimes by scolding, sometimes by taunting, but oftener for Janet was a kind-hearted creature-by treating him to a thimbleful of aqua-vitæ, which he loved dearly, with its proper accompaniments of bread and cheese. Although, however, Robin did not keep by the shoes with any good heart, he could not be called either a lazy or inefficient man. In everything but cobbling he took a deep and active interest. In particular, he was a great connoisseur of the weather. Nobody could prophesy snow like Robin, or foretell a black frost. The latter was Robin's delight; for with it came the people of Edinburgh to hold their saturnalia on Duddingstone Loch, and cobbling on these great occasions was entirely out of the question. His rickety table, bigbellied bottle, and tree-legged glass were then in requisition, for the benefit of curlers and skaters in general, and of himself in particular. But little benefit accrued from these to Robin, although he could always count on one good customer-in himself. On the breaking up of the ice he regularly found himself poorer than before, and, what was worse, with a smaller disposition than ever to work. kind that strong necessity suggested to Robin a step for the bettering of his fortunes, whick was patronized by the legislature of the day, and which he had heard was resorted to by many with success. Robin resolved to try the lottery. With thirty shillings, which he kept in an old stocking for the landlord, he went to Edinburgh, and purchased a sixteenth. This proceeding he determined to keep a profound secret from every one; but whisky cannot tolerate secrets-the first half mutchkin with barber Hugh succeeding in ejecting it; and as the barber had every opportunity, as well as disposition, to spread it, the thing was known to all the village in the lathering of a chin. Among others, it reached the ears of Mr. Blank, a young gentleman who happened to reside at Duddingstone, and who took an interest in the fortunes of Robin. Mr. B. (unknown to the villagers) was connected with the press of Edinburgh, particularly with a certain newspaper, one copy of which had an extensive circulation in Duddingstone. First of all, the newspaper reached Mr. Blank on the Saturday of its publication; on the Monday it fell into the hands of Robin, who, like the rest of his trade, had most leisure on that day to peruse it; on the Tuesday the baker had it; on the Wednesday the tailor; on the Thursday the blacksmith; on the Friday the gardener; and on the Saturday the barber, in whose shop it lay till the succeeding Saturday brought another, when it was torn down for suds, leaving not a wreck behind, except occasionally a king's speech, a cure for the rupture, a list of magistrates and town-council, or any other interesting passage that took the barber's fancy, which was carefully clipped out and pasted on the wooden walls of his apartment, to the general satisfaction, instruction, and entertainment of his customers. This newspaper, like Wordsworth's "Old Cumberland Beggar," was the means of keeping alive a sympathy and community of feeling among the parties; and in particular tended to establish a friendly intercourse between Robin Rentoul and Mr. Blank. Robin could count upon his glass every Monday when he went for "the papers;" and, except the glass, he liked nothing better than to have what he called "a bother" with Mr. B. himself. Mr. B. soon got from Robin's own mouth all the particulars of the lottery ticket purchase, even to the very number, which was 1757-a number chosen by Robin, who had an eye to fatalism, as being the date of the year in which he was born. A love of mischief or sport suggested to It must have been on some occasion of this the young gentleman the wicked thought of |