through the streets; and wailing was heard in many a hitherto happy dwelling. Armed men occupied several of the principal thoroughfares, and the sergeants-at-arms were prowling about, and dragging from their hiding places the participators in the outrages of the preceding evening. Ere mid-day arrived, Nicholas Fortescue was again an occupant of the Poultry Compter ;-but this time he was not alone.

A commission of Oyer and Terminer was immediately made out, and the trials of the prisoners took place at Guildhall. Nicholas Fortescue took his stand at the bar with his six companions in misery, and it was only when called upon to plead, that he raised his head. But what a sight met his view! A crowd of gorgeously dressed noblemen and gentlemen occupied the court, and in the midst of them sat that portly figure whom he had parted with at Queenhithe! A mist obscured his sight-a noise like the rushing of waters filled his ears-his knees bent under him, and he fell back in a swoon -it was Master Willoughbye! It was the King!

When our 'prentice recovered, he found himself still in that comely presence, but not in the court. "Pardon, pardon, gracious lord," murmured the poor youth.

Henry laughed aloud. "Pardon thee!" cried he, "ay, by St. George! and reward thee too-rise man, Master Willoughbye is thy friend-old Philip Van Rynk hath given us an account of thee and thy brave companions."

Our tale is told.-The rest is matter of history, and may be found in the Chronicle of Hollingshed. Only one man, it is said, died by the hands of the executioner, and this was John Lincoln, who had been the prime mover of the sedition.

In the year of grace, 1537, Nicholas Fortescue was a rich stationer, alderman of the ward of Chepe, and father of eleven children. When he died, full of years and honours, his widow, the once pretty Jane Elliott, erected to his memory a handsome tomb in Bow Church; but that awful visitation, which historians have termed par excellence," the great fire," proved more destructive to the antiquities of the metropolis than even the scythe of Time, and the pious Cockney who performs a pilgrimage to Bow Church will look in vain for the tomb of Nicholas Fortescue. The tumults which we have endeavoured to describe, for ever tended

THE gong had just sounded eight bells, as Captain M. entered the cuddy, "care on his brow, and pensive thoughtfulness." So unusual was the aspect he wore, that all remarked it in general, his was the face of cheerfulness; not only seeming happy, but imparting happiness to all around. "What has chased the smiles from thy face?" said one of the young writers-"a youth much given to Byron, and open neckcloths. 'Why looks our But, Cæsar with an angry frown?' poetry apart, what is the matter?" "Why! the fact is, we are chased," replied the captain. Chased! chased!! chased!!! was echoed from mouth to mouth, in various tones of doubt, alarm, and ad"Yes, however extraordinary miration. it may seem to this good company," continued our commander, "I have no doubt that such is the fact; for the vessel which was seen this morning right astern, and which has maintained an equal distance during the day, is coming up with us hand over hand. I am quite sure, therefore, she is after no good: she's a wicked-looking craft-at one bell we shall beat to quarters."

We had left the Downs a few days after the arrival of the Morning Star, and, with our heads and hearts full of that atrocious affair, rushed on the poop.

The melancholy catastrophe alluded to had been a constant theme at the cuddy table, and many a face shewed signs of anxiety at the news just conveyed to us. On ascending the poop, assurance became doubly sure; for, certain enough, there was the beautiful little craft overhauling us in most gallant style. She was a long, dark-looking vessel, low in the water, but having very tall masts, with sails white as the driven snow.

The drum had now beat to quarters, and all was for the time bustle and preparation. Sailors clearing the guns, handing up ammunition, and distributing pistols and cutlasses; soldiers mustering on the quarter-deck, in full accoutrements, prior to taking their station on the poop. We had 200 on board: women in the waist, with anxious faces, and children staring with wondering eyes; writers, cadets, and assistant-surgeons, in heterogeneous medley. The latter, as soon as the news had been confirmed, descended to their various cabins, and re-appeared in martial attire. One young gentleman had his "toasting-knife" stuck through the pocket-hole of his inexpressibles a second Monkbarns; another came on exulting, his full-dress shako placed jauntingly on his head-as a Bondstreet beau wears his castor; a third, with pistols in his sash, his swallow-tailed coat boasting of saw-dust, his sword dangling between his legs in all the extricacies of novelty-he was truly a martial figure, ready to seek for reputation

even at "the cannon's mouth." Writers had their Joe Manton, and assistant-surgeons their instruments. It was a stirring sight, and yet, withal, ridiculous.

