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me upright in some postern, which I will defend either with this lance or this carcass." "Come, my lord governor," replied the other, "you are more hampered by fear than by your bucklers. Make haste and exert yourself, for it grows late; the enemies swarm, the noise increases, and the danger is very pressing." In consequence of this persuasion and reproach the poor governor endeavoured to move, and down he came to the ground with such a fall that he believed himself split to pieces. There he lay like a tortoise covered with its shell, or a flitch of bacon between two trays; or, lastly, like a boat stranded with her keel uppermost. Yet his fall did not excite the compassion of those unlucky wags; on the contrary, extinguishing their torches, they renewed the clamour, and repeated the alarm with such hurry and confusion, trampling upon the unhappy Sancho, and bestowing a thousand strokes upon the bucklers, that if he had not gathered and shrunk himself up, with drawing his head within the targets, the poor governor would have passed his time but very indifferently; shrunk as he was within that narrow lodging, he sweated all over with fear and consternation, and heartily recommended himself to Heaven that he might be delivered from the danger that encompassed him. Some stumbled, and others fell over him; nay, one of the party stood upon him for a considerable time, and thence, as from a watch-tower, gave orders to the army, exclaiming with a loud voice,

"This way, my fellow-soldiers, for here the enemy make their chief effort! Guard this breach; shut that gate; down with those scaling ladders; bring up the fire-pots, with the kettles of melted pitch, rosin, and boiling oil; barricade the streets with woolpacks?"

In a word, he named with great eagerness all the implements, instruments, and munitions of war, used in the defence of a city assaulted; while the bruised and battered Sancho, who heard the din, and suffered grievously, said within himself,

"O! would it please the Lord that the island were quickly lost, that I might see myself either dead or delivered from this distress!"

Heaven heard his petition, and when he least expected such relief his ears were saluted with a number of voices crying,

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helped him to rise, and set him on his legs again,

"I wish," said he, "the enemy I have conquered were nailed to my forehead. I want to divide no spoils, but I beg and supplicate some friend, if any such I have, to bring me a draught of wine; and that he will wipe me dry of this sweat, which has turned me into water."

They accordingly wiped him clean, brought the wine, untied the bucklers, and seated him upon his bed, where he fainted away through fear, consternation, and fatigue. Those concerned in the joke now began to be sorry for having laid it on so heavy; but Sancho's recovery moderated their uneasiness at his swooning. He asked what it was o'clock, and they answered it was daybreak: then, without speaking another syllable, he began to dress himself in the most profound silence; and all present gazed upon him with looks of expectation, impatient to know the meaning of his dressing himself so earnestly. At length, having put on his clothes very leisurely, for his bruises would not admit of precipitation, he hied him to the stable, attended by all the by-standers, where, advancing to Dapple, he embraced him affectionately, and gave him the kiss of peace upon the forehead, saying, while the tears trickled from his eyes,

"Come hither, my dear companion! my friend, and sharer of all my toil and distress: when you and I consorted together, and I was plagued with no other thoughts than the care of mending your furniture and pampering your little body, happy were my hours, my days, and my years! but since I quitted you, and mounted on the towers of pride and ambition, my soul has been invaded by a thousand miseries, a thousand toils, and four thousand disquiets."

While he uttered this apostrophe, he was employed in putting the pack-saddle on his ass, without being interrupted by any living soul; and Dapple being equipped for the road, he made shift to mount him, with great pain and difficulty: then, directing his words and discourse to the steward, secretary, sewer, Doctor Pedro, and many others who were present.

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'Make way, gentlemen," said he, "and let me return to my ancient liberty; let me go in quest of my former life, that I may enjoy a resurrection from this present death I was not born to be a governor, or to defend islands and cities from the assaults of their enemies. I am better versed in ploughing and delving, in pruning and planting vines, than in enacting laws, and defending pro

ment to submit his administration to a scrutiny, and if your lordship will give an account of yours during the seven days you have stood at the helm, you may depart in peace."

