by a stone from every passer-by, was soon, and is still called The Dead Woman's Cairn. Thus he lived for many a long year in this wild solitude, alone with the remembrance of her whom he had lost, seldom descending to the village except on Sundays and holidays for the purpose of hearing mass. He spoke little, and avoided society as much as he could; but by a sort of tacit agreement he seemed to be constituted the natural guardian of all the old customs of the country-on Easter even, for example, he was always sure to be found posted at the corner of the square with his finger on the trigger of his gun, waiting till the bells should ring the return from Rome, in order to shoot Lent Lent being represented by eggshells, fish-bones, and dried vegetables suspended to the hoop of a barrel at the height of the roofs. It was he who gave the morning serenade of the brothers of St. Mark, and he had not his equal at beating a roll on the big drum of the brotherhood. When St. John's day came, it was he again who lighted the first bonfire on the mountain in honour of his patron saint. He was also a bombardier, and on St. Antonine's day, the patron of the village, or on that of St. Barbe, the patroness of artillerymen, it was Jack who discharged the mortars of the commune, into which it is thought he put but little government powder. He knew the rhyme for making swarms of bees come back, and the prayer by which objects that have been lost are found. He was also something of a bone-setter, had a secret way of dressing wounds, discovered springs with the divining-rod, and had a drug that was a sovereign cure for the bite of a mad dog. Every one loved him for ten leagues round, and he was often consulted in difficult circumstances, for he was known to be as prudent as he was clear-headed. The young men were unanimous in proclaiming the superiority of Jack's powder to that of the government; and the girls gave him always the preference if the proclamation of a robbage had to be made. So when harvest was over, and Jack went about from farm to farm, sack on back like a mendicant hermit, he was sure to receive his peck of grain, his handful of olives, or his bottle of new wine. When a pig was killed, Jack got always a good piece for a fricassee, and there was hardly a marriage or christening party of any consequence to which he was not invited as if of full right. So that this man who possessed nothing under the sun, neither lands nor houses; who, like the ancient philosopher, carried about with him all that he had, this vagabond beyond the pale of society, half smuggler, half poacher, without recognized trade or avowed employment-this man lived in comparative abundance, and undoubtedly enjoyed the cordial esteem of his neighbours.— From the Revue des Deux Mondes. OLD TIMES. BY GERALD GRIFFIN. Old times! old times! the gay old times--- My Sunday palm beside me placed- Old times! Old times! It is not that my fortunes flee, I mourn whene'er I think of thee, A wiser head I have, I know, Than when I loitered there;But in my wisdom there is woe, And in my knowledge, care. Old times! Old times! I've lived to know my share of joy, Old times! Old times! And sure the land is nothing changed, Still sweetly shades my frame- Old times! Old times! Oh, come again, ye merry times! Sweet, sunny, fresh, and calm- My tears would flow in vain— Old times! Old times! THE PAGE. BY WILLIAM SAWYER. Like a missal all ablaze With the gold and colours blended, Shine the bright chivalric days In their hazy distance splendid. Knights in long processions go, Tossing plumes and armour flashing, Pennons interblending glow, Glaives are shining, falchions clashing. Maidens lone in 'leagured towns Dreaming over minstrel praises,— Yard-long hair and silken gowns (Sunny meadows prankt with daisies). Lips that meeting lips bespeak, Sidelong glances, smiles ecstatic; Flowers freshening in the cheek, Sighs distinctly aromatic. Nobly born as passing fair, For though sweet are thicket roses, Perfect blooms of the parterre, Only the parterre discloses. Then at every maiden's side, Sworn companion of her leisure, Moves Sir Page-my lady's pride, Pleasing torment, tiresome pleasure. Clad in suit of iris hues, Hawk on wrist, with bells and jesses, Eyes of liquid browns or blues, Maiden cheeks and maiden tresses. Fond of joust and fond of brawl Dagger out ere word is spokenLife of bower, and life of hall— Youth's free spirit all unbroken. Critic of the limner's art, Of the poet judge austerestCupid in the censor's part, Piping sentences severest. Singing to the twangling lute Minstrel ballad last in fashion, Till the lips that should be mute Learn the parrot-lisp of passion. Underneath the pleasaunce walls, (Ripe with nectarines and peaches), Glad my Lady's damozels List the lesson that he teaches. Eyes upon a blushing face Curls against a milky shoulderArm about a resting place Might dismay a lover bolder. Of his heart and its despair, Vowing oft and oft protesting, Till so much of love is there, Only half of it is jesting. Happy Page, who thus can move In a round of bright enjoymentHappy to whom song and love Represent life's sole employment! THE FAITHFUL PAGE. Lewis, Duke of Liegnitz, was in his youth fond of travel; and his desire being earnest to visit strange countries and become acquainted with foreign nations, no sooner was he his own master, than he hastened to set forth. In the progress of his journeys, he touched at every part of Europe, and even went so far as the torrid Asia. This young nobleman was attacked whether through fatigue, heat, or contagion-by a violent illness, which seized him at the tomb of Mahomet-that being a curiosity he had long coveted to see. During the violence of his malady, he was faithfully and affectionately attended by Charles of Chila, his chamberlain; who, though an aged man, never failed, either in the night watch, or the day's duty. He