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The lady was presently dragged out again into the hall by Gigo and the Templar, and forced by them away from her father's house, followed by the remainder of the king's attendants. They had not, however, gone far from the building, when, as they passed through the wood, Gigo, who was holding one of the lady's arms, fell, pierced through by an arrow.

That was a bold marksman,' said the Templar, 'who ventured to send his shaft so near the lady.'

'I only did it for a joke,' shouted a voice from behind a tree not many yards off; and, before this sentence was concluded, another arrow had scored the skin from off one of the ribs of the King. An inch difference in the aim, and it had reached his heart.

'Treason!' shouted the King. Let go the maiden, and scour the wood. A purse of gold to whoever secures the villain.'

The maiden was released, and made her escape; and the archer turned his knowledge of the ground to such advantage that they heard no more of him.

The next morning saw King John and his followers depart, to attempt a scheme of higher import, and deeper villainy, in the prosecution of which he perished, and the curses of his subjects were heaped upon his grave.

MY MOTHER'S GRAVE.

BY JAMES ALDRICH.

IN beauty lingers on the hills

The death-smile of the dying day:
And twilight in my heart instils
The softness of its rosy ray.

I watch the river's peaceful flow,
Here, standing by my mother's grave,

And feel my dreams of glory go,

Like weeds upon its sluggish wave.

God gives us ministers of love,

Which we regard not, being near;
Death takes them from us, then we feel
That angels have been with us here!
As mother, sister, friend, or wife,

They guide us, cheer us, soothe our pain;
And, when the grave has closed between
Our hearts and theirs, we love-in vain!

Would, MOTHER! thou couldst hear me tell
How oft, amid my brief career,
For sins and follies loved too well,
Hath fallen the free repentant tear!
And, in the waywardness of youth,

How better thoughts have given to me
Contempt for error, love for truth,
'Mid sweet remembrances of thee'

The harvest of my youth is done,

And manhood, come with all its cares,

Finds, garnered up within my heart,

For every flower a thousand tares.

Dear MOTHER! couldst thou know my thoughts
Whilst bending o'er this holy shrine,

The depth of feeling in my breast,

Thou wouldst not blush to call me thine!

AN EPISTLE FROM MISS SELINA SPRIGGINS TO
MISS HENRIETTA TIMS.

MA CHERE HENRiette,

Spriggins' Folly, April 1, 1835.

In the umbrageous solitude of Spriggins' Folly, a letter from you breaks in like a ray of summer sunshine! How happy am I to learn that your interesting affaire de cœur progresses with all the felicity your dear affectionate soul deserves.

etta.

You ask me if I am yet unalterably fixed? No! my dear HenriThe truth is, there is such a swarm of (not bees but) would be's, that I am really (like a child in a pastry-cook's) puzzled which of the sweethearts (sweet tarts?) to select. As at a full Archery meeting, here's a display of beaux of all sorts. First in the rank of my admirers is Sir Plimly Supple. He professes the most ardent affection and exhibits, certainly, a great inclination; for he is all bows. He has little conversation; but manages to fill up his part in the dialogue with ducking, cringing, bowing, in such admirable pantomime, that you almost forget he has said nothing. Describe his eyes or teeth I cannot; for it is a rare thing to see any thing but the crown of his head! Alas for him! his bows will all prove barren, if the affections of your loving friend are expected to be the fruits of them. In his presence I cannot help applying Esop's maxim, that the beau should not be always bent! A dear goodnatured friend (who has a son of her own, by the by) whispered my father the other day, That notwithstanding his appearance, Sir Plimly Supple was very much straitened.'

'I am glad to hear it,' answered my father, to the dame's evident surprise; for really I thought the man was born crooked.'

The lady recovered a little at this turn, and added, "That although he assumed so much humility, he carried his head very high elsewhere.'

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'Indeed!' said my father. Why, I have heard that he has a sort of pride of pedigree-boasts of his Norman descent. For my part, I should guess he was an Angle; for that is the form his slender and plastic body most usually assumes.'

