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glory before the throne of God! Oh, politicians! Oh, rulers of the world! Oh, law-making masters and taskers of the common million, may not this cast-off wretch, this human nuisance, be your accuser at the bar of Heaven? Egregious folly! Impossible! What-stars and garters impeached by rags and tatters! St. James denounced by St. Giles! Impudent and ridiculous! Yet here, we say, comes the reverend priest-the Christian preacher, with healing, honied words, whose Book-your Book-with angelic utterance, says no less. Let us hear the clergyman and his forlorn pupil.

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"Well, my poor boy," said the ordinary, with an affectionate voice and moistening eyes: well, my child, and how is it with you? Come, you are better; you look better; you have been listening to what your good friend Robert here has been reading to you. And we are all your friends, here. At least, we all want to be. Don't you think so?"

"But you ought to try to think so, my boy; it's wicked not to try," said the ordinary, very tenderly.

"If you 're all my friends, why do you keep me here?" said St. Giles. "Friends! I never had no friends."

And young St. Giles lay in Newgate, sinking, withering, under sentence of death. After a time, he never cried, or clamored; he shed no tear, breathed no syllable of despair; but, stunned, stupefied, seemed as if idiocy was growing on St. Giles slowly lifted his eyes towards the him. The ordinary-a good, zealous man-en-speaker. He then slowly, sullenly answered,deavored, by soothing, hopeful words, to lead the 'No, I don't." prisoner, as the jail phrase has it, to a sense of his condition. Never had St. Giles received such teaching! Condemned to die, he for the first time heard of the abounding love of Christianity-of the goodness and affection due from man to man. The story seemed odd to him; strange, very strange; yet he supposed it was all true. Nevertheless he could not dismiss the thought, it puzzled him. Why had he never been taught all this before? And why should he be punished, hanged for doing wrong; when the good, rich, fine people, who all of them loved their neighbors like themselves, had never taught him what was right? Was it possible that Christianity was such a beautiful thing-and being so, was it possible that good, earnest, kind-hearted Christians would kill him?

"You must not say that; indeed, you must not. All our care is to make you quiet and happy in this world, that you may be happier in the world you're going to. You understand me, St. Giles? My poor dear boy, you understand me? The world you 're going to?" The speaker, inured as he was to scenes of blasphemy, of brute indifference, and remorseful agony, was deeply touched by the forlorn condition of the boy; who could not, would not, understand a tenderness, the end of which was to surrender him softened to the

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"That, my boy, is because you are obstinate, and I am sorry to say it, wicked, and so won't try to know about it. Otherwise, if you would give all your heart and soul to prayer—,”

"I tell you, sir, I never was learnt to pray," cried St. Giles, moodily; "and what's the use of praying?"

St. Giles had scarcely eight-and-forty hours to hangman. "You have thought, my dear-I say, live. It was almost Monday noon, when the you have thought of the world”—and the minister ordinary-having attended the other prisoners-paused-" the world you are going to?" entered the cell of the boy thief. He had been What's the use of thinking about it?" asked separated, by the desire of the minister, from his St. Giles. "I knows nothing of it." miserable companions, that their evil example of hardihood-their reckless bravado-might not wholly destroy the hope of growing truth within him. A turnkey attended St. Giles, reading to him. And now the boy would raise his sullen eyes upon the man, as he read of promises of grace and happiness eternal and now his heart would heave as though he was struggling with an inward agony that seemed to suffocate him-and now a scornful, unbelieving smile would play about his mouth and he would laugh with defying bitterness. And then he would leer in the face of the reader, as though he read to him some fairy tale, some pretty story, to amuse and gull him. Poor wretch! Let the men who guide the world-the large-brained politicians, who tinker the social scheme, making themselves the masters and guardians of their fellow-men-let them look into this Newgate dungeon; let them contemplate this blighted human bud; this child felon, never taught the path of right, and now to be hanged for his most sinful ignorance. What a wretched, sullen outcast! What a darkened, loathsome thing! And now comes the clergyman-the state divine, 'be it remembered-to tell him that he is treasured with an immortal soul; that-with mercy shed upon him-he will in a few hours be a creature of

"You would find it open your heart, St. Giles; and though you see nothing now, if you were only to pray long and truly, you would find the darkness go away from your eyes, and you'd see such bright and beautiful things about you, and you'd feel as light and happy as if you had wings at your back-you would, indeed. Then you'd feel that all we are doing for you is for the best; then, my poor boy," said the ordinary with growing fervor, "then you'd feel what Christian love is."