But now, the stranger quickly approached us, and quietness was ordered. The moment was an interesting one. A deep silence reigned throughout the vessel, save now and then the dash of the water against the ship's side, and here and there the half-suppressed ejaculation of some impatient son of Neptune. Our enemy, for so we had learned to designate the stranger, came gradually up in our wake: no light, no sound, issued from her; and when about a cable's length from us, she luffed to the wind, as if to pass us to windward; but the voice of the captain, who hailed her with the usual salute, "ship a hoy!" made her apparently alter her purpose, though she answered not, for, shifting her helm, she darted to leeward of us.

Again the trumpet sent forth its summons; but still their was no answer, and the vessel was now about a pistol

shot from our larboard quarter. "Once more, what ship's that? answer or I'll send a broadside into you," was uttered in a voice of thunder from the trumpet, by our captain. Still all was silent; and many a heart beat with quicker pulsation. On a sudden, we observed her lower steering-sails taken in by some invisible agency; for all this time we had not seen a single human being, nor did we hear the slightest noise, although we had listened with painful attention.

Matters began to assume a very serious aspect-delay was dangerous: it was a critical moment, for we had an advantage of position not to be thrown away. Two main-deck guns were fired across her bow. The next moment our enemy's starboard ports were hauled up, and we could plainly discern every gun, with a lantern over it, as they were run out. Still we hesitated with our broadside, and about a minute afterwards our enemy's guns disappeared as suddenly as they had been run out. We heard the order given to her helmsman. She altered her course, and in a few seconds was astern of us.

We gazed at each other in a silent astonishment, but presently all was explained. Our attention had been so much taken up by the stranger, that we had not thought of the weather, which had been threatening some time, and for which reason we were under snug sail. But, during our short acquaintance, the wind had been gradually increasing, and two minutes after the pirate dropt astern, it blew a perfect hurricane, accompanied by heavy rain. We had just time to observe our friend scudding before it under bare poles, and we saw him no more. Nautical Magazine.

AUTUMN FLOWERS.

THOSE few pale Autumn flowers!
How beautiful they are!
Than all that went before,
Than all the summer store,
How lovelier far!

And why?-they are the last

The last the last !-the last!O, by that little word, How many thoughts are stirred! The sister of the past!

Pale flowers!-pale perishing flowers!
Ye're types of precious things;
Types of those bitter moments,
That flit like life's enjoyments,
On rapid, rapid wings.

Last hours with parting dear ones,
(That time the fastest spends),
Last tears, in silence shed,
Last words, half uttered,

Last looks of dying friends!

But who would fain compress
A life into a day-
The last day spent with one,
Who, ere the morrow's sun,

Must leave us, and for aye?

O, precious, precious moments!

Pale flowers, ye 're types of those-The saddest! sweetest! dearest! Because, like those, the nearest To an eternal close.

Pale flowers! pale perishing flowers!
I woo your gentle breath;

I leave the summer rose
For younger, blither brows-

Tell me of change and death.

presentatives. It is that there is an intellectual and moral, as well as material loveliness, and that both must be associated in order to produce their fullest effect. A plain countenance becomes fascinating and beautiful when it is combined with a heart and mind which claim our homage, and becomes the speaking vehicle of thoughts and feelings congenial to our

own.

In nature, too, the brightest and loveliest scenes are those which wake the sweetest thoughts, and are linked with the fondest and noblest associations. The same view which might chain us for hours in speechless admiration in the classic climes of Italy and Greece, might be passed with comparative indifference in the untrodden interior of New-Holland or Madagascar. In the former, not a mountain rears its head unsung, and every hill, plain, and valley are teeming with recollections. Homer or Virgil may have stood upon the very spot where we are standing, and have

BY ELLAREMONT.

MATERIAL beauty owes half its attraction to the charms of association. While we gaze upon the productions of the sculptor or painter, there are many considerations independent of the mere shape and figure, or of the exquisite finish of the productions, which enter into our reflections and enhance our pleasure. We are surprised that such could be conceived and executed by man-that they are the work of hands like our own-and we admire the almost incredible skill with which the artist has wrought them, from materials apparently so inadequate to the purpose the ingenuity by which the marble is made to assume the easy attitude and natural form of life, and the canvass to express with such accuracy the object of the artist's conception. In other words, we associate the author and his instruments with the result which has been produced, and thus our delight and interest is doubly increased.

