"WELL! I'm determined; that's enough:Gee, Bayard! move your poor old bones, I'll take to-morrow, smooth or rough,

To go and court the Widow Jones. "Our master talks of stable-room, And younger horses in his grounds; 'Tis easy to foresee thy doom,

Bayard, thou'lt go to feed his hounds. "But could I win the widow's hand,

I'd make a truce 'twixt death and thee; For thou upon the best of land

Should'st feed, and live and die with me."

Twirl went his stick; his curly pate
A bran new hat uplifted bore;
And Abner, as he leapt the gate,
Had never looked so gay before.
7-VOL. I.

Died at Shefford, Beds, August 19, 1823.]

But whether, freed from recent vows,

Her heart had back to Abner flown, And marked him for à second spouse, In truth is not exactly known;

Howbeit, as he came in sight,

She turned her from the garden stile, And downward looked with pure delight, With half a sigh and half a smile. She heard his sounding step behind, The blush of joy crept up her cheek, As cheerly floated on the wind,

66

Hoi! Mary Jones-what! won't you speak?"

Then, with a look that ne'er deceives,
She turned, but found her courage fled;
And, scolding sparrows from the eaves,
Peeped forth upon the stranger's head.

"Leave me; or take me and my horse.

Down Abner sat, with glowing heart,

Resolved, whatever might betide,
To speak his mind, no other art
He ever knew, or ever tried.
And gently twitching Mary's hand-

The bench had ample room for two-
His first words made her understand
The ploughman's errand was to woo
"My Mary-may I call thee so?

For many a happy day we've seen; And if not mine, ay, years ago,

Whose was the fault? You might have been!

"And now my own dear Mary's free,

Whom I have loved this many a day,
Who knows but she may think on me?
I'd fain hear what she has to say.
"Perhaps that little stock of land

She holds, but knows not how to till,
Will suffer in the widow's hand,

And make poor Mary poorer still.
"Therefore, I'm come to-night, sweet wench,
I would not idly thus intrude "—
Mary looked downward on the bench,
O'erpowered by love and gratitude,
And leaned her head against the vine,
With quick'ning sobs of silent bliss;
Till Abner cried, "You must be mine,
You must"-and sealed it with a kiss.

His eloquence improved apace,

As manly pity filled his mind; "You know poor Bayard-here's the caseHe's past his labour, old, and blind.

"If you and I should but agree

To settle here for good and all,
Could you give all your heart to me,
And grudge that poor old rogue a stall?
"He was a horse of mighty power,

Compact in frame, and strong in limb,
Went with a chirp from hour to hour-
Whipcord was never made for him!
"But I might talk till pitch dark night,
And then have something left to say.
But, Mary, am I wrong or right?
Or do I throw my words away?

I've told the truth and all I know; Truth should breed truth-that comes of course; If I sow wheat, why, wheat must grow." "Yes, Abner; but thus soon to yield,

Neighbours would fleer and look behind 'em: Though, with a husband in the field,

Perhaps, indeed, I should not mind 'em. "I've known your generous nature well; My first denial cost me dear;

How this may end we cannot tell;

But, as for Bayard, bring him here!"
"Bless thee for that!" the ploughman cried,
At once both starting from the seat;
He stood a guardian by her side,

But talked of home-'twas growing late.
What news at home? The smile he wore
One little sentence turned to sorrow;
An order met him at the door:

"Take Bayard to the dogs to-morrow." "Yes, yes," thought he, and heaved a sigh; "Die when he will, he's not your debtor; I must obey, and he must die

That's if I can't contrive it better."

