A roar of laughter here burst from every one in court, which it was difficult to suppress. In the mean time the clerk succeeded in explaining the mystery to his worship, and advised him to dismiss the case, unless any one came forward to claim the property. After a few more questions of the prisoner, and inquiries of the police as to whether Hampton was known to them, (which were answered in the negative, though, when the poor man was taken into custody, the policeman said he knew him well,") both prisoners were discharged with a caution from the magistrate to "beware about being brought before him again; they mightn't get off so easily a second time." But the ring was retained: some one might claim it. So Hampton and his wife went back to their starving family laden with disgrace-nothing more: what should a poor man care for that!

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Yes; to their starving family and wretched home the couple went there to be grief-torn afresh at the sight of their little ones crying for bread-for bread that the parents had not to give them. The woman here showed herself stronger than the man, who had lost the spirit that animated him before the magistrate, and sat amongst his children-himself a child! Mrs. Hampton, though she felt the pain of their situation as keenly as her husband, suffered it not so entirely to prostrate her; but, like a woman, bore up, and plied her needle till the bleeding eyes refused their office. But the work was nearly done: a few minutes' rest, and she was at it again: it was finished. In another hour she had the blessed enjoyment of seeing her children eat. Then with true female tenderness she tried to console her husband; and many were the sweet words of cheerfulness with which she hoped to alleviate his misery. Thank God, she succeeded.

Days passed by, and the little stock of money which Mrs. Hampton's needlework had produced was nearly gone. She tried in many places to obtain something to do, but she had been in a prison; that crushed all her efforts, and her husband's likewise. Starvation stared them in the face, and Hampton sat hour by hour in his squalid room, brooding over his fate; his teeth clenched and his brow knit; while his pursedup mouth told that a sullen fierceness was working within.

About a week after his incarceration in the prison, he was sitting alone with his wife, deep in one of these moody fits, when suddenly he started up, and exclaimed," By Heaven, I'll go again!"

SO.

"Where, Robert?" said Mrs. Hampton.

"To the sewers! What matters where I go? They can but put me in prison again. I'm a thief! Men point at me in the streets and say Who'll employ me now I've been to jail? But I must live for all that; and you must live, and the children must live. Starving's only fit for honest men; and I'm a thief. Oh! curse the man that called me one."

"Calm yourself, Robert," said Mrs. Hampton.

Calm!" cried he, fiercely. "Calm! It's well for those to talk so who haven't an empty belly and five starving children crying for bread. But I must have food, and they must have food, and they shall have food. If I find it in those loathsome places, well and good if not, I'll have it elsewhere. I'm a thief, you know; and what I find in a place where few men dare to go, I must take to a thief, for the honest man puts me in jail. I must couple with the receiver of stolen goods, though I work for what I get, and peril my life to do it. It

makes me mad to see my poor children's haggard looks; and all for want of bread.-Look there!"

He pointed to a heap of rubbish that lay in the narrow court, where one of his children was groping, and had just fetched out something which it ate greedily.

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Give me the lantern, Ellen," said Hampton.

I'll bring something home to-night, though I search the sewers of all London."

He took the lantern, passed rapidly out of the house, and bent his steps towards the principal sewer opening into the Thames. It was low water, so he readily entered the noxious place. The stream was still running, though, being dry weather, it was not considerable. In he plunged up to his knees. The turbid water threw up an inky foam, which played about the surface like foul creatures that the Styx might have bred. Hampton stayed not here, but splashed on through the arch, passed the end of several smaller sewers-long dismal tunnels running into the principal receptacle; traversed the whole length of Farringdon Street in this vaulted passage, and then turned into a shaft on the left piercing Holborn Hill. This was formerly the channel of the Old Bourne. It was here profoundly dark. The little light that crept in from the opening at the Thames had died away. All was silent, except here and there a slight trickling sound of water dropping in from the drains, and the rush of many rats escaping to their holes; the blackened arch reeked with unwholesome moisture; strange insects-things born of the humid air, that know not the light of day-crawled about in heaps; the very atmosphere of the place seemed as though it came from an infernal source; yet here stood a man, with one solitary light for his only safeguard, close by thousands of human beings, but alone in these dusky paths. The stream was here very slight, running through a layer of soft mud, in which Hampton searched, by the aid of his light, for any stray articles of value that might have swept down through the drains. It was weary work in the centre of the arch the height was barely five feet and a half; so Hampton could not, at any time, hold himself erect. The lantern gave but a feeble light, owing to the bad air; it glimmered like a star, but its rays could not penetrate the solid darkness hanging about this infernal place. Blacker and blacker yet: the light fell lower still-a tiny speck, and a stifling vapour arose which nearly choked the man. He held his breath and rushed back into the larger sewer as though a demon pursued him; while a strange brown thing, shaped like a wasp, fastened on his chin and stung him. But he was now safe, and cared little for the pain, though that was far from being trifling; the light burnt more freely, and after waiting a few minutes to recover from the effects of the thick subterranean air, Hampton continued his search up the main passage, which was higher and wider than the one he had just left.