And why is it in life that we often behold others sighing in admiration over forms and features in which we can discover no peculiar attraction? Why is it that the face which we have passed at first with a careless glance, has afterwards been destined to haunt our dreams, and perchance to steal the sleep from our pillows? It is because there is a charm not contained in the mere "curved lines" of Hogarth, in oval features and rounded forms, though these may be its re

proud warrior may have written it with his name, by a deed of heroism. But the latter has no such associations. Thus, too, we look with indescribable pleasure on the placid surface of Leman and Loch Lomond, or on the snow-clad tops of Mont Blanc or Ben Nevis; but were not half that pleasure removed had they never been sung by the muse of a Scott or a Byron? or were they not hallowed by genius, as the bright and fadeless scenes and shrines of romance? And why is it that we gaze with such rapture upon spots which are consecrated by great events-upon Marathon or Plataea, upon Blenheim or Waterloo? Why, when we have passed a thousand similar-a thousand lovelier scenes without a comment of admiration, do we linger over these? It is from the spirit which is stirred up within us. It is that while we gaze, fancy calls up again the events which have occurred there -the splendour and beauty of martial array-the pride, pomp, and circumstance of war; the deed of daring, and the triumph of heroism.

We may have been a traveller-we may have wandered in the climes of sun and song-amid scenes which genius has consigned to immortality—and where nature and art have lavished all their gifts of loveliness. We e may have roved in the vales of Cashmere-the gardens of Shiraz in the wilds of Switzerland, or the walks of the Tuileries. Yet, what of all the scenes which we have looked upon, are those which have left the most

The

indelible impressions? What are the scenes which are shrined in insurpassable beauty in the sanctuary of our hearts, and where fancy and memory oftenest delight to linger and worship? Is it these, when we shut our eyes, in our reveries or dreams, that come up to gladden our musings? Or is it not some bright spot where we dreamed and played and loved in the days of our childhood; the views which enclose the dwellingplace of our infancy? And why is this? They may be tame in other eyes -the stranger might pass them with indifference and contempt-they may not possess a moiety of the loveliness which we have since gazed upon. And yet to us they are more beautiful than aught we have since seen, because earth has naught that can match them in the liveliness or loveliness of their associations. They are beautiful to us, as the theatre of a thousand childish incidents. sacred registry of unfading memoriesof the charms of young love and affection, of young dreams and aspirations. And perchance, too, they are consecrated as the last resting-place of those we have loved, and of those who have loved us, as we ne'er shall love, or be loved again. What a world of exquisite sentiment is there in the dying request of Joseph, and the solemn earnestness with which it was enforced, that his bones might be conveyed to rest in the tomb of his fathers. Egypt would have lavished all the pomp and splendour of the east on the tomb of Pharaoh's favourite. But in Canaan, perchance, he deemed that even after death his spirit might still wander amid the lovely scenes of his infancy, and take delight in the thought that the same breeze which fanned the brow of his childhood was sweeping o'er his grave.

THE RIVALS;

E.

A TALE OF LOVE AND MARRIAGE. BY WILLIAM COX.

IT was on a Sunday afternoon, in the middle of March, 18-, when a young man, of diminutive dimensions, planted himself at the corner of one of the principal streets in the busy and populous city of Under all the circumstances of the case this seemed a most singular proceeding. A fine May morning, as is common in March, had given place to a December afternoon; and a keen, raw, north-east wind, admirably calculated to perform the part of a rough blustered and bellowed along the

razor,

melancholy street, sweeping it of every vestige of humanity gifted with sense enough to know that a warm fireside was comfortable, and pence enough to procure one. An old apple-woman, seated by the borders of the swollen kennel, and a hungry dog, gnawing at a bone, were the only substances endowed with vitality, perceptible, except the young man who had located himself in such an apparently unnatural situation. His appearance was pitiable in the extreme. Seduced by the flattering appearance of the morning, when the sun shone and the southern breeze blew, he had thoughtlessly arrayed his limbs in the gay garniture of spring, and the consequence was, that there he stood, exposed to all the assaults of a raw, chill, unfeeling northeater, in a new pea-green coat, nankeen trowsers, and pale-complexioned waistcoat with a delicate sprig, lemon-coloured gloves, and white silk stockings. His face, as a natural consequence of such a costume, in such weather, exhibited a sample of the varied hues of the rainbow, though it can scarely be added “blent into beauty." "Pale, pale was his cheek," or rather pipeclay-coloured; blue were his lips; while his nose, which was of a fiery red at the base, deepened, through all the intermediate shades, into concentrated purple at the extremity. His hair and whiskers, which were of a bright scarlet, formed a striking fringe or border to his unhappy-looking countenance. He wore his hat on one side of his head, at about an angle of seventyfive degrees, which, in warmer weather, and under more favourable auspices, might impart a sprightly air to the wearer; just now, however, it was most incongruous when coupled with the utter misery and desolation of the sum total of his personal appearance. There is little more to be added, except that he was within a fraction of four feet ten inches in height, that he kept a shop for the retail of tobacco and fancy snuffs, and that his name was Thomas Maximilian Potts.

