Peter Bartholemy. He presented himself at the door of the council-chamber to disclose an apparition of St. Andrew, which had been thrice reiterated in his sleep, with a dreadful menace if he presumed to suppress the commands of Heaven. "At Antioch," said the apostle, "in the church of my brother St. Peter, near the high altar, is concealed the steel head of the lance that pierced the side of our Redeemer. In three days that instrument of eternal, and now of temporal salvation, will be manifested to his disciples. Search and ye shall find; bear it aloft in battle, and that mystic weapon shall penetrate the souls of the miscreants." The pope's legate, the Bishop of Puy, affected to listen with coldness and distrust; but the revelation was eagerly accepted by Count Raymond, whom his faithful subject, in the name of the apostle, had chosen for the guardian of the holy lance. The experiment was resolved; and on the third day, after a due preparation of prayer and fasting, the priest of Marseilles introduced twelve trusty spectators, among whom were the count and his chaplain; and the church doors were barred against the impetuous multitude. The ground was opened in the appointed place; but the workmen, who relieved each other, dug to the depth of twelve feet without discovering the object of their search. In the evening, when Count Raymond had withdrawn to his post, and the weary assistants began to murmur, Bartholemy, in his shirt, and without his shoes, boldly descended into the pit; the darkness of the hour and of the place enabled him to secrete and deposit the head of a Saracen lance; and the first sound, the first gleam of the steel, was saluted with a devout rapture. The holy lance was drawn from its recess, wrapped in a veil of silk and gold, and exposed to the veneration of the Crusaders. Their anxious suspense burst forth in a general shout of joy and hope, and the desponding troops were again inflamed with the enthusiasm of valour.

Whatever had been the arts, and whatever might be the sentiments of the chiefs, they skilfully improved this fortunate revolution by every aid that discipline and devotion could afford. The soldiers were dismissed to their quarters with an injunction to fortify their minds and bodies for the approaching conflict, freely to bestow their last pittance on themselves and their horses, and to expect with the dawn of day the signal of victory. On the festival of St. Peter and St. Paul the gates of Antioch were thrown open; a martial psalm, Let the Lord arise, and let his enemies be scattered!" was chanted by a proces

sion of priests and monks; the battle-array was marshalled in twelve divisions, in honour of the twelve apostles; and the holy lance, in the absence of Raymond, was intrusted to the hands of his chaplain. The influence of this relic or trophy was felt by the servants, and perhaps by the enemies of Christ; and its potent energy was heightened by an accident, a stratagem, or a rumour of a miraculous complexion. Three knights, in white garments and resplendent arms, either issued, or seemed to issue, from the hills. The voice of Adhemar, the pope's legate, proclaimed them as the martyrs St. George, St. Theodore, and St. Maurice; the tumult of battle allowed no time for doubt or scrutiny; and the welcome apparition dazzled the eyes or the imagination of a fanatic army. In the season of danger and triumph the revelation of Bartholemy of Marseilles was unanimously asserted; but as soon as the temporary service was accomplished, the personal dignity and liberal alms which the Count of Toulouse derived from the custody of the holy lance provoked the envy and awakened the reason of his rivals. A Norman clerk presumed to sift, with a philosophic spirit, the truth of the legend, the circumstances of the discovery, and the character of the prophet; and the pious Bohemond ascribed their deliverance to the merits and intercession of Christ alone.

For a while the Provincials defended their national palladium with clamours and arms; and new visions condemned to death and hell the profane sceptics who presumed to scrutinize the truth and merit of the discovery. The prevalence of incredulity compelled the author to submit his life and veracity to the judgment of God. A pile of dry faggots, four feet high and fourteen long, was erected in the midst of the camp; the flames burned fiercely to the elevation of thirty cubits; and a narrow path of twelve inches was left for the perilous trial. The unfortunate priest of Marseilles traversed the fire with dexterity and speed, but his thighs and belly were scorched by the intense heat; he expired the next day; and the logic of believing minds will pay some regard to his dying protestations of innocence and truth. Some efforts were made by the Provincials to substitute a cross, a ring, or a tabernacle in the place of the holy lance, which soon vanished in contempt and oblivion. Yet the revelation of Antioch is gravely asserted by succeeding historians; and such is credulity, that miracles most doubtful on the spot and at the moment will be received with implicit faith at a convenient distance of time and space. -History of the Crusades.

