pause, "I cannot but believe he has some torted, instead of perfecting it. In a few words, she was unfit for, unequal to, the times in which she lived; while her rival, Elizabeth, possessed of few womanly graces, and apparently without a heart to play the traitor to her interests, had yet happily, my ignorance was my best friend, and "He questioned me strangely yesterday; but, learned such lessons from early adversity, as saved me from any difficulty in replying. But, taught her to make her own throne the most Walter, I have dreadful thoughts and fears; to stedfast in Europe. At the time of which we you I must own them, though my heart will are writing, a treaty of marriage was on foot scarcely acknowledge their reality. Do you rebetween Elizabeth and the Duke of Anjou, member, or did you know, that before this secreyoungest brother of the king of France, not-tary, Hickford, wound himself into my cousin's withstanding the disparity of some twenty years in their age. Probably, however, the royal lady had as little intention of fulfilling the contract as she had proved to be the case in former instances. However this might be, the Queen of Scots considered, and justly, that she had some claims on the brotherly assistance and protection of Charles the Ninth, and it was to make one more effort to enlist him on her side that she had entrusted a secret embassy to her tried friend, Walter Wrangham. Perhaps she hoped that if the treaty were really fulfilled, her interests might meet with some consideration; or perhaps she had by this time sufficient experience of Elizabeth's character to arrive at a just conclusion, and predict that the marriage would be broken off. In the former case, their mutual interests were more likely to be consolidated; in the latter, she had more chance of receiving assistance from her brother-in-law, Charles. good graces-that is to say, a few months ago, when no other seemed worthy of trust, to me ments in a cipher which soon became familiar to was allotted the task of copying certain docume. It was the same as that adopted in the of these letters I never saw more than detached, correspondence with the Queen of Scots, though and probably unimportant passages. Still I think it impossible I could be mistaken. Andam so well acquainted with her writing, that I and I certainly saw a letter from Mary in my guardian's hand this morning." "Oh Agnes! this is dreadful." "So dreadful, that had it been told you by almost any other, it would have been thrown back in the speaker's teeth as an impossible falsehood." 66 'Aye, and had the tongue from which it rolled been a man's, I would have maintained the honour of my friend, and of your kinsman, with my sword and my life. Agnes, this is the bitterest moment I have yet known. But tell me all, if there be yet more to learn. Is there danger, as well as disgrace?" Agnes Howard was worthy of her lover's confidence; and it was a nobler feeling than mere curiosity which prompted her questions, or made her an anxious listener. When, how- | ever, they spoke of the Duke of Norfolk, a shade 'Listen. My cousin desired Hickford to passed over her countenance, and she asked in make certain extracts, and then destroy the letà trembling voice if he were cognizant of Wal-ter. Hours afterwards, in the presence of the ter's mission. "Nay, dear Agnes," exclaimed Walter, "not for worlds would I have confided to him even the few broad outlines of my duty, which alone I feel privileged to communicate even to you, my other, dearer self. Know you not the solemn promise your kinsman, the Duke, has given to the Queen of England? a promise to refrain from all communication, direct or indirect, with Queen Mary. Only on this promise was he released from the bondage to which his own impetuosity had led him; and though I and others may think it hard that Mary should be denied the choice of a husband-provided this hateful marriage with Bothwell can be annulled-from the peers of England, I can understand Elizabeth's objection to her union with a popular nobleman, whose influence as Mary's husband would go far to emancipate her from that state of dependence in which it is evident Elizabeth desires to retain her rival. At all events, the promise was given, and to consult the Duke on my embassy, or to converse on subjects from which might emanate his advice and opinionstoo precious to be willingly disregarded-would seem to me, if not the utterance, the perpetra tion of a falsehood." "And yet," said Agnes, after a moment's 66 Duke, he burnt a paper which was said to be "I fear it," returned Agnes; "his manner, too, is changed-conscious of his own importance, he lords it over the whole household, and did I not perforce keep him at a distance by the haughtiest and most chilling reserve, he would fain play the gallant with me.' "Insolent wretch!" cried Walter, and his hand sought instinctively his sword hilt; but the soft fingers of Agnes stayed the angry gesture, and looking up in his face with tearful eyes, she exclaimed "This is no time for an ignoble quarrel; had I believed you capable of such, I would not have spoken thus frankly." "What a time to leave you, Agnes! what a time to leave the Duke!" "Think rather of him than of me," she cried. "I am threatened with no danger but that which reaches me through others. For you, Walter, I have little fear; for the broad shield of integrity covers you. Fulfil your mission from the Scottish queen, and may heaven grant that it prove prosperous !" "But, Agnes, cannot we warn the Duke