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'Nobody can call me to an account," said Sancho, "but such as are appointed by my lord duke. Now to him am I going, and to him will I render it fairly and squarely; besides, there is no occasion for any other proof than my leaving you naked as I am, to show that I have governed like an angel."

vinces and kingdoms. I know St. Peter is well at Rome—that is, every one does well in following the employment to which he was bred; a sickle becomes my hand better than a governor's sceptre, and I would rather fill my belly with soup-meagre than undergo the misery of an impertinent physician who starves me to death. I would much rather solace myself under the shade of an oak in summer, and clothe myself with a sheepskin jacket in the winter, being my own master, than indulge, under the subjection of a government, with Holland sheets and robes of sables.-God be with you, gentlemen; and pray tell my lord duke, Naked I was born, and naked I remain; and if I lose nothing, as little I gain. That is, I would say, All the rest assented to the proposal, and Penniless I took possession of this government, allowed him to pass, after having offered to and penniless I resign my office; quite the bear him company, and provide him with reverse of what is usually the case with gover-everything he should want for entertainment nors of other islands. Make way, therefore, and let me go and be plaistered; for I believe all my ribs are crushed, thanks to the enemies who have this night passed and repassed over my carcass.

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"It must not be so, my lord governor," said Doctor Positive: "I will give your worship a draught, calculated for falls and bruises, that will instantly restore you to your former health and vigour; and with respect to the article of eating, I promise your lordship to make amends, and let you eat abundantly of everything you desire."

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"Your promise comes too late," answered Sancho; and I will as soon turn Turk as forbear going. These are no jokes to be repeated. I will as soon remain in this, or accept of any other government, even though it should be presented in a covered dish, as I will fly to Heaven without the help of wings. I am of the family of the Panzas, who are all headstrong, and if once they say odds, odds it must be, though in fact it be even, in spite of all the world. In this stable I leave the wings that carried me up into the clouds, to make me a pray to martlets and other birds; and now let us alight, and walk softly and securely on the ground, and if my feet are not adorned with pinked shoes of Cordovan leather, they shall not want coarse sandals of cord or rushes, Let ewe and wether go together, and, Nobody thrust his feet beyond the length of his sheet. Now, therefore, let me pass, for it grows late." To this address the steward replied, "We shall freely allow your lordship to go, although we shall be great sufferers in losing you, whose ingenuity and Christian conduct, oblige us to desire your stay, but it is well known that every governor is obliged before he quits his govern

"The great Sancho is in the right," cried Doctor Positive, "and in my opinion, we ought to let him retire; for the duke will be infinitely rejoiced to see him."

of his person, and the convenience of his journey. Sancho said he wanted nothing but a little barley for Dapple, and half a cheese, with half a loaf for himself, the journey being so short that he had no occasion for any better or more ample provision. All the company embraced him, and were in their turns embraced by the weeping Sancho, who left them equally astonished at his discourse as at his resolute and wise determination.

A LOVE-LETTER.

[Edward Robert Bulwer, Lord Lytton, born 8th

November, 1831; the only son of the late Lord Lytton.

Educated at Harrow and at Bonn. In 1849 he went as attaché to his uncle Sir H. L. Bulwer, then British

minister at Washington; and since that date he has

held important appointments in the government service at Florence, Paris, the Hague, Vienna, Copenhagen, Athens, Lisbon, Madrid, &c. As a poet and under the nom de plume of Owen Meredith, he has earned high His works are:

reputation at home and abroad.

Clytemnestra, and other Poems (1855); The Wanderer, a Collection of Poems in Many Lands-one of which we quote; Lucille, a novel in verse; Serbske Pesme, a collection of the national songs of Servia; The Ring of Amasis, a romance; Chronicles and Characters, chiefly poems on historical subjects; Orval, or the Fool of Time, a dramatic poem, paraphrased from the Polish, with other paraphrases in verse from the Greek, Latin, Italian, and

Danish literatures. "He has an eye for colour; his ear is open for the cries of nature; and that which he

thinks clearly and feels deeply he can express with rare felicity and power."—Athenarum ]

My love, my chosen,--but not mine! I send

My whole heart to thee in these words I write ; So let the blotted lines, my soul's sole friend,

Lie upon thine, and there be blest at night.

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But now we know the best, the worst. We have
Interr'd, and prematurely, and unknown,
Our youth, our hearts, our hopes, in one small grave,
Whence we must wander, widow'd, to our own

And if we comfort not each other, what

Shall comfort us, in the dark days to come? Not the light laughter of the world, and not The faces and the firelight of fond home.

And so I write to you; and write, and write,
For the mere sake of writing to you, dear.
What can I tell you, that you know not? Night
Is deepening thro' the rosy atmosphere

About the lonely casement of this room,

Which you have left familiar with the grace That grows where you have been. And in the gloom I almost fancy I can see your face.