OLD TIME'S HOLIDAY.

SUGGESTED ON SEEING A PICTURE OF TIME

PLAYING ON A HARP.

[Rev. William Lisle Bowles, born at King's Sutton, 1762; died 1850. Educated at Winchester and Oxford; became vicar of Bremhill, prebendary of Salisbury, and canon residentiary. He wrote many poems, and some of his early sonnets were highly esteemed by Wordsworth, Southey, and Coleridge. His chief works are: St. Michael's Mount; The Battle of the Nile; The Sorrows of Switzerland; The Spirit of Discovery, or the Conquest of the Ocean: The Missionary of the Andes: The Grave of the Last Saxon: St. John in Patmos; Ellen Gray; &c. &c. He also published an edition of Pope's works, and several volumes on religious subjects. "He has a fine eye for the beautiful and the true; and, although his enthusiasm was tempered, we never miss a cordial sympathy with whatever is pure, noble, and generous."-D. M. Moir's Poetical Literature.]

Though swift the moments pass along, To some they scarcely seem to move; Whilst Fancy sings her elfin song.

Of Hope, of Joyance, and of Love.

As through a valley far remote I stray'd,
Methought, beside a mould'ring temple's stone,
The tale of whose dark structure was unknown,
I saw the form of Time: his scythe's huge blade
Lay swathed in the grass, whose gleam was seen
Fearful, as oft the wind the tussocks green
Moved, stirring to and fro: the beam of morn
Cast a dim lustre on his look forlorn;
When, touching a responsive instrument,
Stern o'er the chords his furrow'd brow he bent:
Meantime a naked boy, with aspect sweet,
Play'd smiling with the hour-glass at his feet!
Apart from these, and in a verdant glade,
A sleeping Infant on the moss was laid,
O'er which a female form her vigils kept,
And watch'd it, softly breathing as it slept.
Then I drew nigh, and to my list'ning ear
Came, stealing soft and slow, this ditty clear:

"Lullaby, sing lullaby,-
Sweetest babe, in safety lie;
I thy mother sit and sing,

Nor hear of Time the hurrying wing.
"Here, where innocence reposes,

Fairy sylphs, your sports delay;
Then the breath of morning roses
From its bed of bliss convey.

"Lullaby, sing lullaby,Sweetest babe, in safety lie;

I thy mother sit and sing,

Nor hear of Time the hurrying wing."

Hush'd in sweet slumber, its calm eye-lids closed, One little hand upon its heaving breast,

Amidst the flow'rs a beauteous Child reposed,
And ring-doves murmur'd it to stiller rest.
Unseen, far off, the mutt'ring thunder roll'd;
Unheard, far off, the meteor lightnings play'd;
When all was sunshine here, and clouds, like gold,
Hung, as delaying, o'er the shadowy glade.

I turn'd, and lo! a bevy bright and fair
Come dancing, youths and virgins in a throng.
Heard ye the animated air

Rich tones of pleasure and of hope prolong?

"Golden lads and lasses gay,'

Now is life's sweet holiday:
Time shall lay by his scythe for you,

And Joy the valley with fresh violets strew."

Then sweeter came, methought with accents clear, The song, in soft accordance to mine ear. It said, "O Youth, still joyous on thy way, Mayst thou be found; now that her purple wing The morning waves and the fresh woodlands sing. Nor let cold Wisdom's voice thy heart dismay, Telling thee Hope and Pleasure last not long; That Age will come, like pilgrim poor and old, And wan Disease, with cheerless aspect cold; But listen to my mirth-inspiring song: The shadow'd landscape, and the golden sun, The skies so pure, the vernal pastures green, And hills and vales, at distance softer seen, Invite thee life's glad race secure to run; Thine every joy the smiling prospect yieldsTo-morrow to fresh streams and fairer fields,"

As light of heart they pass'd along,
At once the dark Musician changed his song:

"Who, in tender transport lying.
While the gentle wizard sings,
Thinks not of the hour that's flying,
Or the noise of human things?"