"Robert's been reading to me about that," said St. Giles, "but I can't make it out no-how. He says that Christian love means that we should n't do to nobody what we would n't like nobody to do to ourselves."

"A good boy," said the ordinary, "that is the meaning, though not the words. I'm glad you 've so improved."

"And for all that, you tell me that I must

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the repentant craven-and he would be the theme of eulogy in Hog Lane-he would not be laughed, sneered at, for "dying dunghill." And this temper so grew and strengthened in St. Giles, that, at length, the ordinary, wearied and hopeless, left his forlorn charge, promising soon to return, and hoping, in his own words, to find the prisoner "a kinder, better, and more Christian boy."

"It's no use your reading that stuff to me," said St. Giles, as the turnkey was about to resume his book; "I don't understand nothin' of it; and it's too late to learn. But I say, can't you tell us somethin' of Turpin and Jack Sheppard, eh? Something prime, to give us pluck!"

"Come, come," answered the man, "it's no use going on in this way. You must be quiet and listen to me; it's all for your good, I tell you; all for your good."

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My good! Well, that's pretty gammon, that is. I should like to know what can be for my good if I'm to be hanged? Ha! ha! See if I don't kick my shoes off, that's all." And St. Giles would not listen; but sat on the stool, swinging his legs backwards and forwards, and singing one of the melodies known in Hog Lane

"That was for doing wrong, my boy that was for your first want of Christian love. You were no Christian when you stole the horse," said the poor wretch! it had been a cradle melody to ordinary. "Had the horse been yours, you would him-whilst the turnkey vainly endeavored to have felt wronged and injured had it been stolen soothe and interest him. At length the man from you? You see that, eh, my boy?" discontinued his hopeless task; and, in sheer list"Did n't think o' that," said St. Giles gloomily.lessness, leaning his back against the wall, fell -"But I did n't steal it: 't was all along o' Tom Blast; and now he's got off; and I'm here in the Jug. You don't call that justice, no how, do you? But I don't care; they may do what they Like with me; I'll be game.

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No, my dear boy, you must know better: you must, indeed-you must give all your thoughts to prayer, and

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"It's o' no use, Mister; I tell you I never was learnt to pray, and I don't know how to go about it. More than that, I feel somehow ashamed to it. And besides, for all your talk, Mister, and you talk very kind to me, I must say, I can't feel like a Christian, as you call it, for I can't see why Christians should want to kill me if Christians are such good people as you talk about."

"But then, my poor boy," said the ordinary, "though young, you must remember, you 're an old sinner. You've done much wickedness."