The day rose fair; with team a-field,

He watched the farmer's cheerful brow;
And, in a lucky hour, revealed

His secret at his post, the plough;
And there, without a whine, began:
"Master, you'll give me your advice;
I'm going to marry-if I can-

And want old Bayard; what's his price?
"For Mary Jones last night agreed-
Or near upon 't-to be my wife.
The horse's value I don't heed,
I only want to save his life."
"Buy him, hey, Abner! Trust me, I
Have not the thought of gain in view;
Bayard's best days we've seen go by,
He shall be cheap enough to you."
The wages paid, the horse brought out,
The hour of separation come,

The farmer turned his chair about:

It is well known that the Count and Countess of Foix were not on good terms with each other. This disagreement arose from the King of Navarre, who is the lady's brother. The King of Navarre had offered to pledge himself in the sum of 50,000

francs, for the Lord D'Albreth, whom the Count de Foix held in prison. The count, knowing the King of Navarre to be crafty and faithless, would not accept his security, which circumstance piqued the countess, and raised her indignation against

her husband. The countess went to the King of Navarre to endeavour to settle this business; and when, after much talking, she found she could come to no satisfactory arrangement, she was afraid to return home, knowing her husband to be of a cruel disposition towards those with whom he was displeased. Thus things remained for some time. Gaston, my lord's son, grew up and became a fine young gentleman. He married the daughter of the Count D'Armagnac, sister to the present count, by which union peace was restored between Foix and Armagnac. He might be at the time about fifteen or sixteen years old, and was a very fine figure, the exact resemblance of his father. Some time after his marriage he took it into his head to make a journey into Navarre, to visit his mother and uncle; but it was an unfortunate journey for him and for his country. In Navarre he was splendidly entertained, and stayed there some time with his mother. On taking leave he could not prevail on her to return, for she had found that the count had bid him convey no such request to her. She consequently remained, and the heir of Foix went to Pampeluna to take leave of his uncle, who detained him ten days, and, on his departure, made him several handsome presents. The last gift he made him was the cause of his death; and I will tell you in what way.

As the youth was on the point of setting out, the king took him privately into his chamber, and gave him a bag full of powder, which was of such pernicious quality that it would cause the death of any one who ate it.

"Gaston, my fair nephew," said the king, "will you do what I am about to tell you? You see how unjustly the Count de Foix hates your mother. Now, if you wish to reconcile them, you must take a small pinch of this powder and strew it upon the meat destined for your father's table; but take care no one sees you. The instant he has taken it he will be impatient for your mother's return, and henceforth they will so love each other that they will never again be separated. Do not mention this to any one, for if you do it will lose its effect."

The youth, who believed all which his uncle told him, cheerfully agreed to do as he said, and then departed from Pampeluna. On his return to Orthes, his father received him gladly, and asked what presents he had brought.

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got mixed together; and the coat of Gaston being on the bed, Evan, noticing the powder in the bag, said to him, "What is this, Gaston ? "

By no means pleased at the inquiry, Gaston replied, "Give me back my coat, Evan; what have you to do with it?"

Evan flung him his coat, and Gaston, during the day, became very pensive. Three days after this, as if Heaven were interposing to save the life of the Count de Foix, Gaston quarrelled with Evan at tennis, and gave him a box on the ears. Much vexed at this, Evan ran crying into the count's apartment, who immediately said to him, “What is the matter, Evan?"

'For what reason ?" said the count.

"On my faith," said Evan, "ever since his return from Navarre he wears a bag of powder in his breast. I know not what he intends to do with it; but he has once or twice told me that his mother would soon return hither, and be more in your good graces than she ever was."

"Ho!" said the count; "be sure you do not mention to any one what you have just told me."

The Count de Foix became very thoughtful on the subject, and remained alone until dinnertime, when he took his seat, as usual, at the table. It was Gaston's office to place the dishes before him and taste them. As soon as he had served the first dish, the count detected the strings of the bag hanging from his pourpoint, the sight of which made his blood boil, and he called Gaston towards him. The youth advanced to the table, when the count untied his pourpoint, and with his knife cut away the bag. Gaston was thunderstruck, turned very pale, and began to tremble exceedingly. The count took some powder from the bag, which he strewed over a slice of bread, and, calling to him one of his dogs, gave it to him to eat. The instant the dog had eaten a morsel, his eyes rolled round in his head, and he died.