At least a mile had been traversed in this dungeon-like drain, and yet nothing rewarded the toil of the treasure seeker. Still with indomitable perseverance he held on his lonely way; explored many of the smaller sewers, through which he had to creep nearly doubled up; suffered severely from the damp cold, which gnawed right into the very bone; was lost at times in the intricate ways, from which no human aid could have extricated him, had his courage failed; yet nothing was found. The weary man would have laid him down and died, but the

thought of his starving children animated him, and impelled him to fresh exertion. Never despair, Hampton! No man should, however oppressed he may be, if his own heart tells him he never wronged his fellow creatures.

What is that sparkling at the edge of a little drain, like a chip of light? Hampton seizes it, and holds it close to the lantern. It sparkles in ten thousand places. A diamond! Yes. Hampton securely places the jewel in his pocket, and, half laughing, half crying at his success, prepares to leave the sewers.

"I'm not a thief," he cried. "No, no; they shall never say that of me again. This diamond is of immense size, and I am sure to find the owner, who will reward me, and I shall get bread-ha, ha!—I shall get bread for my little ones! Bread! Ha, ha, ha!”

His laughter, which reverberated with a hollow sound through the tunnels, suddenly ceased, for, as he turned a corner, he saw but a short way off, a man with a light groping about the mud, as he had done before. This was Hampton's way out; he could go no other, and, though he guessed who the man was, and would willingly have avoided him, he was forced to walk on and confront him.

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'Halloa," cried the man, as soon as he saw Hampton; here again, poaching."

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'No more poaching than yourself, Mister Canfield. There is room enough for both of us, surely. I wish you success. Just move on one side, and let me pass."

"Who are you as talks to me in that way ?" said Canfield, with a sneer. "A thief-a jail-bird. So now you've come here again to splash yourself with mud, to make people believe that what you prig you've found in the sewers. But I'm cursed if you come here again.' "You're a liar and a scoundrel, Canfield. I'm a poorer man than you are, but I won't demean myself with talking to you. Move aside and let me pass."

"Not till you hand over what you've found. I know you've got something, or you wouldn't be in such a hurry to get out. Come, dub up. You've no right here. Everything that's picked up in this place belongs to me, and curse me if you go till I've got it."

"Will you move?" cried Hampton, furiously.

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No, I won't."

Take that then, you lying fool." And Hampton struck him a blow that would have felled many men. Canfield, however, was not so easily disposed of; he staggered for an instant, but before the other could pass, he threw down his lantern, and rushed savagely on Hampton, who still held a light in his left hand. He was forced to drop this to defend himself from Canfield's attack, and a moment after the two men were fighting in total darkness. They clung to each other, and struck here and there with savage fierceness. Both men knew their danger, and that knowledge made them fight with a recklessness fearfully appalling. In their struggles they were dashed up against the walls, and left there many a sanguine trace of the awful combat. They were nearly exhausted, when Canfield seized hold of his adversary's arm with his teeth, and bit fiercely; but Hampton catching him by the throat forced him to leave go his hold, and with giant force threw him back. Canfield's head struck the wall as he fell, and he rolled into the muddy stream of the sewer. Hampton stood for a minute panting for breath,

not knowing that his opponent had no longer the power to recommence the fight. No sound came from the fallen man: all was still in this frightful place.

"Good God! can he be dead!" cried Hampton: all his passion leaving him on the instant. "And in this horrible tunnel! Canfield! Canfield!"

Hampton stood appalled as a low, rushing sound, but fearfully distinct to his ears, broke upon the silence. They were the rats, who now attacked the body of Canfield. Hampton stooped down, and laying hold of the man, raised him up, and shook the reptiles from his body, while he halloed aloud in hope of scaring the creatures away. He seized Canfield firmly, and ran on a little way with his burden, in the hope-a despairing one-of gaining the mouth of the sewer. Ah, what is that white speck, shining like a star in the blackness? A light!

"This way," shouted Hampton. "Halloa! halloa! Quick with the light, or the rats will kill us. Halloa! halloa! Don't stop; there's a dying man here. Ellen!"