Yet

asleep. And now St. Giles was left alone. And now, relieved of importunity, did he forego the bravado that had supported him, and solemnly think of his approaching end? Did he, with none other but the eye of God in that stone cell, upon him-did he shrink and wither beneath the look; and, on bended knees, with opened heart, and flowing, repentant tears, did he pray for Heaven's compassion-God's sweet mercy? No. thoughts deep, anxious thoughts were brooding in his heart. His face grew older with the meditation that shadowed it. All his being seemed compressed, intensified in one idea. Gloomily, yet with whetted eyes, he looked around his cell; and still darker and darker grew his face. Could he break prison? Such was the question-the foolish, idle, yet flattering question that his soul put to itself. All his recollections of the glory of Turpin and Sheppard crowded upon him-and what greater glory would it be for him if he could escape! He, a boy, to do this? He to be sung in ballads-to be talked of, huzzaed, and held up for high example, long after he should be deadpassed forever from the world? The proud thought glowed within hin-made his heart heave-and his eyes sparkle. And then he looked about his cell, and the utter hopelessness of the thought fell The ordinary, with a perplexed look, sighed upon him, withering his heart. Yet again and deeply. The sad condition of the boy, the horrid again-although to be crushed with new despair death awaiting him, the natural shrewdness withhe gazed about him, dreaming of liberty withwhich he combated the arguments employed for out that wall of flint. And thus his waking his conversion, affected the worthy clergyman hours passed; and thus, in the visions of the beyond all past experience. "Miserable little night, his spirit busied itself in hopeful vanity. wretch!" he thought, "it will be worst of mur- The Tuesday morning came, and again, the ders, if he dies thus." And then, again, he clergyman visited the prisoner. The boy looked essayed to soften the child felon, who seemed paler, thinner-no more. There was no softhess determined to stand at issue with his spiritual in his eyes, no appealing glance of hope: but a counsellor; to recede no step, but to the gallows fixed and stubborn look of inquiry. He did n't foot to defy him. It would be his ambition, his know nothing of what the parson had to say, and glory-if he must die-to die game. He had he did n't want to be bothered. It was all gamheard the praises bestowed upon such a death-mon!" These were the words of the boy felon, had known the contemptuous jeering flung upon then-such was the humanity of the law; poor

"I never done nothing but what I was taught; and if you say-and Bob there's been reading it to ine-that the true Christian forgives everybody -well then, in course, the judge and all the nobs are no Christians, else would n't they forgive me? Wouldn't they like it so, to teach me better, and not to kill me? But I don't mind; I 'll be game; see if I don't be game-precious!"

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law! what a long nonage of discretion has it the door was opened, and the governor of the jail, passed!-then within a day's span of the grave. attended by the head turnkey, entered.

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My

As the hour of death approached, the clergy-dear sir, I am glad to find you here"-said the man became more assiduous, fervent, nay pas-governor to the ordinary. "I have a pleasing sionate in his appeals to the prisoner; who still duty to perform a duty that I know it will delight strengthened himself in opposition to his pastor. you to witness." The ordinary glanced at a paper My dear boy-my poor child-miserable, help-held by the governor; his eyes brightened; and less creature!-the grave is open before you—the clasping his hands, he fervently uttered-"Thank sky is opening above you! Die without repent- God!" ance, and you will pass into the grave, and never -never know immortal blessings! Your soul will perish perish as I have told you-in fire, in fire eternal!"

The governor then turned to St. Giles, who suddenly looked anxious and restless. Prisoner," he said, "it is my happiness to inform you that his gracious majesty has been mercifully pleased to spare your life. You will not suffer with the unfortunate men to-morrow. You understand me, boy"-for St. Giles looked suddenly stupefied-" you understand me, that the good king, whom you should ever pray for, has, in the hope that you will turn from the wickedness of

St. Giles swayed his head to and fro, and with a sneer asked, "What's the good o'all this? Haven't you told me so, Mister, agin and agin?" The ordinary groaned almost in despair, yet still renewed his task. "The heavens, I tell you, are opening for you; repent, my child; repent, poor boy, and you will be an immortal spirit, wel-your ways, determined to spare your life? You comed by millions of angels."

St. Giles looked with bitter incredulity at his spiritual teacher. "Well, if all that 's true," he said, "it is n't so hard to be hanged, arter all. But I don't think the nobs like me so well, as to send me to sich a place as that."

"Nay, my poor boy," said the ordinary, "you will not, cannot understand me, until you pray. Now, kneel-my dear child, kneel and let us pray together." Saying this, the ordinary fell upon his knees; but St. Giles, folding his arms, so planted himself as to take firmer root of the ground; and so he stood with moody, determined looks, whilst the clergyman-touched more than was his wont-poured forth a passionate prayer that the heart of the young sinner might be softened; that it might be turned from stone into flesh, and become a grateful sacrifice to the throne of God. And whilst this prayer, in deep and solemn tones, rose from the prison-cell, he for whom the prayer was formed, seemed to grow harder, more obdurate, with every syllable. Still he refused to bend his knee at the supplication of the clergyman, but stood eyeing him with a mingled look of incredulity, defiance, and contempt. "God help you poor lost lamb!" cried the ordinary, as

he rose.