of Hickford's treachery?" "I will do that. If my cousin's suspicions should be awakened, and Hickford should trace your interference in the matter, you would have in him a revengeful enemy; while I am little likely to be suspected by him, and I should think still less capable of receiving injury from him." 66 Boast not, dear girl, that you are invulnerable to the enmity of a bad man; the loathsome reptile which we scorn has often power to turn upon, and sting us." As he spoke, two figures, linked arm-in-arm, emerged from a corridor beneath the balcony on which the lovers stood; and though the shadows had deepened, and twilight was fast. melting into the darkness of night, Walter Wrangham had no difficulty in recognizing them as Sir Ralph Morton and Hickford, the secretary. (To be continued.) LINES ON THE SPRING. Who loves not the wild woods, when spring-tide is Remind us of all that is lovely and sweet? true, And have come once again to gladden the spring, And cheer us it does, e'en though bitter our mood, E. C. L. THE COMPARISON. BY MRS. F. B. SCOTT. There's a charm in thy quiet face, There's a sweet soft light in thy shadow'd eye: Save those which mount with eagle's wings on high. I have seen many an eye, Of the eastern purple dye, Flashing in scenes of revelry ; But I scorn their practised gaze, And I turn from their lightning rays With fresh fervour and truth to thee! I have seen many a smile, On the fairest lip awhile, Born of caprice-in passion to die; And dearer, sweet love, I prize The tear in thy modest eyes, And the low sad tone of thy bosom's sigh. So those who have wander'd far, Unsuccessful and weary return at last Consoled by that peace for the past. And those who have travell'd wide, Or gaily sailed on the Arno's breast, By the cold world; thus dying bless'd. THE ORGAN BOY. 66 BY ELIZABETH YOUATT, EDITOR OF THE GRANDFATHER." The organ's grinding The grinder's face being o'er it leant While the children's hearts leap so, MISS E. BARRETT. It was a bright spring noon, and the windows of our little sitting room placed half open admitted the faint sweet scent of many an early flower, that, but for the busy and ceaseless hum of a mighty city, would almost have persuaded us we were in some of those far off country places of which the dwellers in towns only dream. And now there rose up a sudden strain of music that sounded marvellously sweet! and yet it was but a common street organ after all; but there are times when the simplest air, endeared by memory or association, has a strange power to make us smile or weep. It may be that that one tune, and at one and the same time, shall seem to the different hearts upon which it falls, a pleasant and gladsome thing, bringing back old times again-a dirge!-a mockery!or a song to which the bounding feet and merry voice of youth make echo, bringing tears or laughter-a benison or a curse! And now there is silence again, and a shadow has fallen upon the page before us. We look abroad, and the streets are already deserted; while one of those pelting showers so common to this fickle season of the year in England, comes down fast and heavily; while we can yet see the blue sky but a little way beyond, like a glad promise of better days. Presently the storm cleared away, and the little organ-boy quitting a neighbouring gate-way, beneath which he had taken shelter, music and sunshine burst forth joyously together. We can see the little bright-haired child of our opposite neighbour clapping her tiny hands and whirling round and round to one of Strauss's charming waltzes: and bye-and-bye she pauses suddenly; she is asking for something to give to the poor minstrel. Bless her kind thoughtful little heart. The mother unfastens the window and they step out together upon the low balcony; and how the pale sallow face, which we had thought almost plain, flashes up as she speaks to him-how the large, heavy eyes grow brilliant as stars! She is herself a foreigner and has most likely addressed him in his own language; but fearing at length that her darling should take cold, retires within doors, and the boy is alone again in a strange land. While closing our eyes, we lean back and dream of all that we have seen, and known, and heard of these poor wanderers. In a dark and narrow street, where the opposite houses seem almost as though you might touch them, and every sound that goes on therein is distinctly heard, dwelt a poet-aye, a real poet; although he only wrote for newspapers, or now and then a second-rate magazine; and of whom it was expected to babble of green fields, and flowers, and pure holy scenes and thoughts, that never came to him save in dreams. Of late he had had the good fortune to meet with one, who, appreciating his talents, or else pitying his necessities, exerted himself with the editor of a periodical of some standing to admit the poet among his list of contributors; the result of which application was a notice that he was to have an article forthcoming by the 15th of the month, at the very latest, for which, if approved, a liberal remuneration would be given. And now the 13th had already come, and not a syllable was written; nay, the very subject of the poem remained as yet undecided. Alas! alas the chilling wring of poverty and want had swept over, and well nigh frozen up the once wild and gushing springs of poesy. Words and thoughts no longer came as of old at his bidding the weary and throbbing brain refused to yield up its rich treasures-the ideal lay buried beneath the actual and the real-the