Not pale with pain, and tears restrain'd for me, As when I last beheld it; but as first,

A dream of rapture and of poesy,

Upon my youth, like dawn on dark, it burst.

Perchance I shall not ever see again
That face. I know that I shall never see
Its radiant beauty as I saw it then,
Save by this lonely lamp of memory,

With childhood's starry graces lingering yet
I' the rosy orient of young womanhood;
And eyes like woodland violets newly wet;
And lips that left their meaning in my blood!

I will not say to you what I might say
To one less worthily loved, less worthy love.
I will not say.
"Forget the past. Be gay.
And let the all ill-judging world approve

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But in the heart of man, a secret voice

There is, which speaks, and will not be restrain'd, Which cries to Grief, "Weep on, while I rejoice, Knowing that, somewhere, all will be explain'd."

I will not cant that commonplace of friends,

Which never yet hath dried one mourner's tears, Nor say that grief's slow wisdom makes amends For broken hearts and desolated years.

For who would barter all he hopes from life,
To be a little wiser than his kind?
Who arm his nature for continued strife,

Where all he seeks for hath been left behind?

But I would say, O pure and perfect pearl
Which I have dived so deep in life to find,
Lock'd in my heart thou liest. The wave may curl,
The wind may wail above us.
Wave and wind,

What are their storm and strife to me, and you?
No strife can mar the pure heart's inmost calm.
This life of ours, what is it? A very few

Soon-ended years, and then,-the ceaseless psalm,

And the eternal Sabbath of the soul!

And I shall feel, wherever we may be,

Even tho' in absence and an alien clime,
The shadow of the sunniness of thee

Hovering, in patience, thro' a clouded time.

Farewell! The dawn is rising, and the light
Is making, in the east, a faint endeavour
To illuminate the mountain peaks. Good night.
Thine own, and only thine, my love, for ever.

GRANDMOTHER ASLEEP.

BY A. WHITELAW.

"Sleeps the sleep that knows no waking."

Scott.

The sympathy that exists between old age and childhood is one of the most beautiful and touching traits of humanity. Here "extremes meet" and mingle in blessed harmony. The old man who has exhausted life in all its stages, seeks at last, with hoary head and

Hush!... While I write, from the dim Carmine bended back, the society of children, and joins

The midnight angelus begins to roll,

And float athwart the darkness up to me.

My messenger, (a man by danger tried)
Waits in the courts below and ere our star
Upon the forehead of the dawn hath died,
Beloved one, this letter will be far

Athwart the mountain, and the mist, to you.
I know each robber hamlet. I know all
This mountain people. I have friends, both true
And trusted, sworn to aid whate'er befall.

I have a bark upon the gulf. And I,
If to my heart I yielded in this hour,
Might say.

"Sweet fellow-sufferer, let us fly! I know a little isle which doth embower

"A home where exiled angels might forbear

A while to mourn for Paradise!" . . But no!
Never, whate'er fate now may bring us, dear,
Shalt thou reproach me for that only woe

Which even love is powerless to console;

in their prattle and gambols! The child, again,
who is but beginning the mysterious round of
life, turns, with corresponding sympathy, to
"the world's gray fathers," and seeks support
and protection rather from the palsied hand
of eld than the strong arm of manhood!
tering infancy clings to tottering age-and
age finds in infancy a boon companion!

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There can be no earthly affection more pure than that of a grandmother to her grandchildren. A mother's affection may often be nothing more than animal instinct, and like all instincts have its source in selfishness; but a grandmother's love must be the perfection of disinterested attachment. It is the noblest of all passions. There is no grandmotherism among beasts. It is the farthest removed from self and the senses that we can conceive. It can count on no equivalent return, for long before the child has reached manhood, the grandmother must be beyond his assistance. It cannot even promise itself the hope of living

Which dwells where duty dies: and haunts the tomb to witness the result of all its tender assidOf life's abandon'd purpose in the soul;

And leaves to hope, in heaven itself, no room.

Man cannot make, but may ennoble, fate,
By nobly bearing it. So let us trust
Not to ourselves but God, and calmly wait
Love's orient, out of darkness and of dust.

Farewell, and yet again farewell, and yet
Never farewell-if farewell means to fare
Alone and disunited. Love hath set

Our days in music, to the selfsame air;

uities. It can never see the little twig which it nurses so carefully, become a full-grown tree, far less can it ever reap the fruit of its labours. It plants and waters for other ages than its own.

