them does the cheerful goblet's "clang" resound. The count's nightly footsteps echo back to him, and by the glimmer of the chandeliers the accoutred images of his ancestors appear to writhe and move on the wall as if they wished to speak to him. His armour, sullied by the web of the vigilant spider, he could not look at without sorrowful emotion. Its gentle creaking against the wall made him shudder.

-or.

"Where art thou," he mournfully exclaimed, "thou who art banished? O my son, wilt thou think of thy father, as he of thee thinks art thou dead? and is that thy flitting spirit which rustles in my armour, and so feebly moves it? Did I but know where to find thee, willingly to the world's end would I in repentant wandering journey-so heavily it oppresses me what I have done to thee! I can no longer remain-forth will I go to the God of Mercy, in order, before the image of Christ, in the Garden of Olives, to expiate my sins!"

So spoke the aged man-enveloped his trembling limbs in the garb of repentance took the cockle-hat-and seized with the right hand (that formerly was accustomed to the heavy war-sword) the light long pilgrim's staff. Quietly he stole out of the castle, the steep path descending while the porter looked after him astounded, without demanding "Whither?" For many days the old man's feet bore him wide away; at last he reached a small village, in the middle of which, opposite to a ruined castle, there stands a very ancient plane-tree. Five arms, each resembling a stem, bend towards the earth, and almost touch it. The old men of former times were sitting underneath it, in the still evening, just as the count went by; he was greeted by them, and invited to repose. As he seated himself by their side, "You have a beautiful plane-tree, neighbours,' he said.

"Yes," replied the oldest of the men, pleased with the praise bestowed by the pilgrim on the tree; "it was nevertheless PLANTED IN BLOOD!" How is that?" said the count.

"That will I also relate," said the old man. Many years ago there came a young man here in knightly garb, who had a young woman with him, beautiful and delicate, but, apparently from their long journey, worn out. Pale were her cheeks, and her head, covered with beautiful golden locks, hung upon her conductor's shoulder. Timidly he looked round -for, from some reason, he appeared to fear all men; yet, in compassion for his feeble companion, he wished to conduct her to some

secure hut, where her tender feet might repose. There, under that ivy-grown tower, stands a lonely house belonging to the old lord of the castle; thither staggered the unhappy man with his dear burden, but scarcely had he entered the dwelling than he was seized by the prince, with whose niece he was clandestinely eloping. Then was the noble youth brought bound, and where this plane-tree now spreads its roots flowed his young blood! The maiden went into a convent; but before she disappeared she had this plane-tree planted on the spot where the blood of her lover flowed; since then it is as if a spirit life were in the tree that cannot die, and no one likes a little twig to cut off, or pluck a cluster of blossom, because he fears it would bleed."

"God's will be done!" exclaimed suddenly the old count, and departed.

"That is an odd man!" said the most venerable of the peasants, eyeing the stranger who was hastening away; "he must have something that heavily oppresses his soul, for he speaks not, and hastens away; but, neighbours, the evening draws on apace, and the evenings in spring are not warm. I think in the white clouds yonder, towards the Rhine, are still concealed some snow-storms; let us come to the warm hearth."

The neighbours went their way, while the aged count, in deep thought, passed up through the village, at the end of which he found himself before the churchyard. Terrific black crosses looked upon the traveller-the graves were netted over with brambles and wild roses -no foot tore asunder the entwinement. On the right hand of the road there stands a crucifix, hewn with rude art. From a recess in its pedestal a flame rises towards the bloody feet of the image, from a lamp nourished by the hand of devotion.

"Man of sorrow," thus ascended the prayer of the traveller, "give me my son again—by thy wounds and sufferings, give me peacepeace!"

He spoke, and turning round towards the mountain, he followed a narrow path, which conducted him to a brook, close under the flinty, pebbly, grape hill. The soft murmurs of its waves rippling here and there over clear bright stones harmonized with his deep devotion. Here the count found a boy and a girl, who, having picked flowers, were watching them carried away as they threw them into the current.

When these children saw the pilgrim's reverend attire, they arose-looked up-seized the old man's hand, and kissed it. "God bless

thee, children!" said the pilgrim, whom the touch of their little hands pleased. Seating himself on the ground, he said, "Children, give me to drink out of your pitcher."

