150 feet, adorned with rich ornaments. The high altar stood between two columns, adorned with precious stones, surrounded with images wrought in the most beautiful manner, and | covered with a canopy of richly carved oak, representing saints and angels in innumerable attitudes and postures. On the east side was the shrine of St. Erkinwald,* whose appearance was so splendid that princes and nobles flocked from all countries to gaze upon the wonderful work of art, and lay their oblations before it. In a wooden tabernacle, on the right side of the altar, was placed a beautiful painting of St. Paul. In the centre of the church stood a large cross, and towards the north door a small crucifix, while against a pillar in the body of the cathedral was a beautiful image of the Virgin, adorned with precious stones. Passing onward amidst the motley group of all degrees and stations, Sir Michael de la Pole pursued his way, swearing a deep and bitter revenge on Ambrose Quartermaine; and, as he entered the chapel, the choristers burst forth in melody. The soul-subduing strains arose in swelling measure, fragraut perfumes filled the air, from golden censors cast, and the priests, in costly vestments, bent lowly down before the altar chanting the prayers. Yet this was unheeded by the Spanish knight: motionless as a statue he stood by the gates of the chapel, clad in his steel harness and with the axe still in his hand. At length a step was heard approaching. Sir Michael turned and beheld Cardwell Colner, who motioned him to follow. Obeying the gesture, the knight strode on, following the servitor down the southern aisle to the confessional, a chamber formed of richly-carved oaken wainscoting. They entered it together; the murmuring of voices might be heard, but their words were spoken lowly and indistinct. Presently Colner reappeared, hastily passing across the church and quitting it by the northern door. He was absent some ten or fifteen minutes, and then returned in company with a stranger, a man of tall stature, yet sparely made, his features sharp and sickly, yet ever bearing a bland smile. He had large * In 1339 the dean and chapter of the cathedral employed three goldsmiths to work upon the shrine for a whole year. grey eyes, and a short, well-trimmed beard. He wore a doublet of black cloth, profusely ornamented with silver lace whose glory had departed, a student's cap, a ruff of lace of such extraordinary dimensions as to seem like a Chinese pillory, a long sword in a rusty sheath, and riding-boots of cordovan. This man bore the name of Nathaniel Scrivener, and was what in those times was called a proctor, otherwise a roguish lawyer, an attorney struck from off the rolls, and who, consequently, carried on an independent business of legal quackery. Colner, followed by the new comer, passed across the nave and entered the confessional. Again the murmuring of voices was heard, and thus it continued for near an hour. Then Sir Michael stepped forth; his burgonet had been exchanged for a velvet cap, and over his knightly gear he wore a black mantle. Thus equipped he quitted the church, passing hastily across the enclosure at the little gate. His squire awaited his coming. He mounted, and setting his horse into a quick pace, rode towards the tower of St. Martin. He had not proceeded many yards when loud shouts were heard mingling with the clangour of warlike instruments and the clank of martial accoutrements. The next instant a valiant company appeared-the knights of the tourney, with their esquires and banner-bearers, the corporation of London, in their scarlet robes of office, with a vast multitude of henchmen, servitors, and lacqueys. Sir Michael withdrew from the public way, and passing amidst the multitude assembled at the end of the West Cheap, awaited the approach of the chivalric parade. Feigning to be unacquainted with the nature of the cavalcade, he accosted a bluff and stalwart burgher: "What is all this pageantry, good sir ?" he said. "What!" replied the substantial cit., "know you not of the joustings? These are the puissant chevaliers returning from the tourney and hieing to the mansion of Sir Edward Hungerford. Twelve knights this day have run a tilt in Smithfield." "How so?" inquired Michael. "There are but ten in yon valiant cavalcade." "There's been brawling, I hear," he replied. "Two chevaliers have fought with weapons far more dangerous than blunted 'Five hundred marks!" said Colnet, by wark. way of explanation. "The scheme," continued Scrivener, "is what the law considers crime, and rewards with death; and though we must all give up the ghost at some period, yet to resign it on a gibbet before a gaping multitude is no very pleasant prospect." While he was yet speaking a portion of the oaken panelling was thrust aside, and a stranger, in the garb of a verger, appeared at the opening. "Truly a notable scheme," he said, "for a worshipful squire, a valiant knight, and honest lawyer to engage in, and to pursue it under the mask of revenge for an insult, when the only aim is cupidity." Although Colner and the proctor seemed surprised at the appearance of the verger, yet they offered him no violence, for right well they knew him; they did not even manifest displeasure at the interruption. "Nay, Master Hayward," Colner said, "thou hast not been playing eavesdropper?" 