I look'd, and saw upon a lake, alone,
Stealing beneath the bank, a little boat
(Upon whose sail the beams of morning shone)
Soft on its shade without a murmur float,
Aerial rocks gleam'd o'er the woods remote:
On all things round there was a silence deep,
Save when at times was heard the turtle's note,
Or distant pipe, or bell of wand'ring sheep.
Upon the bank myrtles and lilies grew,

And spreading woodbines mark'd a sylvan care, And sometimes, deck'd with flow'rs of various hue, The green-sward slope descended to the wave.

And in that boat, with look that witness'd joy
And hope, a beautiful and winged Boy
Sat at the helm, and as the breezes fann'd
His yellow-stirring hair, filling the sail
Gently, he smiled, and lifted in his hand
A blooming May-thorn, whilst the Wizard sung,
Old Time, as he himself were beautiful and young,
And seem'd with moody joy the fairy sight to hail:

"Bless the hour Endearment gives!
Who on earth's cold climate lives,
But has felt his heart rejoice,

When woman's smile, and woman's voice,
Hath sent, with magical control,
All sweetness to the soften'd soul?

"Oh! Happiness, where art thou found (If indeed on mortal ground)

But with faithful hearts alone,

That Love and Friendship have made one In tenderness and faith sincere,

In affection's sweetest tear!"

It was a livelong holiday;

And in that boat, far from the faithless crowd, They who true love and mutual trust avow'd, Pursued in peace their solitary way. And it was bliss to see the manly youth, Whose look bespoke sincerity and truth, Gaze upon her he loved, as he could bless Th' Almighty Being, in the living light Of whose warm sun he felt such happiness,

Whilst tears of transport almost dimm'd his sight.

To tenderness and confidence resign'd,
On his protecting bosom she reclined

Her head and so, beneath the gleamy sail,
They passed, amid the summer-shining vale.

Meantime the hoar Musician sings, Hiding the shadow of his sable wings:"Come, and forget the coil of human things! The sound of many sorrows, that dismay The shrinking heart of man, here dies away! Come, pure Endearment, be this moment thine; Kiss from the lid the tears that rapturous shine, And let one Spirit of Affection say,

Blest hours, but ah! too transient, could ye stay Your rapid flight, how sweet were life's long way!"

Now where a gloom of thicker myrtles grew,
The fading vision lessen'd from my view.
As far away the stealing shadows float,
Still ev'ning slowly sheds her umbrage hoar,

One streak of light strays from the parting boat,
And softest sounds die on the distant shore.
I stood like one who, with delighted eyes,
Pursues the noontide rainbow as it flies;
When, from a cloud that sapphire-bright appear'd,
Words, like the sound of waves remote, I heard:

"Mortal, would thy search obtain
True wisdom in a world of pain?

Oh! when all the valleys ring
To music of life's opening spring,
Let not Flattery's syren lay
Lure thy trusting heart astray.
Let Gaiety's glad dance and song
Detain, but not detain thee long.
Love's enchanting visions gleam,
But, ah! they are not what they seem!

Nor yet let sullen Care destroy
Vernal hopes, and summer joy!
Use the present, but not so
That it may lead to years of woe.
Take the joys the Heav'ns impart
With a meek and thankful heart;
And think them, when they steal away,
But as companions of a day.
Love, and youth's delightful spring,
Time shall bear with rapid wing;
But, when Passion's hour is past,
Fidelity and Truth shall last;
Last till life's few sands are run!
And Nature views the sinking Sun!
Nor think that then the parting knell
Sounds o'er the grave a last farewell;
For higher, purer joys remain,
Far beyond yon starry plain;
Where sorrow shall no loss deplore,

Where Time and change shall be no more."