But wherefore stood he there?"That is the question." The sympathetic hearts of the ladies will readily anticipate the answer -he was in love. Yes, fondly, passionately, and, we may say for a man of his size, overwhelmingly in love. That little body, slight and trivial as it appeared, contained a heart-to correspond; and that heart had long been in the possession (figuratively) of Miss Julia Smith, only daughter and sole heiress of Mr. Smith, the eminent biscuit-baker, who resided

in the second house round the identical corner at which Potts had stationed himself.

The case stood thus.-He had been invited by the fair Julia to tea, and, as he fondly hoped, to a tête-a-tête, that afternoon. He had hastened (in the expressive phraseology usual on such occasions) on the wings of love to keep the appointment, when lo! just as he arrived at the door, his eyes were blasted (figuratively also) by the sight of his hated rival, James Fish, chemist and druggist, entering his bower of bliss. He shrunk back as if a creditor had crossed his path; but trusting it might only be a casual call, waited patiently in his deplorable situation for the re-issuing and final exit of the abhorred Fish. But the shades of evening fell deeper and deeper, the drizzling rain came down thicker and thicker, the wind blew keener and keener-"Poor Tom was a-cold!" The component parts of his body shook and trembled like the autumnal leaves in the November blast -his eyes distilled drops of liquid crystal; and, in the copious language of Wordsworth, his teeth, like those of Master Harry Gill,

"Evermore went chatter, chatter,

Chatter, chatter, chatter still."

But there is a limit to human endurance. He could not stand it any longer-so he went and rapped at the door, and was forthwith ushered into the parlour.

"Bless me! how late you are, Mr. Potts," exclaimed Julia; "but do take a seat near the fire," added she, in a sympathizing tone, as she took cognizance of the frigid, rigid condition of her unhappy suitor.

The scene which presented itself to the eyes of Potts was (with one exception) extremely revivifying. Every thing spoke of warmth and comfort. The apartment was small, snug, and doublecarpeted; the curtains were drawn close, the dull, dreary twilight excluded; and brightly and cheerfully burnt the fire in the grate, before which, half-buried in the wool of the hearth-rug reclined the fattest of poodles. At one side of the fire sat the contented and oleaginous biscuit-baker, Mr. Smith, in his accustomed state of semi-somnolency; at the other, Frank Lumley, a good-looking, good-tempered, rattle-pated coz of Julia's; while in the centre was placed the vile Fish. The fair Julia herself was busied in preparing the steaming beverage which cheers "but not intoxicates ;" and while it is getting ready, we may as well at once introduce the company.

In

And first, of Fish, who was in truth a most extraordinary piece of flesh. altitude he approximated to seven feet, and the various extremities of his person corresponded to his altitude. His mouth, teeth, lips, nose, and eyes, were on the most unlimited scale, and as for his chin, there was no end to it. His hands, had he ever had the bad fortune to have been apprehended on a charge of pocketpicking, if allowed to have been produced in evidence, would have ensured his acquittal by any jury in Christendom; indeed, the idea of their going into an ordinary pocket was absurd; while his two feet were fully equivalent to three, thus giving the lie at once to that standard of measurement which dogmatically asserts that twelve inches make one foot. Yet with all those weighty helps-those extraordinary appendages, the sum total of the man was nothing; in fact, he never weighed more than one hundred pounds in the heaviest day of his existence. To in part account for this, it must be taken into consideration, that his columnar body was shrunk, sapless, and of small and equal circumference in all its parts; his neck, scraggy and crane-like, could scarcely be accounted any thing as regarded weight; whilst his legs, which were really very long, fell off aboat the calf, but gradually thickened as they approached the knees and ancles, so that the old woman who was in the habit of knitting his hose, used to make an extra charge in consequence of having to narrow the loops at this portion of his anatomy, instead of having, as is common, to widen or enlarge them. this rendered Fish peculiarly ill adapted for tempestuous weather; for carrying, as he did, his head so high, the wind naturally took a powerful hold of him, and though his extensive feet prevented his being blown over, yet his weak flexible body swayed and bent and bowed to every blast, like the bows of a sapling willow. A cast-off coat of his was preserved as a curiosity in the lodge of the tailors' society of his native town; and it is a well-known fact, that during a severe fit of influenza under which he laboured, no less than seven eminent surgeons were secretly negotiating with the sexton of his parish church for the reversion of his most extraordinarily constructed corpus; but he lived, and science wept as he recovered. In mind and temper Fish was as mild as milk; one of the most simple, kind-hearted, inoffensive creatures that ever breathed. He followed Mr. Coleridge's advice, and loved, with a tempe

All