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ONCE I assisted at the soirée dansante of the Countess of Fritterfield. The most brilliant star in that galaxy of fashion was the young and lovely Marchioness of Fiddledale. I saw her dancing in the hall. Around her snowy brow were set five hundred pounds: for such would have been the answer of any jeweller to the question, "What are those diamonds?" With the gentle undulations of her bosom, there rose and fell exactly thirty pounds ten shillings. The sum wore the guise of a brooch of gold and enamel. Her fairy form was invested in ten guineas, represented by a slip of lilac satin; and this was overlaid by thirty guineas more in two skirts of white lace. Tastefully disposed down each side of the latter, were six half crowns; which so many bows of

will be sent out of the country; and time given you that, if you properly use, will make you a good and honest man."

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St. Giles made no answer, but trembled violently from head to foot. Then his face flushed red as flame, and covering it with his hands, he fell upon his knees; and the tears ran streaming through his fingers. Pray with me; pray for me!" he cried, in broken voice, to the ordinary. And the ordinary knelt, and rendered up" humble and hearty thanks" for the mercy of the king! We will not linger in the prison-St. Giles was destined for Botany Bay. Mr. Capstick was delighted, in his own way, that the ends of justice would be satisfied; and whilst he rejoiced with the triumph of justice, he did not forget the evil-doer; for St. Giles received a packet from the muffin-maker, containing sundry little comforts for his voyage.

"We shall never see him again, Jem," said Mrs. Aniseed, as she left Newgate weeping; having taken her farewell of the young transport. "He's gone forever from us."

"Not he," said Bright Jem; "we shall see him again another feller quite a true man, yet; I'm sure of it."

Whether Bright Jem was a true prophet will in due season be discovered by the patient reader of the next chapters.

purple ribbon had come to. The lower margins of the thirty guinea skirts were edged with eleven additional guineas, the value of some eight yards of silver fringe a quarter of a yard in depth. Her taper waist, taking zone and clasp together, I calculated to be confined by forty pounds sterling.

Her delicately-rounded arms, the glove of spotless kid being added to the gold bracelet which encircled the little wrist, may be said to have been adorned with twenty-two pounds five and sixpence, and, putting the silk and satin at the lowest figure, I should say that she wore fourteen and sixpence on her feet. Thus, altogether, was this thing of light, this creature of loveliness, rayed from top to toe, exclusively of little sundries, in six hundred and forty-eight pounds eleven shillings.

From Chambers' Journal. THE FEARLESS DE COURCY.

[The following is a specimen of Lays and Ballads from Old English History, (London, James Burns, 1845,) a beautifully embellished little volume of original poetry, professedly "by S. M.," and dedicated to "seven dear children, for whose amusement the verses were originally written." Generally speaking, history in a versified shape is miserable trash; but here we have something very different; and we shall be much surprised if this volume does not long maintain a place amongst the parlor-window favorites of the young. The ballads are not only charmingly written, as far as mere literary art is concerned, but have, besides, a life-like spirit, and a tone of high imaginative feeling, which are peculiarly their own.]

THE fame of the fearless De Courcy

Is boundless as the air;

With his own right hand he won the land
Of Ulster, green and fair!
But he lieth low in a dungeon now,
Powerless, in proud despair;
For false King John hath cast him in,
And closely chained him there.

The noble knight was weary

At morn, and eve, and noon;

For chilly bright seemed dawn's soft light,
And icily shone the moon;
No gleaming mail gave back the rays
Of the dim unfriendly sky,

And the proud free stars disdained to gaze
Through his lattice barred and high.

But when the trumpet-note of war
Rang through his narrow room,
Telling of banners streaming far,

Of knight, and steed, and plume;

Of the wild mêlée, and the sabre's clash,
How would his spirit bound!

Yet ever after the lightning's flash,
Night closeth darker round.