Yes, it was his wife who now came up, exclaiming,-"Thank God, Robert, I've found you. Great Heaven! what's the matter? You're streaming with blood. And this man; what is he?"

"Never mind now, Ellen. I see he is still alive, though I feared I had killed him. What could have brought you into this dreadful place?"

What brought her there! Need he have asked? Mrs. Hampton was a woman, and from her husband's protracted absence (he had been nearly twelve hours underground) she feared he was in danger; so scorning the physical weakness of her sex, she had ventured in the subterranean paths of London, to seek and assist him. Noble woman!

In

As soon as they got clear of the sewer, Canfield, who had only been stunned by his fall, recovered sufficiently to be able to walk to Hampton's room, where he was carefully tended by the wife of the latter. a few hours he was well enough to leave the house. He was not so utterly hardened as to forget that he owed his life to the exertions of the man whom he had so belied. He shook hands with Hampton before he left, and they parted friends.

The possession of the diamond which Hampton had found, for some days sorely troubled him; but, by the advice of his wife, he took it to one of the principal jewellers in London, by whose assistance the owner was discovered. It belonged to a lady of rank, who had lost it some weeks back, from a ring which she never removed from her finger. This lady-a real lady-one who deserved the title she bore (would that we might record her name)-heard Hampton's story of the frightful way he obtained his living, and thoroughly satisfied of the man's honesty, offered him a situation as gardener at one of her houses in the country, and gave his wife employment in the same place.

Oh! with what intense feelings of thankful joy did Hampton and his wife leave the squalid court where they had endured so much misery, and pass into the sweet country. The fields and trees and green lanes, were each and all pure Heaven. To their ears, the birds chirruped Divine music; and the children laughed. Ay, that was Divine music too.

When they reached the cottage allotted to them, Hampton fell down on his knees and prayed. Tears trickled down his cheeks; but they were tears of happiness, not of pain.

456

MINSTREL LIFE IN THE THIRTEENTH CENTURY,

A SKETCH OF MEDIEVAL MANNERS.

BY THOMAS WRIGHT, M.A.

WE hardly need tell our readers that literature, in the Middle Ages, was managed in a very different manner from that in which it is conducted at the present day. There were no printers and no publishers, whereby an author certainly escaped a numerous variety of troubles. Hearers were much more numerous than listeners, so that, although a man gained absolutely nothing by the sale of his works, his fame literally spread from mouth to mouth. The first edition of a new work generally consisted of a single copy; and as no one ever dreamt of such a thing as copyright, any one, at his own pleasure, gave another edition of the same number of copies; and sometimes the new editor thus pirated a poor writer's book, and quietly put his own name to it. But the first edition frequently answered the author's purpose very well, when, by judiciously pitching upon the right individual, he obtained, in return for his book, a fat living, or a comfortable place. To judge from his selection, it would seem that a worthy monk sometimes found it more amusing to copy a dull manuscript than to sit still and do absolutely nothing at all. A philosopher, or a man of science, found scholars who were zealous enough to copy his writings; and, of course, there were men who copied books, in order to profit by the sale. But this was, in a great measure, heavy literature-often the mere lumber of learning; and we cannot discover that anybody made much profit by selling the popular fashionable literature of the day.

This, in fact, was published in a totally different manner. If a poet would make known a song, his only way of proceeding was to go forth and sing it; if a romancer invented a story, he must go and tell it. He must utter his own joke, and recite his own reflections. Hence the popular authors of this description formed a class totally distinct from the others; they indeed stood alone in society, in some degree a separate caste. Clever, joyous fellows, like many of their successors in modern times, they drew upon themselves some discredit by their irregular course of life; and like them also, contented with the enjoyment of the day, they seldom thought of, or provided for, the morrow. They received the general appellation of minstrels (from the Latin ministro), because they were looked upon as only equal with servants; they were also called jogeleurs (in Latin joculatores), because they amused by their performances, for they added a great variety of games of different kinds to their literary labours. Eventually, as the class of persons to whom these titles belonged disappeared, the word minstrel became used to denote any one who sings, and juggler was a term applied only to a mountebank or a conjurer. These general notions are not much calculated to raise the position of the medieval "men of letters" in our eyes.

The reward of the minstrel depended entirely on the generosity of his audience. His chief scene of action was the baronial hall,-the time, dinner, or rather after dinner, when the convives were seated at their wine. Money was then a rare article, and the rich host testified his admiration of the minstrel's performances by a gift of some article