"You will find it taste good out of it, stranger-man," said the little girl; "it is our father's pitcher in which we carry him to drink upon the vine-hill. Look! yonder he works upon the burning rocks-alas! ever since the break of day; our mother often takes out food to him." "Is that your father," said the count, "who with the heavy pickaxe is tearing up the ground so manfully, as if he would crush the rocks beneath?"

"Yes," said the boy, "our father must sweat a good deal before the mountain will bring forth grapes; but when the vintage comes, then how gay is the scene!"

"Where does thy father dwell, boy?" "There in the valley beneath, where the white gable-end peeps between the trees; come with us, stranger-man; our mother will most gladly receive you, for it is her greatest joy when a tired wanderer calls in upon us.'

"Yes," said the little girl; "then we al ways have the best dishes; therefore do come -I will conduct thee."

So saying, the little girl seized the old count's hand, and drew him forth-the boy, on the other side, keeping up with them, sprang backwards and forwards, continually looking kindly at the stranger; and thus slowly advancing, they arrived at the hut.

The Haus-frau (wife) was occupied in blowing the light ashes to awaken a slumbering spark as the pilgrim entered; at the voices of her children she looked up, saw the stranger, and raised herself immediately; advancing towards him with a cheerful countenance, she said

66 Welcome, reverend pilgrim, in this poor hut if you stand in need of refreshment after your toilsome pilgrimage, seek it from us; do not carry away the blessing which you bring with you farther."

Having thus spoken, she conducted the old man into the small but clean room. When he had sat down, he said—

"Woman, thou hast pretty and animated children; I wish I had such a boy as that!"

"Yes!" said the Haus-frau, "he resembles his father-free and courageously he often goes alone upon the mountain, and speaks of castles he will build there. Ah! sir, if you knew how heavy that weighs upon my heart!" -(the woman concealed a tear).

"Counsel may here be had," said the count; "I have no son, and will of yours, if you will give him me, make a knight—my castle will

"Dear mother!" said the boy, "if the castle of the aged man is empty, I can surely, when I am big, go thither?"

"And leave me here alone?" said the mother.

"No; you will also go!" said the boy, warmly; "how beautiful is it to look from the height of a castle into the valley beneath!" "He has a true knightly mind," said the count; "is he born here in the valley?"

"Prayer and labour," said the mother, "is God's command, and they are better than all the knightly honours that you can promise the boy; he will, like his father, cultivate the vine, and trust to the blessing of God, who rain and sunshine gives. Knights sit in their castles, and know not how much labour, yet how much blessing and peace, can dwell in a poor man's hut! My husband was oppressed with heavy sorrow: alas! on my account was his heartfelt grief; but since he found this hut, and works here, he is much more cheerful than formerly; from the tempest of life he has entered the harbour of peace-patiently he bears the heat of the day; and when I pity him, he says, 'Wife, I am indeed now happy!' Yet frequently a troubled thought appears to pierce his soul. I watch him narrowly-a tear then steals down his brown cheeks. Ah! surely he thinks of the place of his birth—of a now very aged gray father; and whilst I see you, a tear also comes to me-so is perhaps now'

At this minute the little girl interrupted her, pulled her gently by the gown, and spoke"Mother! come into the kitchen; our father will soon be home."

"You are right," said the mother, leaving the room; "in conversation I forgot myself." In deep meditation the aged count sat and thought, "Where may, then, this night my son sleep?"

Suddenly he was roused from his deep melancholy by the lively boy, who had taken an old hunting-spear from the corner of the room, and placing himself before the count, said—

"See! thus my father kills the wild boar on the mountains-there runs one along! my father cries 'Huy!' and immediately the wild boar throws himself upon the hunter's spear; the spear sticks deep into the brain! it is hard enough to draw it out!" The boy made actions as if the boar was there.

"Right so, my boy!" said the aged man; but does thy father, then, often hunt upon these mountains?"

"Yes! that he does; and the neighbours

praise him highly, and call him the valiant extirpator, because he kills the boars which destroy the corn."