Down would he sink on the floor again,

And some did raise a steadfast gaze
To the face of false King John.
Think ye they feared? They were Englishmen
all,
Though mutely they sate in their monarch's hall;
The heroes of many a well-fought day,
Who loved the sound of a gathering fray,
Even as the lonely shepherd loves
The herds' soft bell in the mountain-groves.
Why were they silent? There was not one
Who could trust the word of false King John;
And their cheeks grew pallid as they thought
On the deed of blood by his base hand wrought;
Pale, with a brave heart's generous fear,
When forced a tale of shame to hear.

T was a coward whiteness then did chase
The glow of shame from the false king's face;
And he turned aside, in bootless pride,
That witness of his guilt to hide;
Yet every heart around him there,
Witness against him more strongly bare!
Oh, out then spake the beauteous queen :*
"A captive lord I know,

Whose loyal heart hath ever been
Eager to meet the foe;

Were true De Courcy here this day,
Freed from his galling chain,
Never, oh never should scoffers say,
That amid all England's rank and might,
Their king had sought him a loyal knight,

And sought such knight in vain!

Up started the monarch, and cleared his brow,
And bade them summon De Courcy now.
Swiftly his messengers hasted away,
And sought the cell where the hero lay;
They bade him arise at his master's call,
And follow their steps to the stately hall.

He is brought before the council

There are chains upon his hands; With his silver hair, that aged knight, Like a rock o'erhung with foam-wreaths white, Proudly and calmly stands.

He gazes on the monarch

With stern and star-like eye;

Like the pilgrim who sinks on some desert plain, And the company muse and marvel much,

Even while his thirsting ear can trace

The hum of distant streams;

Or the maimed hound, who hears the chase
Sweep past him in his dreams.

The false king sate on his throne of state,
'Mid knights and nobles free;

"Who is there," he cried, "who will cross the

tide,

And do battle in France for me?
There is cast on mine honor a fearful stain,
The death of the boy who ruled Bretagne ;*
And the monarch of France, my bold suzerain,
Hath bidden a champion for me appear,
My fame from this darkening blot to clear.
Speak-is your silence the silence of fear,
My knights and my nobles? Frowning and pale
Your faces grow as I tell my tale!

Is there not one of this knightly ring,
Who dares to battle for his king?"

That the light of the old man's eye is such,
After long captivity.

His fetters hang upon him

Like an unheeded thing;

Or like a robe of purple worn
With graceful and indifferent scorn

By some great-hearted king.

And strange it was to witness

How the false king looked aside;
For he dared not meet his captive's eye!
Thus ever the spirit's royalty

Is greater than pomp and pride!

The false king spake to his squires around,
And his lifted voice had an angry sound:
"Strike ye the chains from each knightly limb!
Who was so bold as to fetter him?

Warrior, believe me, no hest of mine
Bade them fetter a form like thine;
Thy sovereign knoweth thy fame too well."

The warriors they heard, but they spake not a He paused, and a cloud on his dark brow fell;

word;

The earth some gazed upon;

* Prince Arthur of Brittany, whose melancholy fate has been too often the theme of song and story to require notice here.

For the knight still gazed upon him,

And his eye was like a star;

And the words on the lips of the false king died,

* Isabella of Angouleme, wife to King John, celebrated for her beauty and high spirit.

Like the murmuring sounds of an ebbing tide
By the traveller heard afar.

From the warrior's form they loosed the chain;
His face was lighted with calm disdain;
Nor cheek, nor lip, nor eye gave token
E'en that he knew his chains were broken.
He spake no music, loud or clear,

Was in the voice of the gray-haired knight;
But a low stern sound, like that ye hear

In the march of a mail-clad host by night.
"Brother of Cœur de Lion," said he,
"These chains have not dishonored me !"
There was crushing scorn in each simple word,
Mightier than battle-axe or sword.

Not long did the heart of the false king thrill
To the touch of passing shame,
For it was hard, and mean, and chill;
As breezes sweep o'er a frozen rill,
Leaving it cold and unbroken still,

That feeling went and came;
And now to the knight he made reply,
Pleading his cause right craftily;
Skilled was his tongue in specious use
Of promise fair and of feigned excuse,
Blended with words of strong appeal
To love of fame and to loyal zeal.
At length he ceased; and every eye
Gazed on De Courcy wistfully.