I look'd, and saw no more the boat the stream; Pass'd like the silent pictures of a dream:

I turn'd to the same spot, where with white beard That Phantom-Minstrel o'er his harp inclined;

I saw alone his Shadow vast, and heard

The sound of mighty pennons, clanging in the wind!

THE SHEPHERD'S INVITATION.1

Live with me, and be my love,
And we will all the pleasures prove
That hills and valleys, dales and fields,
And all the craggy mountains yields.

There will we sit upon the rocks,
And see the shepherds feed their flocks,
By shallow rivers, by whose falls
Melodious birds sing madrigals.

There will I make thee a bed of roses,
With a thousand fragrant posies,

A cap of flowers, and a kirtle
Embroider'd all with leaves of myrtle.

A belt of straw and ivy buds,
With coral clasps and amber studs;
And if these pleasures may thee move,
Then live with me, and be my love.

LOVE'S ANSWER.

If that the world and love were young, And truth in every shepherd's tongue, These pretty pleasures might me move To live with thee and be thy love.

SHAKSPEARE.

1 Dr. John Donne has written a song called "The Bait" very similar to the foregoing, but coarse in some of its conceits.

VISIONS-A PHANTASY.

of modern Russian novelists.

I do not know how the next day passed. I tried, I remember, to read and to work a little but could accomplish nothing. Night fell: my heart beat as if I had been expecting some I went to bed and turned my face to the

wall.

"Why did you not come?" The whisper was plainly audible in the chamber. Hastily I turned my head.

For a long time I tried in vain to sleep, and kept tossing from side to side. "The devil take all this nonsense of tipping tables," I said to myself, "it certainly shakes the nerves. At length, however, drowsiness began to get the upper hand.

Suddenly it seemed to me that a harp-string twanged feebly in my chamber. I lifted my head. The moon was low in the sky and shone full in my face; its light lay like a chalk-mark on the carpet. The strange sound | was distinctly repeated. I raised myself on my elbow, my heart beat forcibly. A minute passed so-another-then in the distance a cock crowed and a second answered him from yet further.

My head fell back on the pillow. "It comes even to that," I thought, "my ears are fairly ringing."

In a moment more I was asleep, or seemed to myself to be sleeping. I had a singular dream. I thought that I was in my chamber in my own bed, wide awake. Suddenly I hear the noise again. I turn. The moonbeam on the floor begins to waver, to rise, to take shape, stands motionless before me like the white figure of a woman, transparent as mist. "Who are you?" I ask, trying to retain my

composure.

There was the form again, the mysterious being with fixed eyes in its rigid countenance and an expression of woe.

Come?" I heard faintly.

"I will come," I answered with uncontrollable terror. The shape wavered, sank into itself like a puff of smoke, and once more it was only the wan moonlight that lay on the smooth floor.

At tea I

I passed the day in excitement. nearly emptied a bottle of wine, and for a moment stood hesitating at the open door, but almost immediately turned back and threw myself upon my couch. The blood rushed at fever-speed through my veins.

Again I heard the tones. I shrank, but would not look up. Then suddenly I felt myself tightly clasped by something, and a whisper in my very ear, "Come, come, come Trembling with fright I stammered, “I will come," and raised myself upright.

The woman's form was bending over the head of my bed. It smiled slightly, and faded, but not before I had been able to distinguish the features. It seemed to me that I had seen them before; but where-when? It was late when I rose, and I spent almost the whole day in the fresh air, went to the old oaktree at the edge of the wood and regarded it thoroughly. Toward evening I seated my self beside the open window in my study. My housekeeper brought me a cup of tea, but I was unable to taste it. All sorts of thoughts besieged me, and I asked myself seriously whether I was not on the road to madness. It was just after sunset, and not only the sky but the whole atmosphere was suddenly suffused with a supernatural purple light; leaves and weeds, smooth as if freshly varnished, were alike motionless, there was something singular, almost mysterious, in this absolute quiet, this dazzling sharpness of outline, this combination of intense glow with the stillness of death itself. A large gray bird flew noiselessly toward me and settled itself upon the balustrade of my balcony. I looked at it and it looked at me, its head sideways, with its round, dusky eye. "Are you sent to remind me?" I thought.