In the midst of this conversation the father entered; his wife ran towards him, pressed his sinewy hand, and spoke

"You have had again a hot labouring day." "Yes," said the man; "but I find the heavy pickaxe light in hand when I think of you. God is gracious to the industrious and honest labourer, and that he feels truly when he has sweated through a long day.'

"Our father is without!" cried suddenly the boy, threw the hunter's spear into the middle of the room, and ran forwards. The little girl was already hanging at his knees.

"Good evening, father!" cried the boy; "come quick into the room-there sits a stranger-man—a pilgrim whom I have brought to you!"

"Ah! there you have done well," said the father; "one must not allow one tired to pass one's gate without inviting him in. Dear wife!" continued he, "does not labour well reward itself, when one can receive and refresh a wanderer? Bring us a glass of our best home-grown wine-I do not know why I am so gay to-day, and why I do not experience the slightest fatigue."

Thus spoke the husband-went into the room --pressed the hand of the stranger, and spoke

66

Welcome, pious pilgrim! your object is so praiseworthy; a draught taken with so brave a man must taste doubly good!"

They sat down opposite to each other in a room half dark: the children sat upon their father's knees.

"Relate to us something, father, as usual," said the boy.

"That won't do to-day," replied the father; "for we have a guest here-but what does my hunter's spear do there? have you been again playing with it? Carry it away into the

corner.

"You have there," said the pilgrim, "a young knight who knows already how to kill boars

also you are, I hear, a renowned huntsman in this valley; therefore you have something of the spirit of a knight in you."

"Yes!" said the vine-labourer; "old love rusts not, neither does the love of arms; so often as I look upon that spear, I wish it were there for some use formerly but, aged sir, we will not think of the past. Wife! bring to the revered"

.

At this minute the Haus-frau entered, placed a jug and goblets on the table, and said"May it refresh and do thee good!"

"That it does already," said the pilgrim, "presented by so fair a hand, and with such a friendly countenance!"

The Haus-frau poured out, and the men drank, striking their glasses with a good clank; the little girl slipped down from her father's knee, and ran with the mother into the kitchen; the boy looked wistfully into his father's eyes smilingly, and then towards the pitcher -the father understood him, and gave him some wine; he became more and more lively, and again smiled at the pitcher.

"This boy will never be a peaceful vinelabourer, as I am," said the father; "he has something of the nature of his grandfather in him-hot and hasty, but in other respects a good-hearted boy-brave and honourable. Alas! the remembrance of what is painful is most apt to assail one by a cheerful glass. If he did but see thee-thee-child of the best and most affectionate mother, on thy account he would not any longer be offended with thy father and mother; thy innocent gambols would rejoice his old age; in thee would he see the fire of his youth revived again; but"

"What dost thou say there?" said the pilgrim, stopping him abruptly; "explain that more fully to me."

Perhaps I have already said too much, reverend father; but ascribe it to the wine, which makes one talkative. I will no more afflict thee with my unfortunate history."

"SPEAK!" said the pilgrim, vehemently and beseechingly; SPEAK! who art thou?"

"What connection hast thou with the world, pious pilgrim, that you can still trouble yourself about one who has suffered much, and who has now arrived at the port of peace?" "SPEAK!" said the pilgrim; "I must know thy history."

66

'Well," replied he, "let it be! I was not born a vine-labourer-a noble stem has engendered me, but love for a maiden drove me from my home."

"Love?" cried the pilgrim, moved.

"Yes! I loved a maiden, quite a child of nature, not of greatness; my father was displeased-in a sudden burst of passion he drove me from him-wicked relations, who, he being childless, would inherit, inflamed his wrath against me, and he, whom I yet honour, and who also surely still cherishes me in his heart -he'

The pilgrim suddenly rose, and went to the door.

"What is the matter with thee?" said the astonished vine-labourer; "has this affected thee too much?"

The boy sprang after the aged man, and held him by the hand. "Thou wilt not depart, pilgrim?" said he.