golden harp had become damp and useless from tears! Now he stirred together the dying embers upon the hearth, or trimmed his feeble lamp, or drew strange caricatures of the human countenance upon the blank page before him, which he afterwards burned, and presently got up and paced the narrow limits of his chamber to and fro, pausing every now and then to gaze out upon the bright starry heavens. Oh! a poet must be lost indeed to his high vocation when these last fail to inspire him; a common theme with such for ages, and yet not half worn out. Something must, however, be done, and the weary author was in the very act of chasing the dim shadow of an idea through the mazes of his tired brain, when an organ boy, pausing beneath the window, began to play the College Hornpipe, from which he passed at length into Port H Charmant, ending with Dunois the Brave; and then, just as our poor poet was in the act of resuming his pen, and trying to recall the tangled chain of thought thus rudely interrupted, actually began at the beginning and went through them all again; and was commencing for the third time, when, unable to bear it any longer, he rushed frantically into the street with the view of putting a stop to so intolerable a nui sance. The boy stood leaning against the iron railings, with the lamplight falling full upon his pale sorrowful face, and so engrossed, as it would seem, with his own thoughts, that the poet spoke to him once or twice before he could be aroused, and then, comprehending the man's fierce and angry gestures rather than his words, he stopped playing as he was desired, and moved meekly on, like one awakened from a dream. But there was still something divine in the heart of the poet, which amid all its earthly struggles and temptations, although oftentimes quenched for a season, was never wholly lost, and, instigated by its promptings, he went after the boy, who shrunk from him at first, but was soon won by his altered and kindly manner; and leading him back, made him sit down and warm himself by the dim fire, giving him his own supper, simple enough, but every thing he had in the world; while the grateful minstrel would have played over all the airs of which his instrument was capable a dozen times, if his benefactor had suffered him; and when cheered and warmed, he rose at length to depart, his grateful thanks and blessings, although uttered in a strange tongue, fell soothingly upon the poet's heart, for he too was a solitary being. And now he is alone again, but that little chamber seems filled with light. He sits down to his time-worn desk, and gentle thoughts forming themselves into words as they come crowding thick and fast upon each other, gush forth as old. Can it be that there lurked a spell in the blessing of the young child to unlock the hidden fountain of sweet and holy dreaming within his soul, over which the rust of years had been slowly gathering? We know not, but only that the task was quickly done, and the poet went hungry and supperless to bed that night, almost for the last time. The editor read the poem and wondered. The world applauded and wept; while the author exulted in his success, as he well might-the laurel-wreathed visions of youth coming back again like a long-forgotten melody: and they have all been realized, his name passing into a householdword among us. A sick man lay on his restless couch, his brow damp and heavy with pain, his white lips firmly compressed, and the hands clenched in agony, while those who loved him best stood pale and fearfully about the bed, not a word of hope being exchanged, for it had long since died out, and stifling the very moaning of their grief lest it should add to his; when all of a sudden as they watched, the silence was rudely broken by a merry air played by an organ boy beneath the window, in utter unconsciousness of his near vicinity to the chamber of death, the sick man beating time with his long yellow fingers upon the coverlet. It was an old familiar tune to which he had danced years ago when a child. They who stood around the bed exchanged sad and tearful glances one with another, and the youngest moved across the room with noiseless steps in order to silence what seemed to them a very mockery. But just at that moment the strain changed into a hymn, low, wailing, and melancholy, but soothing withal, and she stood still to watch the calm smile which stole over the face of the invalid, who soon afterwards fell into a deep quiet sleep, and still haunted by that solemn air, dreamt that he was already in heaven. It may be that the widow and the orphan shall hear it many times again, but never without remembering and weeping for him who is gone, less bitterly as years roll on, till they come at last rather to envy than lament that he they so loved is at rest. How often of a winter night, when we sit around the cheerful hearth, or alone with our own thoughts, the rain beating against the window pane, and the wind sighing and moaning like the cry of a complaining spirit, may the organ boy be heard plying his musical but melancholy calling, while we listen breathlessly for the hundredth time to the beautiful airs of our favourite "Norma," rudely as they are uttered, and dream perhaps of those who were with us when we heard them last; but seldom, ah, how very seldom, bestowing a thought on the poor musician, abroad at this late hour, and on so pitiless a night Fearing, perhaps, to return to his miserable lodgings without the required sum, for few work on their own account, but