the passions, indeed, the actor wished to portray. How the mask came to be introduced into private or public réunions, into fêtes dansantes, and other entertainments, is not known. The use of masks to conceal the individuality evidently dates from the use of casques and visors. In the days of chivalry and tournaments, it was no uncommon thing for young squires of high birth to remain incognito under some diguise, that they might win reputation due only to their courage and address. Silk, however, has succeeded to steel, and the passage of arms has yielded to the mazes of the dance. Like the dance, the masque and the masquerade have their clientèle. To all who love such revelling, we heartily give the complimentary advice which the busy Ant gave the lively Grasshopper: "Dance ever."

The Battle of Lansdown, near Bath.

JULY 5TH, 1643.

WE stood on Lansdown's northern slope at the hour of evening's chime,
And we talk'd of the bloody deeds done there in the dark rebellious time;
And as we traced the battle's lines, we saw, with fancy's sight,

The arm'd array, the wild affray,-the flash, the crash, the flight,—
And heard, in fancy's ear, the shouts, the groans, the stifled breath
Of men in mortal combat met, in agony and death;

And we named Sir Beville Grenville's name, and proudly spoke of him
Who led the van of strife and toil through all that carnage grim;
Who, following fast where duty call'd, reach'd glory's early goal,
And on that hot, ensanguin'd plain pour'd out his noble soul.

Hard press'd by treasons dark and foul, King Charles had call'd for aid,
And Cornwall's best and bravest hearts the sacred call obey'd.

To loss of land, of limb, of life, right cheerfully they go-
The Bassets of Tehidy, and the gallant house of Stowe;,
Godolphin and Trelawny, Trevelyan and Borlase;

And all the sons of Clowance, and Trevanion of Carhayes;
And Arundel, and Vyvyan, and every worthiest name

From Moorwinstow to Maker, from the Lizard to the Rame.

Penrith call'd up her miners; in loving loyal league

March'd forth the lusty husbandmen of Roseland and Meneage.

From town and hamlet, hall and hut, from mount and moor and coast,

And all the vales of Foy and Fal, gather'd a noble host;

And o'er Hamoaze, to Caradon and Roughtor's craggy hill,

And westward to St. Michael's Mount and far St. Mary's Isle,

One shout arose,—one long, deep note,-whose echo'd answers ring,

Through length, and depth, and breadth, and height, "Up, Cornwall, for the King!"

On Braddock Downs, on Stratton Hill, they cow'd the rebel crest,
And rear'd the Royal Standard high triumphant o'er the West;
And Devon rous'd her sons to arms as their banners eastward went,
And our own sunny Somerset her choicest yeomen sent.
False Taunton yielded; Luttrell's fear gave up strong Dunster-tower;
Carnarvon's Earl on Mendip-height crush'd Popham's serried power;
And Waller's stern battalions fell back in sullen dread,
Still broken by the Cornish sword, yet fighting as they fled;
Till over Lansdown rallying, they fiercely turn'd at bay,
And dar'd the Cavalier come forth to dire and deadly fray.

But the wakeful foe had labour'd hard through all the sultry night;
And his lines appear'd, as morning dawn'd, upthrown along the height;
And the gunner stood by the culverin, and the pikeman with his spear,
And the mail'd dragoon, and the halbertman, and the crouching musqueteer;
And dark Will Waller strode in haste from thickening file to file,
His dull eye low'ring, and his heart oppress'd with hidden guile;
And he bade his men strike home amain for the Solemn League and Vow;
And the name of Traitor legibly was branded on his brow.

Forth at the word his squadrons burst,-fierce crowding rank on rank,—
And down the height infuriate dash'd, and broke Carnarvon's flank.

His column waver'd, bent, recoil'; till Slanning rush'd to aid,
And the foemen on their lines fell back, disorder'd and dismay'd.
Again to the fight they madly rush'd,-all mangled, hack'd, and riv'n.
Again they fled,-men, horses, arms in crush'd confusion driv'n;
And brothers' blood, by brothers shed, flow'd forth in mingled tide;
And brave men fell, and clutch'd the earth, and groan'd and gasp'd and died.
But on the left the battle's storm thicken'd in deadlier might;
Yet still the Grenville's arm prevail'd in hard, unequal fight;
And still the Royal Banner tower'd, and still the rebel fled,-
For there the Cornish pikemen fought, and brave Sir Beville led.
Dark Waller saw th' advancing crest, and knew the desperate need,
And headlong into thickest fight plunged his impetuous steed;
Forth through the host, from line to line, a rapid signal ran,
And horse and foot in denser mass down-thunder'd on their van;
The cannon pour'd an iron hail, and pike, and lance, and gun,
And sweeping sword, and crashing axe, a ghastly harvest won.
And Hopton sank, and Arundel toiled on in wounds and pain,
And England's best and noblest blood was shed on earth like rain.*
Yet still in vain dark Waller raged, and piled the field with dead;
For still the Cornish pikes press'd on, and still Sir Beville led.