The bird spread its wings and flew away as silently as it had come. I remained at the window for some time longer absorbed in thought. I seemed to be under a spell, a gentle but irresistible power controlled me, as the boat is swept on by the current long before the cataract is in sight. When I regained possession of myself the glow was gone from the sky, which had grown dark, and the enchanted stillness had ceased. A light breeze had sprung up, the moon rode bright and brighter through the blue expanse, and in her cold light the trees shimmered, half dusk half silver. My old servant entered with a lamp, but the draught from the window extinguished the flame. I waited no longer, thrust my hat on my head and hurried to the old oak-tree at the edge of the wood.

Years ago this oak had been struck by lightning; its top was shivered and entirely blasted, but the trunk had still vigour for coming centuries. As I approached, a filmy cloud drew over the moon; blackest shadow lay under the broad branches. At first I was not conscious of anything unusual, but as I glanced to one side my heart throbbed-a white form was standing motionless by a tall sapling between me and the tree. My hair stood on end, but I plucked up courage and walked steadily on.

As I

Yes, it was she, my nightly visitant. drew near, the moon shone out in full splendour. The figure seemed woven, as it were, out of a half-transparent milky cloud; through the face I could see a twig that stirred with the wind, only the hair and the eyes were of a somewhat darker colouring, and on one finger of the folded hands I saw the faint glimmer of a narrow ring. I remained standing before it and attempted to speak to it, but my voice died in my throat; although I was not sensible of fear. Its glance was full upon me, the expression was neither of grief nor of gladness, but a rigid, unlife-like attention. I waited to be addressed, but it kept immovable and silent, with its death-like stare fixed on me. Again I felt my self-possession failing.

“I am come,” I said at last with a mighty effort. My voice was hollow and unnatural. "I love you," returned a whisper. "You love me?" I asked in amazement. "Give yourself to me," was answered, still in the same tone.

"Give myself to you? You are only a ghost. You have no bodily existence.' Ꭺ peculiar excitement had taken possession of

me.

"What are you? Smoke-air-vapour? Give myself up to you? First answer me

who are you? Have you lived on earth? And whence do you now come?"

"Give yourself to me. I will do you no ill. Say but two words: 'take me.'

I looked at it attentively. "What is it talking about?" I thought. "What does it all mean? How can it take me? Shall I venture?"

"Very good," I answered so that it should hear, with unexpected loudness, indeed, as if some one had hit me from behind, "Take me!"

I had hardly pronounced the syllables when the form bent forward with a smile, so that the features trembled for a moment, and slowly extended its arms. I would fain have drawn back, but found it already out of my power. It twined about me, my body was caught up a yard from the ground, and gently, and not too rapidly, I floated over the still and dewy grass.

My head swam.

Involuntarily I closed my eyes, only to open them, however, the next moment. We were still floating upward. But the wood was no longer to be seen. Under us lay a wide plain, flecked here and there with shadow. With horror I realized that we had gained a fearful height.

"I am lost. I am in the devil's clutches," was the thought that shot lightning-like through my brain. Till this moment the idea of demoniacal interference in my undertaking had not occurred to me. We were borne constantly farther, and took our flight higher and higher as it appeared.

"Where are you taking me?" burst from me at length.

"Wherever you will," answered my guide. It clung closer and closer to me, its face almost touching my own. Yet I could not feel the contact. This height

"Take me back to the earth. makes me giddy."

"Good; only shut your eyes and hold your breath."

I followed this counsel and found myself sinking like a stone, the wind fairly whistling through my hair. When I recovered myself we were hovering just above the ground, so that we stirred the tops of the grass blades.

"Put me down," I said, "on my feet, I have had enough of flying. I am no bird."

"I believed it would be pleasant to you. We have no other power."

"We? Who are you, then?" No answer.