The count was much enraged, and not without reason, and it was with great difficulty that the knights and squires who were present prevented him from slaying his son. "Ho! Gaston!" he said; "thou traitor! For thee, and to increase thine inheritance, have I made war, and incurred the hatred of the kings of France and England, Spain, Navarre, and Arragon." Then leaping over the table, with a knife in his hand, he was about to thrust it into his body, when the knights and squires interfered, and on their knees besought him-" My lord, for Heaven's sake, consider you have no other child. Let him be confined, and inquiry made into the matter. Perhaps he was ignorant of what the bag contained, and therefore may be blameless."

"Well, then, confine him in the tower," said the count; "only be careful that he is forthcoming."

At the count's orders, Gaston was confined in a room of the dungeon where there was little light. There he remained ten days, scarcely eating or drinking anything. It is even reported that after his death all the food that had been brought to him was found untouched, so that it is marvellous how he could have lived so long. From the time he entered the dungeon he never put off his clothes, and the count would permit no one to remain in the room to advise or comfort him. On the day of his death the person who waited upon him, seeing the state he was in, went to the count, and said, "My lord, for Heaven's sake, do look to your son; he is starving himself!" on hearing which the count became very angry, and went himself to the prison. It was an evil hour; the count had in his hand a knife, with which he had been paring his nails, and which he held tight between his fingers, with scarcely the point protruding, when, pushing aside

the tapestry that covered the entrance of the prison, through ill luck he hit his son on a vein of the throat with the point of the knife as he rushed forward, addressing him, "Ha! traitor! why dost thou not eat ?" Then, without saying or doing more, he instantly left the place. The youth was much frightened at his father's arrival, and withal exceedingly weak from fasting. The point of the knife, small as it was, had cut a vein, and as soon as he felt it he turned himself on one side, and died. Scarcely had the count reached his apartment when his son's attendants came to him in haste, to inform him that Gaston was dead. "Dead!" cried the count. Yes; God help me, he is indeed dead, my lord." The count would not believe the report, and sent one of his knights to ascertain the truth. The knight soon returned to confirm the account, when the count wept bitterly, crying out, "Ha, ha, Gaston, how sad a business is this for thee and me! In an evil hour didst thou visit thy mother in Navarre. Never shall I be happy again!"

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Washington, D.C., October 6th, 1861.

THE horse is the swarthy Arab's bosom friend, the red Indian's solitary companion, and the circus proprietor's salvation. One of these noble animals was presented to me last week by an old-maid relative, whose age I once guessed to be "about nineteen." The glorious gift was accompanied by a touching letter. She honoured my patriotism, and the self-sacrificing spirit that had led me to join the gallant Mackerel Brigade, and get a furlough as soon as a rebel picket

appeared. She loved me for my mother's sake; and as she happened to have ten shillings about her, she thought she would buy a horse with it for me. Mine affectionately, Tabitha Turnips.

Ah! woman, glorious woman! what should we do without thee? All our patriotism is but the inspiration of thy proud love, and all our money is but the few shillings left after thou hast got through buying new bonnets. Oh, woman! thoughtful woman! the soldier thanks thee for sending him pies and cakes that turn sour before

they leave New York; but don't send any more Havelocks, or there'll be a crisis in the linen market. It's a common thing for a sentry to report, "Eighty thousand more Havelocks from the women of America."

But to return to the horse which woman's generosity has made me own-me be-yuteous steed. The beast is fourteen hands high, fourteen hands long, and his sagacious head is shaped like an old-fashioned pickaxe. Viewed from the rear his style of architecture is Gothic, and he has a gable-end, to which his tail is attached. His

eyes are two pearls set in mahogany, and before he lost his sight they were said to be brilliant. I rode down to the Patent Office the other day, and left him leaning against a post while I went inside to transact some business. Pretty soon the Commissioner of Patents came tearing in like mad, and says he

"I'd like to know whether this is a public building belonging to the United States, or a second-hand auction shop?"

"What mean you, sirrah ?" I asked, majestically. "I mean," says he, "that some enemy to his