Of my suitors the next in rank is Albert Anyside, Esq. the eldest son of Squire Anyside, a man of some property and great consequence in the county-having a great command of votes. His son, however, has not mine, and will never be my election. He has been educated for the bar; but he is so full of technicals, and so wary in his speech, that he will never commit himself. He would be a very desirable ally for any power going to war, for he deals in generals!

Although his declaration (as he would technically term it) sets forth the most ardent affection, I am afraid his love would turn out a little brief!'

Young Conway, his cousin, is worth twenty of him-a smart, impudent, careless, rattling youth of five-and-twenty-but no fortune. As he says, however, he has so much of the milk of human kindness, that he may reasonably be expected to make his own way (whey?) in the world!

Upon a late change in the politics of his cousin, he gravely re

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AN EPISTLE FROM MISS SELINA SPRIGGINS.

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marked, 'If the barrister were a Whig-(wear a wig ?)-he is now a Tory!'

He is also one of the captives chained to my triumphal car. As for the rest-why, all I can say is, they do not disturb your Selina's rest! But do not imagine for a moment there is the slightest impression. Were it so I would not conceal the feeling for a moment from my bosom friend and confidant. You shall never say of me, 'She never told her love'-such concealment on my part would be indeed unwarrantable after the confidence you have reposed in me. But now, to descend (or rather to ascend) from beaux to belles. The elder ladies of these parts are rather inclined to loquaciousness and obesity; and the junior branches to silence and dowdiness. Sir Plimly's mamma is a very moral, sententious, strict, old dowager. Such a pattern! but very much creased-that is, wrinkled-like many other excellent patterns that we know of! She gives very dashing tea and turn-out parties; and, I assure you, (however paradoxical it may sound,) those of her admirers who are left out' by no means like the 'cut' of the 'pattern!'

Anyside's daughters are mere rustics, but most violent in their attachment to the last new fashion. Conway laughs most impertinently at their vain attempts at elegance.

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Those girls,' said he one day to me in a whisper, are really walking contradictions, for, though very "raw," they are "well dressed." He is, indeed, very severe; and his satirical vein has obtained for him among his companions the apt sobriquet of 'Roasting Jack!' He is a great favourite with papa. He is so full of anecdote, he says, and is such a good hand at cribbage and backgammon. I am sure he would have little difficulty in gaining his approbation if he had the golden pretensions of his cousin. For, although papa is very aristocratical in his notions, he is a staunch supporter of equality in all matrimonial alliances. He brought us tickets of invitation to a ball the other evening, to be given by a wealthy yeoman some six miles from Spriggins' Folly.

He had little difficulty in persuading papa to accept them; for he luckily produced them after the old gentleman had just beat him at two games of backgammon.

'No doubt,' said Conway, the thing will be done well, for the old yeoman is an old cricketer, and knows how to give a ball in good style.'

We went; and I assure you I was highly pleased. My blue satin and blonde (made for my dear Henrietta's birthday) was displayed on the occasion. The body and sleeves, I could perceive. puzzled the rustic critics not a little. They were all eyes, like a peacock's tail! There was no fear, however, of their taking it to pieces, for they could not discover how it was put together!

Quadrilles did not figure much on the occasion. Country-dances were all the vogue; and my poor kids suffered a martyrdom in the lusty gripe of many a sun-burnt hand. It was really a most vigorous exercise with the greater part of the company. No mincing, or gliding, or glissading; but every one (ladies not excepted) did their work manfully!

'A very pleasant ball,' said Conway, as we returned; but, like the good yeoman's ale, there was too much of the hop in it for my taste. O! Taglioni! thou compound of music, moonshine, and

gossamer! how their eternal thump-thump would have annihilated thy nerves!'

But I must stay my pen; for I have already crossed and recrossed my letter, till it has assumed the appearance of a remnant of check. Remember me affectionately to our mutual friend, Amelia, and believe me, my dear Henrietta,

Your ever affectionate friend,
SELINA SPRIGGINS.

LINES IN AN ALBUM TO WHICH LETITIA ELIZABETH LANDON HAD BEEN A CONTRIBUTOR.