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Speak!" cried the king in that fearful pause; "Wilt thou not champion thy monarch's

And he sends his daring challenge
Into the heart of France:
"Lo, here I stand for England,
Queen of the silver main!

To guard her fame and to cleanse her name
From slander's darkening stain !
Advance, advance! ye knights of France,
Give answer to my call:

Lo! here I stand for England,

And I defy ye all !''

From the east and the north came champions forth

They came in a knightly crowd;

From the south and the west each generous breast
Throbbed at that summons proud.

But though brave was each lord, and keen each
sword,

No warrior could withstand

The strength of the hero-spirit

Which nerved that old man's hand.

He is conqueror in the battle

He hath won the wreath of bay;

To the shining crown of his fair renown
He hath added another ray;

He hath drawn his sword for England;
He hath fought for her spotless name;
And the isle resounds to her farthest bounds
With her gray-haired hero's fame.

In the ears of the craven monarch,
Oft must this burthen ring-

cause?""Though the crown be thine and the royal line,
He is in heart thy king!"

The old knight struck his foot on the ground,
Like a war-horse hearing the trumpet sound;
And he spake with a voice of thunder,
Solemn and fierce in tone,
Waving his hand to the stately band

Who stood by the monarch's throne,
As a warrior might wave his flashing glaive
When cheering his squadrons on :
"I will fight for the honor of England,
Though not for false King John!"

He turned and strode from the lofty hall,
Nor seemed to hear the sudden cheer
Which burst as he spake from the lips of all.
And when he stood in the air without,
He paused as if in joyful doubt;

To the forests green and the wide blue sky
Stretching his arms embracingly,
With stately tread and uplifted head,
As a good steed tosses back his mane
When they loose his neck from the servile rein;
Ye know not, ye who are always free,
How precious a thing is liberty.

"O world!" he cried; "sky, river, hill,
Ye wear the garments of beauty still;
How have ye kept your youth so fair,*
While age has whitened this hoary hair?"
But when the squire, who watched his lord,
Gave to his hand his ancient sword,
The hilt he pressed to his eager breast,
Like one who a long-lost friend hath met;
And joyously said, as he kissed the blade,

"Methinks there is youth in my spirit yet. For France! for France! o'er the waters blue; False king-dear land-adieu, adieu !"

He hath crossed the booming ocean,
On the shore he plants his lance;

The reader of German will here recognize an exquisite stanza from Uhland, very inadequately rendered.

So they gave this graceful honor

To the bold De Courcy's race,

That they ever should dare their helms to wear
Before the king's own face:

And the sons of that line of heroes

To this day their right assume;
For, when every head is unbonneted,*
They walk in cap and plume!

From Tait's Magazine,

O RABEQUISTA, THE FIDdler.

FROM THE PORTUGUESE.

AMONG the living authors of Portugal, who are little, or not at all, known in this country, but whose merits as poets, dramatists, or prose writers entitle them to be so, are the brothers Castilho, A. M. de Souza Lobo, Ignacio Pizarro de M. Sarmento, J. B. d'Almeida Garrett a very distinguished man of letters, and A. Herculano, author of the "Harp of the Believer" and "The Voice of the Prophet," a young volunteer officer of the Liberal party, at the siege of Oporto, who made himself remarkable by his zeal and bravery, and who, after the death of Don Pedro, instead of hurrying with others to the capital to claim the reward of his services, long remained at Oporto, unsolicitous of court favors, and testified his grief in an elegy on "the romantic emperor who had fought against tyranny," and who had bequeathed his heart to that "faithful city." Of these and other existing ornaments of Portuguese literature, we may take future opportunities of giving some notices. The following little story is but a very trifling specimen of the abilities of Antonio Feliciano Castilho, whose name appears under it in a Lisbon periodical of recent date; but, mere trifle *The present representative of the house of De Courcy is Lord Kinsale.

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