We knew or have heard of an old woman who was left, at an advanced age, to protect and support the orphaned boy and girl of her only son. The story is a mere anecdote, but it may be worth telling, as it contains a good moral. This old woman, though born to con

siderable affluence, was, by the mysterious hand of Providence, fated to spend her life and her treasure in the service of others-and never did human being perform the will of her Master with more divine sweetness! Her husband turned out a profligate; and, after having exhausted her fortune and his own constitution, died of a lingering disease in her arms. Her son-an only child--was reared with the fondest care; but he followed the footsteps of his father-married young-broke his wife's heart --and finally died, leaving his two little children, a boy and girl, in the hands of his aged and impoverished mother. A life annuity of fifteen pounds was all that the old woman had to support herself and rear the children; but there was surely a blessing with it, for it went farther than many people's fifties, and upon it alone she contrived to maintain a decent appearance and proud independence. She rented a small cottage in the vicinity of Govan, on the banks of the Clyde; and there, with her little orphans, and scanty means, and meek deportment, presented a picture of true greatness, nobler far than what is to be found in castle or palace.

Though her life had been one of adversity, and her best feelings had been outraged by those who were dearest to her, the original benevolence of her nature was neither soured nor diminished. She was full of divine charity -not the charity of distributing from a store of worldly superfluities-for she had not even the widow's mite to spare-but the charity which thinketh no evil and speaketh no guile, and which looks with loving-kindness on every fellow-creature. The sweetness of her disposition, connected with a knowledge of her misfortunes and difficulties, made her venerated by all the villagers; and, for her sake, her grandchildren were often fondled on the knee, or treated to little delicacies which their desolate lot in life could never otherwise have procured them. The children themselves were models of beauty and innocence-graceful, modest, and affectionate in all that they said or did, for to an originally kind and tractable disposition were superadded the valuable example and instruction of their grandmother.

Neither of the little ones had reached their fifth year, when they were destined to experience a great change in their condition. It was one night in the fall of the year, when autumn was giving way to winter, that they had gone to bed early as usual, after saying their evening prayer with their head in grandmother's lap, and receiving her blessing. Age is wakeful and the old woman was in the

habit of sitting up for hours after they were asleep, reading her Bible, or plying her distaff. Sometimes the children would wake from their sleep, and receive from her tender hand a bit of bread or cup of water. Or sometimes they would start from a terrifying dream, and then her kind voice was ever near them, to assure them of safety, and soothe them into renewed repose. In one of those frightful dreams, to which even the most innocent-minded, carefully nurtured, and healthy children are liable, Catherine, the eldest child, had wakened, and cried with a scream for her grandmother. But her cry was not, as it ever before had been, responded to on this occasion by her assiduous and watchful guardian. She repeated her cry; but grandmother came not-spoke not. Her little brother was wakened by her agitation, and then she had confidence to open her eyes and look about the apartment. There she saw grandmother sitting apparently sound asleep in her chair. Her distaff lay at her feet, and her cruse was nearly extinguished, but the fire still burned briskly, and a full moon shed its hallowed light through the lattice.

"O waken, grandmother! and come to me, for I have had a fearsome dream," cried the poor girl.

"Grandma is asleep, and will not waken," said her little brother.

The stern silence of the old woman was so unusual, that, after repeated cries, the children in alarm jumped from bed, and ran to their grandmother's knee.

"Waken, grandmother, waken! Speak to me! Kiss me!" cried Catherine, getting more terrified.

"Kiss sister, grandma," said the little boy, "and we will say our prayers."

"Listen, grandmother! I saw a ghost in a winding-sheet in the minister's pulpit, and all the kirk-yard was crowded with ghosts-and it was always your face that I saw--that face' -O grandmother, will you not speak?"

"Speak to sister, grandma, for she is frightening me," said the boy.

"Speak! speak!" repeated the girl. "And kiss me! And here is little Willy to kiss too Only speak, and we will be good children."

But, alas! that ear was now deaf which had ever been open to their cry, and that voice now dumb, which had ever spoke in tenderness to them. She, who had all her life ministered to the wants of others, and had hung in undecaying love over the death-bed of an undeserving husband and son, had died without a kind eye to watch her, but the eye of HIM who neither slumbers nor sleeps!

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