BY B. SIMMONS.

As certain pilgrims bound of yore
To far Judea's sacred shore
Were vowed a rosary to say
At every shrine upon their way,
So it befits the Bard, each time

An Album cheers his road, to rhyme.
Here, then, a wandering minstrel, weary
With life's long journey dim and dreary,
Pauses amid the desert waste

To hail this shelter spread for Taste,
And bless the fair and graceful powers

That gathered here Wit's scattered flowers,

And strewed these leaves with fancies bright,

And won sweet poesy to pour

Such freshness o'er them that the wight

Now scribbling, shrinks from scribbling more.

Yet, ere I part each favoured leaf,

Where Genius looked, and left a spell,
How can this heart repress its grief
While lingering o'er yon record brief
Of her the lost-the loved so well?
The radiant lady of the lute!

The fire-lipped Sappho of the Isles!
And is the Queen of Music mute,
Who woke our tears and smiles?
Immortal Passion's priestess, wo
To us to whom thy songs shall be
But springs in bitterness to flow
Above thy lucid memory:
For, as we point to all thou'st done,
Remembrance of thine early fate

Will count what wreaths were left unwon

Till Grief grows desolate!

Strange fate! fierce Afric's ocean laves,
Or leaps in thunder by the bed;

And Afric's sultry palm-tree waves
Above the gentle head

Of HER who deep should take her rest

Far in her own beloved west

In some green nook-some violet dell,
Beneath the rose she sang so well,

Soothed by the lull of some sweet river,

Sparklingly pure and bright, like her, the Lost for Ever!

A DAY AT ETON.

"Me quoties curas suadent lenire seniles
Umbra tua, et viridi ripa beata toro.

Sit mihi, primitiasque meas, tenuesque triumphos,
Sit, revocare tuos, dulcis Etona! dies."

"Come, parent Eton! turn the stream of time

Back to thy sacred fountain crowned with bays!
Recall my brightest, sweetest days of prime,

When all was hope and triumph, joy and praise."
LORD WELLesley.

ANY one living habitually in the country would find it difficult to appreciate the delight which a Londoner feels when he quits the great metropolis to pass the day either at Hampton Court or Windsor, or indeed to make any other rural excursion. A primrose, cowslip, or even the modest daisy, are not regarded by him with indifference. He thinks the song of the unseen lark the sweetest music he ever heard. He listens with delight to the notes of the throstle and blackbird, and inhales the fresh breeze as if he derived from it a new existence. It is always a satisfaction to witness the delight, the real enjoyment, experienced by those who, emancipated from the smoke and confinement of London, come to have a day of pleasure in either of the places referred to: those especially whose means of living are obtained by the sweat of their brow,-who are either chained to desks, or shut up in offices or shops the greater part of their time,— enjoy their excursion to Hampton Court or Windsor with a delight peculiar to themselves. It is a pleasure to witness their happiness, as well as the orderly conduct that is now becoming every day more and more apparent in visiters to these places, even amongst the humblest class; a fact which at once gives an answer to the fears and objections that were formerly urged against the free admission of the public to picture-galleries, museums, and gardens. It was impossible to touch upon this subject without bearing this testimony to the correct conduct of the working classes, and it is no small gratification to be able to do so.

But it is time to describe a little excursion I made with an old Etonian about the middle of last month, in order to see all that was worth seeing on the spot where his earliest and happiest days had been passed. It was a delightful May morning when we left Paddington to go to Slough by the Great Western Railway. This has now become almost the only public mode of conveyance to Windsor, and it is not surprising that it should be so. It is unrivalled for the smoothness and rapidity with which we travel along it,-its punctuality, its arrangements,-its comparative safety,-the great civility of its attendants,-to say nothing of the stupendous cost of its works, which no other country but this can boast of, or could have undertaken. All these place it in the first rank among railroads.*

The bell rang at twelve o'clock, and the train was instantly in movement. We arrived at Slough, eighteen miles and a quarter from

The travelling parlour is the very perfection of ease, comfort, and enjoyment.

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