66

At this moment the Haus-frau entered with a light. At one glance into the countenance of the vine-labourer the aged count exclaimed, "MY SON!" and fell motionless into his arms. As his senses returned, the father and son recognized each other. Adelaide, the noble faithful wife, weeping, held the hands of the aged man, while the children knelt before him. Pardon, father!" said the son. "Grant it to me!" replied the pilgrim, "and grant to your father a spot in your quiet harbour of peace, where he may end his days. Son! thou art of a noble nature, and thy lovely wife is worthy of thee-thy children will resemble thee-no ignoble blood runs in their veins. Henceforth bear my arms; but, as an honourable remembrance for posterity, add to them a pilgrim and the pickaxe, that henceforth no man of high birth may conceive that labour degrades man, or despise the peasant who in fact nourishes and protects the nobleman."

WHOM HAVE I IN HEAVEN BUT

THEE?

I love, and have some cause to love, the Earth:
She is my Maker's creature, therefore good;
She is my mother, for she gave me birth;
She is my tender nurse, she gives me food.
But what's a creature, Lord, compared with Thee?
Or what's my mother or my nurse to me?

I love the Air: her dainty sweets refresh My drooping soul, and to new sweets invite me. Her shrill-mouthed choir sustain me with their flesh, And with their polyphonian notes delight me. But what's the Air, or all the sweets that she Can bless my soul withal, compared with Thee?

I love the Sea: she is my fellow-creature, My careful purveyor-she provides me store; She walls me round, she makes my diet greater, She wafts my treasure from a foreign shore. But, Lord of Oceans, when compared with Thee, What is the Ocean or her wealth to me?

To Heaven's high city I direct my journey, Whose spangled suburbs entertain mine eyeMine eye, by contemplation's great attorney, Transcends the crystal pavement of the sky. But what is Heaven, great God, compared with Thee? Without thy presence, heaven's no heaven to me. FRANCIS QUARLES (1635).

EDWIN THE FAIR.1

[Sir Henry Taylor, K.C.M.G., D.C.L., born at Bishop Middleham, Durham, 18th October, 1800. Dramatic poet and essayist. He spent some years in the Colonial Office. His works are: Isaac Comnenus, a play, 1827-the character of Isaac is remarkable for its singularly forcible expression of satirical humour and pathetic grandeur; Philip Van Artevelde, a dramatic romance, 1834. The Statesman, 1836; Edwin the Fair, a drama, 1842; Notes from Life, 1847; Notes from Books, 1848; A Sicilian Summer, 1850, and St. Clement's Eve.

The story of the unfortunate love of Edwin and Elgiva is told in Edwin the Fair, in which the fanatic monk Dunstan plays the part of evil genius. "This is a dramatic poem full of life and beauty, thronged with picturesque groups, and with characters profoundly discriminated. They converse in language the most chaste, harmonious, Review. and energetic." Sir James Stephen in the Edinburgh We have selected two scenes from this poem, the wooing of Edwin and Elgiva, and the attempt of Dunstan to secure the abdication of the imprisoned king, who is happily rescued by his friends. He died in 1886.]

SCENE.-Chamber in the Palace.

ELGIVA and ETHILDA.

Elgiva. How is it I find favour in the sight
Of the Queen Mother, and so suddenly?
When I was last at court no word she spake
Of welcome by herself, the King, or thee.
Whence is the change?

Ethilda.
I know not; but I know
That but one change in thee would work in us
All love that thou couldst wish. O sweet Elgiva,
Restore thyself to God in his true church,
And stray not in that howling wilderness
Where never is the voice of gladness heard,
Of bridegroom nor of bride.
Blgiva.
My royal cousin,
'Tis thou that strayest in that wilderness.

1"Even when Anglo-Saxon history was less read and otherwise understood than it is now, some interest was always felt in the reign of Edwin the Fair. There was left to us little more than the outline of a tragic story; in some parts, indeed, even less-for here and there the outline itself is broken and wavering; but the little that was known was romantic enough to have impressed itself upon the popular mind, and the tale of 'Edwy and Elgiva' had been current in the nursery long before it came to be studied as an historical question. . .

"The growing influence and uncompromising spirit of the monastic orders had been regarded by successive Kings, sometimes with favour, and sometimes with jealousy and fear; and according as one side or the other was uppermost, Seculars were ejected from their benefices and monasteries established; or Monks were ejected from the monasteries and Seculars restored. But upon the whole, the fanatical party had been gaining ground for more than a century; and in the reign immediately preceding that of Edwin monasteries had been multiplied throughout the land."-Author's Preface.