'Marry, that have I," replied the verger, "and a more notable scheme I never heard. Yet," he continued, "thy memory hath failed thee in one instance, for the guerdon was one thousand marks, instead of half that sum!" Of all the ancient taverns in this good old City of London, and its neighbour over the water the pleasant ville of Southwark (the south-work of the Danes), none surpassed, if, indeed, any equalled, this rare old hostel. It was a quaint building occupying a vast space of ground, being but one story in height, with huge stacks of carved and twisted chimneys and numerous gables, whilst over the entrance the window recess of the upper story projected, forming a goodly porch, beneath which, in summer time, many a group assembled; some to talk, some to drink, and all, for the host's sake, let us hope, to pay their score. There was a trough before the door with a signboard reared above it, on which a herald's doublet was emblazoned; and though good wine needs no bush, the "Tabarde" had one of vast dimensions. The night was bitterly cold, and the frost so hard that the very Thames was held in icy fetters. Hard-frozen snow lay thick on every projection of the old tavern, but from the windows, and especially from one window, there came a bright and cheerful glow that made the white snow blush. In the room that sent out this welcome The brow of Scrivener bent in anger when light into the darkness a company of boon he heard this disclosure of the duplicity of companions had met, and being mightily cosy the servitor. over their strong ale-"jolly good ale and old" "Perchance, Master Hayward," said Colner, to say nothing of the burnt sack, of which they had emptied some pottle pots, they felt but small inclination to quit their warm quarters and face the biting wind. Nick Sherring was there, his good humour unabated-not to be chilled by winter's cold; and there was Master Studely. It was rather late for him to be out, and he was slightly uneasy, for his master, the mercer, was a sharp disciplinarian, and it was averred had made his 'prentice smart after a fashion that was anything but agreeable to that young gentleman. There also was a broker, John Lincoln by name, a heavily-built man with a sinister expression. And there were some others, whose names it is not necessary to particularise. "They must be old heads," quoth the host, as he bustled about, clattering cups and platters with a busy air-"they must be old heads that can remember such another frost as this. Marry, everything is solid!" "It chills everything but our blood," said Master Studely, with a valiant expression and a twirl of the moustaches that he seemed to fancy were on his upper lip. Blood keeps its warmth, my masters." "In the breast of heroes," Sherring responded; "but we are not all of the same sort. I, for one, have a touch of the cold so sharp that, were it not for the ale, would make an icicle of me in no time." changed the topic by saying that he did not covet his guests their journey over the ice, and wished them all safe to the other side. He had heard that some ugly business had been done on the ice. Cut-purses abounded, so he had been told. "They must be sharp at their work to cut my purse," said Sherring. "I give them leave to do it. I never had one-never wanted one -never have anything to put in it." "Murrain on the knaves," said Studely, "when they molest me they would cry a mercy with broken pates!" "There spoke the brave!" Sherring retorted. "Ah, Master Studely, thou hast the makings of a soldier in thee! Throw away the measuring-rod and buckle on the sword. If I had but thy spirit—— "Nay, thou art not lacking in courage; but, withal, there is something in blood. My grandfather commanded a train-band company. I have heard say a Studely was hit at Agincourt. There is something in it!" r Something! Nay, there is everything in it. Beshrew me, but one would be glad to change this poor stuff in my veins for a▬▬” Come," quoth the landlord, "please you change your topic for a fresh pottle pot." Agreed." to tr At that moment there was a voice heard shouting lustily in the open air. The