are in the service of soine stern task-master, who lured them away most likely with fairy visions and golden promises from their far southern homes; and while we laugh, or sing, or, lulled by the tunes he plays, fall into a series of sad and yet delicious reveries in which the past seems but as yesterday, the organ boy, chilled by the night wind, and wet with the heavy rain. receives in his delicate constitution the first seeds of a disease for which no cure has yet been found; for we are told that it is perfectly astonishing the number of these poor foreigners who perish yearly from consumption, engendered most likely by exposure to the inclement atmosphere of a climate so different from their own sunny Italy. The organ boy is seldom seen to beg, or he merely touches his ragged cap with a rare smile and a musical voice, his teeth and eyes glittering strangely. But on ordinary occasions his dark sun-burnt face wears a sad expression, as though a shadow were on it, and the children dance round him without his being aware of their presence. The merest trifle seems to make him happy for the time being; aye, even a kind word, and this last all have it in their power to bestow. Those abroad early in the morning may see the organ boys issuing from their obscure homes in twos and threes, and, parting at length, Sonnet. wend their way to the pleasant outskirts of town, to which their strains come like familiar things, making many glad. But towards evening they may be found resting wearily on door steps, or dragging along their feeble limbs scarcely able to bear the additional weight of the instrument, or playing still, half mechanically, in hopes by this means to make up the required sum and avert the anger of their employer. Somehow we do not feel half as much pity for those Italian boys who, instead of an organ with its eternal round of the same tunes which he is compelled to play and listen to day after day, week after week, month after month, aye, even for a brief life-time, and must, we think, haunt his very slumbers—have a marmozet or a tame squirrel to hold in his bosom, and to which he can tell all his petites miseres, albeit it can only reply by lifting up its soft brown eyes, and nestling closer to its owner. It is so pleasant to have something to love, something that we think loves us, and our only fear is lest that cherished thing should die. We knew this to happen once, and a kind and benevolent lady, who chanced to be present, thought to soothe the wild grief of the sobbing child by promising to give him another marmozet quite as handsome as the one he had lost, but the poor little fellow only clung the closer to his dead favourite-bis playmate of old in a brighter land—the companion of a long sea-voyage, when it would creep to his bosom, and seemed the only thing that loved and cared for him--and afterwards in a strange country, was father, mother, brother, all to that solitary boy! Oh! was it to be wondered at, that he should weep thus hopelessly? We can remember long agy a melancholytoned organ that used to be heard only on certain nights, and always at the same hour, while we loved to amuse ourselves by trying to recollect what we were doing or thinking of on its last visit, or wondering what might have chanced before it came again, looking even then with a vague restlessness into the future. But so little curiosity had we about the musician himself that the organ might have been selfacting for aught we ever knew to the contrary, or cared to enquire; and when it ceased after a time somewhat suddenly, our selfish feeling of disappointment was unmingled with one regretful thought for that poor unknown minstrel, whose life, it may be, had been as melancholy as his music, and ceased with it at length. Like the organ boy, we are all wanderers from our bright home, needing the helping hand and the kindly voice and smile to cheer us on our earthly pilgrimage-yearning ever for the beautiful-visited by glimpses, albeit they come but in dreams, of blue skies afar off, and holy greetings from lost friends who await us there; dependent on human love and sympathy for our happiness, pouring out the music of our souls upon echoless things. Like him, our songs are demanded in a strange land," and if it should chance that they die out and suddenly cease, none miss them. The multitude as they sit 66 around the pleasant hearth-stone in company, or alone with their own thoughts, love to listen to our strains; nay, they may even smile or weep over them, owning that they are marvellously sweet, and the minstrel-mind the while be all forgotten-the minstrel-heart be sad, and lonely, and poverty stricken-and yet a kind word might make it leap for joy-the wise and timely counsel might still its wild, unholy throbbings the gentle warning guide it heaven-ward home! And now, even as we write, there rises up from beneath the casement a low plaintive strain of distant music. The poor organ-boy is still somewhere in the neighbourhood, lingering as it would seem to thank us in his own tuneful way for these our brief reminiscences of him, which we will dare to hope have not been written altogether in vain. STANZAS. Nay, gentle lady, clear thy brow; Than others more of mundane ill; Yet midst this universal woe, E'en while we feel the chastening hand, To His most favour'd ones 'tis given, SONNET. BY MRS. F. B. SCOTT. (The Virtuous.) Thrice happy are the virtuous! They can see Their souls, enlighten'd by a holy ray, On one high standard all their wishes poise, H 2 |