was ever by his master's bedside, and soon had the happiness to see him recover from the effects of the struggle between death and life. But the true-hearted servant drew his own death from his lord's safety: he was smitten with the same disease, and received from the Duke attentions almost as assiduous and anxious as those he had bestowed: but they had not the same fortunate result. The chamberlain died; but, before the breath left his body, he commended earnestly to his master's protection, his grandson, a tender boy, then far distant at school, whose father fell at the blockade of Cottbus, by the side of the Duke of Sagen, and whose mother did not survive her husband more than half a year. The Duke bound himself to the dying man, by a solemn oath, to provide for the now destitute child-exclaiming, "So may my last hour be as serene as thine!" "He is the last branch of our race," uttered the chamberlain feebly, his voice being almost extinguished by death: "receive him from me as a solemn legacy: he is virtuous and affec tionate, and will exercise towards you and your family the fidelity that has ever distinguished his ancestors." A few moments afterwards the Duke had to weep the loss of his most zealous friend and devoted follower. Duke Lewis, being smitten with melancholy, hastened back to Europe. He made his entry on his domains amidst the rejoicings of his vassals: and if the pride of rank and power swelled in his breast as he heard their shouts and saw their manifestations of delight, he felt the warmth of kindness towards these, his dependents, accompanying the swelling of his spirit; for sojourning amongst strangers, and encountering hazards, had humanized his disposition, and long absence had hindered him from waxing, by usage, callous to the wretchedness and wrongs of his inferiors, as the best natures at that time too commonly were. Nor did he forget his promise to the dying chamberlain: one of his courtiers was soon despatched to fetch to his palace the young Chila, whom he appointed to be one of his pages. Henry, the grandson of Charles of Chila, was now seventeen; his shape tall and slender; his face fine and manly; his mind richly accomplished; and his manners trained to elegance by the graceful exercises of chivalry. He played on the lute, and accompanied its soft tones with a melodious voice. He became his master's favourite; the ornament of the ducal court; the most gallant of the princely retinue, when his lord pursued the wolf or the bear, or gave tournaments at which the knights might distinguish themselves amongst their companions, and touch the hearts of their mistresses by gratify ing their female pride. It was about the Easter of the year 1412, that a messenger presented himself from the Emperor Sigismund, inviting Duke Lewis to repair to the imperial court; the sovereign having in view to bestow a signal mark of his favour on the Prince, his vassal. And precious. indeed, was the boon!-no less than the hand of the Emperor's niece, the Princess Etha of Hungary, a beauty then shining in all the splendour of youthful charms. Brilliant were the festivities at the marriage: but Henry, the Duke's page, was more stricken by the charms of his new mistress, than by the grandeur of the imperial court. The lady soon behaved towards the graceful youth with that affectionate familiarity of which her lord set her the example; and in so doing she gave a proof of the goodness of her disposition, and of her devotion to her husband: but was it not the page's misfortune to be so distinguished? Too surely it was: for there grew up in his heart a violent passion, which he bitterly wept over in secret, and blushed for in public, dreading its discovery as the signal of his ignominy and utter ruin. Yet, in the midst of this agony of remorse, the hopelessness of his love was a torture felt by him above all the rest; and this he owned to himself and deplored, for thus he knew that the crime would be more tolerable to him if it were not bootless—a knowledge that made him accuse himself of ingratitude and treachery toward his excellent master. And thus torn and worked upon in spirit, the consternation of the poor youth showed itself visibly in his altered appearance, so that none could fail to perceive how heavy a load of secret grief was borne by this once gay and happy, now most miserable, page. The Duke and the Duchess were both inces sant in their importunities to be told the cause of their favourite's melancholy. "Dost thou covet the well-trained falcon, which thou knowest so well to fly? Is it the swift charger, that bore thee so gallantly in the last tournament, that thou wouldst be master of?" To these kind inquiries, prompted by anxious affection, Henry gave no answer, but he seemed confounded, and held his peace. "Have I lost thy confidence then?" said the duke: "what hast thou to complain of in my friendship for thee? Have I not always shown myself thy friend, rather than thy lord?" "Ah, my dear, my gracious master," then exclaimed Henry-for he could hold no longer "take my life-I have lived too long-but never while I live can I forget what I owe to your grace: I am grateful, indeed I am-but miserable, very miserable. Oh my lord, de not press me for the cause of my grief, but rather drive me from your presence; recall your favours, yet leave me your compassion; I have much need of it." The Duke was astonished at this, which he thought little short of frenzy: and, consulting with his Duchess, they agreed to watch the young man narrowly, lest mischief might come of his strange infatuation. One fine evening of the spring, the page went out on the rampart of the castle, and, believing himself to be unobserved, he sat down beneath a lofty pine, while to his lute he sung the following stanzas: SONG. Ye pines that wave on high, While echo wakes alone! To your deep shade I fly, To loose my bosom's groan. |