street door of the hostel had been closed to keep out the bleak wind. "What ho! Within there!" To the door goes mine host, presently re The broker, thus appealed to, answered, turning in much haste and some confusion. "Ay, in the good cause.' "But though we be of iron," said Sherring, we may be wielded in divers forms: some iron turned to steel and made into a swordsome iron wrought into a spade." "Away from here as soon as may be, Master Nick," he whispered. "Quality's coming, and I must furnish a rear supper. Lend me a hand, good fellows." With readiness Nick assented, and busied himself straightway. Not so Master Studely. He had heard the word quality. He had the idea that he was fit company for any one; consequently he did not budge from the fire. Master Studely complacently surveyed his own image in a dish of polished pewter that stood beside him, and was good enough to remark that Sherring was a shrewd knave and had his parts—at which Sherring pretended Everybody was busy; even John Lincoln, to look gratified, only he winked at the land- a stout man with but little activity, helped lord, who, being of an explosive nature, roared to spread the board. A few minutes only with laughter. elapsed before the guests entered-Sir Geoffrey Quieting himself as soon as he could, which | Wanstead, leaning on the arm of Ambrose was not so soon as he wished, the landlord | Quartermaine. BOYS AT CHEQUASSET; OR, "A LITTLE LEAVEN." BY THE AUTHOR OF THE "GAYWORTHYS." CHAPTER IV. A NEW PROJECT. I PROMISED you a description of John's chamber. If yon like old houses, and little, quaint, unusual arrangements, as well as I do, and as Johnnie did, you will be interested in hearing about it. The house had a square front, with what is called an L extending from it behind. John's room was in this L. The part which joined the main building was divided at first into two bedrooms, side by side, together occupying its entire width, but not in equal shares. Back of these, at some later time, an addition had been made; and the space so obtained had been used on the one side to make a large closet or small dressing-room, connected with the larger of the two original rooms; and the remainder, by cutting away the partition which intervened, was thrown into the second, or smaller. This was John's room; and was, as you will thus understand, a sort of double room, having one portion at right angles with the other. The opening between was finished in the form of an arch, and there was a descent here of a single step, the further portion being lower than the other. At the right as you enter, stood his wardrobe. Opposite the door, and beyond the arch, was his bed. Opposite this, again, in the right-hand end, his dressing-table, and against the blank wall beside the arch, his washing-stand. Altogether, it was a very pleasant arrangement; and John, as you may suppose, found it charming from its novelty. You may think it very strange, too, that if John had before had any disorderly ways, this should not have been with him a startingpoint of sure improvement. It would have been so natural, you say, that he should have felt a new and zealous interest in having everything about him in perfect keeping and methodical array. It seems hardly to be believed that he should at once have fallen into carelessness and confusion. But it is not always the marked outward changes in our life or circumstances that produce such corresponding change as we might look for in character. We have what seems to be great opportunities, and pass through them unimproved; and again, a very trifle shall turn, unexpectedly, the whole course of our habits and motives henceforth. If John had had a different room given him in the same house where he had lived for so many years, the taking possession and arranging it, being but a single novelty, would have been absorbing. But here he was surrounded by novelties, drawn hither and thither by various attractions; and fresh employments for his time offered themselves every hour. He still had a pride and delight in his room, and he still had an intention of pretty soon taking time to “fix it all up, firstrate;" but meanwhile, he was busy in a dozen other ways, and all along growing so used to the ownership and occupancy of the pretty apartment, that before the convenient occasion should come, his first enthusiasm would have worn off, and it would all have become an old story. I dare say, also, you may wonder a little at my thinking it worth while to tell you a long story only to illustrate the importance to a boy of ten of acquiring a habit of order and exactness in little things. But a boy of ten, brought up among gentle influences, is not likely, I am glad to think, to have fallen into