valier; and if he chose to nerve himself for death by reading Ronsard's hymn upon it, this is no proof that he looked with irreverence upon what was to follow it. His last words are extremely touching; for they prove that, though he considered that Mary had remorselessly sacrificed his life, his sorrow was greater than his resentment, and his love went with him to the grave. "Adieu," he said, turning to the quarter in which he supposed her to be, "adieu, most beautiful and most cruel princess in the world!" and then, submitting himself to the executioner, he met the last stroke with a courage consistent with his character.

Of Mary's behaviour on this event, history, I believe, gives no account.

My ponderings upon this singular story had detained me long. The old pictures on the walls glistened and glimmered in the moonshine like a band of spectres; and, at last, I fairly fancied that I saw one grisly gentleman pointing at me with his truncheon, in the act of directing his furies to "seize on me and take me to their torments." It was almost time to be gone; but the thought of Chatelar seemed

holding me by the skirts. I could not depart without taking another look at the scene of his happiest hours, and I stole, shadow-like, with as little noise as I could, through the narrow passages and staircases, till I stood in Mary's little private apartment.

As I passed the antechamber the light was shining only on the stain of blood; the black shadows here and elsewhere made the walls appear as though they had been hung with mourning; and the ghost of a tune was haunting my ears with—“ Adieu plaisant pays de France." I do not know that ever I felt so melancholy; and had not the owl just then given a most dismal whoop, I think I might very possibly have had courage and sentiment enough to remain till I was safely locked up for the night. I passed by the low bed, under which Chatelar is said to have hidden himself. It must have cost him some trouble to get there! I glanced hastily at the faded tambour work, which, it is possible, he might have witnessed in its progress; and I shook my head with much satisfaction to think that I had a head to shake. "If," said I,

"there is more interest attached to the old times of love, it is, after all, in some degree, counterbalanced by the safety of the present; and I know not whether it is not better to be born in the age when racks and torments are used metaphorically, than in those in which it is an even chance that I might have encountered the reality."

VOL. I.

L

LADY BETTY'S POCKET-BOOK.

"Into it, Knight, thou must not look."

SCOTT.

I PASSED my five-and-twentieth birthday at Oakenshade. Sweet sentimental age! Dear, deeply regretted place! Oakenshade is the

fairest child of Father Thames, from Gloucestershire to Blackwall. She is the very queen of cottages, for she has fourteen best bedrooms and stabling for a squadron. Her trees are the finest in Europe, and her inhabitants the fairest in the world. Her old mistress is the Lady Bountiful of the country, and her young mistresses are the prides of it. Lady Barbara is black-eyed and hyacinthine, Lady Betty blue-eyed and Madonna-wised.

In situations of this kind it is absolutely necessary for a man to fall in love, and, in due compliance with established customs, I fell in love both with Lady Betty and Lady Barbara. Now Barbara was soft-hearted and highminded, and pretended, as I thought, not to care for me, that she might not interfere with the interests of her sister; and Betty was reckless and giddy-witted, and troubled her head about nobody and nothing upon earth, except the delightful occupation of doing what she pleased. Accordingly, we became the Romeo and Juliet of the place, excepting that I never could sigh, and she never could apostrophize.

Oh, what a time was that! I will just give a sample of a day. We rose at seven (it was July), and wandered amongst moss roses, velvet lawns, and sequestered summer-houses, till the lady mother summoned us to the breakfast table. I know not how it was, but the footman on these occasions always found dear Barbara absent on a butterfly chase, gathering flowers, or feeding her pet robin, and Betty and myself on a sweet honeysuckle seat, just big enough to