very serious moral evils. It is precisely those faults which seem trifling that he is in danger of; and that, according as they may be unchecked or overcome, will have a subtle but certain influence in the formation of his whole character and life. I think we are put into life as into a school; and God, like a wise Teacher, gives us, at first, but simple lessons to learn; so simple, that we may imagine it can be of little consequence whether we learn them thoroughly and faith fully, or not; and yet they are purposely provided to lead us on, easily and insensibly, to far higher and more difficult things. "Faithful in little," at the beginning "faithful," afterward, "in much." It is only in very untoward conditions, growing out of the wrong or neglect of others, that a child's life-lessons are hard ones at the first. It was not meant to be so. John used sometimes to say to his mother, when she urged upon him the importance of orderly habits "Why, mother, that's girls' business! Boys want to learn different sorts of things. Aunt Horatia says that Cousin Leonard is nothing but a molly coddle; all the time poking into corners, and fidgeting round like a woman. I don't want to be a molly coddle!" "Neither do I wish it, Johnnie," his mother would answer. "But one may have the instinct and habit of order without being anything of the sort. You can never be anything great without order. It is heaven's first law' the first condition for things of mind and soul, as well as body and belong. ings. Do you think any one could be a great merchant, or a lawyer, or a doctor, or a commander of armies, or a ruler of a state, with- | out this first of all, and at the bottom of everything? God made the world by it, Johnnie." When the new tool-room was finished, Mr. Osburn told John that he might keep his tool-box there; and he desired the carpenter to make for him a little bench of a convenient height for him to work at. This stood in one corner of the room; and there he was to keep his box, and do all his little jobs of carpentry. In fact, he was forbidden, from this time forward, to take any tool or work of the sort into the house, unless by especial permission. His mother expressed herself greatly delighted at this new arrangement, as John's tools and materials had been, for a long while, literal" stumbling-blocks" in the way of her orderly housekeeping. Moreover, John was put upon his honour, as a condition of his occupying such portion of his father's room, not to meddle with, or borrow for his own use, any tools of Mr. Osburn's-not even in what might seem to him the greatest emergency; for, as his father very truly said, no such necessity could arise except through carelessness of his own; for he was provided with light implements of every sort that Mr. Osburn himself was possessed of. Of course, John's first impulse on finding himself so commodiously established, was to set on foot some grand undertaking in the mechanical way. For a day or two, he could think of nothing sufficiently stupendous; but at length, one morning as he accompanied Jacob to drive the cow up into the High Pasture, a bright thought struck him. "I'll tell you what, Jacob!" he exclaimed as they crossed the brook at the foot of the garden by means of four or five steppingstones. "I'll build a bridge! Won't that be jolly ?" Ruther," replied Jacob. "Only I cal'late the buildin' 'll be the jolliest part on 't." "Why? Don't you believe I can build a good one ?" asked John. "Dunno but yer might," replied Jacob; "but I guess you won't like it so well as the steppin'-stones, arter all." "Well, the stones are nice, to be sure," replied John; "but I'll build the bridge a little way up, so as to have the stones, too. And then, you know, people can take their choice. If my mother came over here, she'd like the bridge best, I know." "Most likely she would," agreed Jacob. So, as soon as they got back to the barn, John began to collect his tools and plan his work. Mr. Osburn had given him leave, on condition that he should not abuse the privilege by wastefulness, to take material or 'stock," as he called it, in carpenter phrase, from what had remained after the real carpenter-work was finished. There was a small pile of nicely-planed boards in the barn, beside the tool-room door. John first selected two of these, and having sawed them into lengths of about three feet each, he piled them upon his wheelbarrow, and wheeled them down to the brook. Then he went to the wood-pile, and found among the long logs which had not been sawed up as yet for firewood two that would answer, as he thought, for the foundation of his bridge. But, before attempting their removal, he prudently measured their length with his two-foot rule, |