In hottest fire, in sorest need, where dangers loudest call,

He stood, the stay and bulwark, the soul and strength of all;

'Mid smoke and dust, 'mid wounds and death, from post to post he pass'd,
And faint hands grasp'd the blade again, and victory follow'd fast,
And faint hearts beat with new-born life, as still where'er he trod
His solemn war-cry rose, “My King, my Country, and my God!"
'Tis eventide. The fight is o'er; the vanquish'd foeman flies;
But stretch'd upon that fatal height Sir Beville Grenville lies.
The rebels' axe had cleft his helm, just as the fight was done,
When daring heart and desperate hand the hard-fought field had won.
He fell as falls the lordly oak: loosed is each mighty limb;
Faint beats that good and gallant heart, that lofty eye is dim;
His breath comes fast and short and hard, his brow is cold as stone;
Scarce know they that the Grenville lives, save by the low death-moan.
They laid him 'neath the sacred shade;† and men of God were there
To bless his soul in Jesu's grace, and soothe his pangs with prayer;
And gentle maidens watch'd all night, like angels, by his side,
Till morning rose, and hope was quench'd, and the great Grenville died.
Round the pale corse, in speechless grief, the Cornish warriors stand,
And Slanning kneels, and in his own grasps the dead Grenville's hand;
Trevanion weeps, as women weep; and sighs convulsive start,
And groans of deep-drawn agony, from Hopton's bursting heart;
And Basset bows his throbbing head down like a bulrush low,

And o'er his friend and brother mourns with more than brother's woe.

On Lansdown stands his monument; Kilkhampton has his dust;
His spirit slumbers with the blest in holy, humble trust;
And Cornwall has his lofty name, to tell, with sacred pride,
How like a hero-saint he lived, and like a martyr died.

J. J. D.

* "In this battle, on the King's part, there were more officers and gentlemen of quality slain than common men."-Lord Clarendon's Hist. of Great Rebellion. † Sir B. Grenville died at Cold-Ashton Parsonage.

Paid in Full.

BY HENRY J. BYRON.

66

CHAPTER I.

THE FIRST FLOOR IN LITTLE GREEN STREET.

Of all the gloomy and grimy houses in Little Green Street, Soho, No. 92 was probably the gloomiest and most grimy. The landlord had evidently given it up as a bad job, and smoke and dirt had apparently marked it for their own. Hard task indeed would it have been for the puzzled plasterer to have discovered where to re-point the brickwork, had the proprietor ever been so rash as to talk of such an unSohoian extravagance; little need would a painter and grainer have had to scrape away the once green covering of the front-door previous to enveloping it in a coat of the brightest pink,-time and the children had saved him the trouble, for the sun had shone very hotly upon it, and the Little Green Street juveniles had seized upon the precious blisters as so many prizes, and had picked some off, and scratched away at the rest with their boots and tops and hoops, until the door, as the lady opposite (who made wax-flowers and had artistic notions) very frequently declared, was a eyesore to the street." The very scraper, a stout and sterling piece of iron-work, made for use and not for show, had succumbed at last to the perpetual balancings of the more reckless amongst the children, and bent over in a manner which was irritating to the person scraping, inasmuch as those who called most frequently at No. 92 were visitors with soles and heels which could scarcely afford to be trifled with. The knob of the door had disappeared (popularly supposed through the agency of a desperate youth of eleven, who was found with twopence-halfpenny in his possession for which he could not account); and though Mrs. Molloy, the tenant of the house, and consequently owner for the time being of the article, had recognised it in the window of a broker's shop in the next street, that good lady was so completely put out of court by the shopkeeper's threatening an action for defamation of character, that she was content to retire hastily to her home, and, indeed, for the rest of her life never alluded to the knob save in whispers.

We have said the house looked gloomy, but must make an exception so far as the first-floor windows were concerned, for there the evidence of cleanliness and good taste was apparent, not only in the clean, bright panes, but in the neat and cheerful curtains, the whiteness of the blind, and the agreeable oasis in the great desert of surrounding dreariness afforded by a row of little flower-pots in a green stand, and a large brass cage in which a canary chirped and twinkled in the sunlight. The appearance of flies in amber was not more puzzling to the inhabitants of

Little Green Street than was the natty first-floor front that divided the dismal ground-floor and basement of No. 92 from the dingy secondpair and attics of that wobegone tenement. The apartments even of Captain Crane, who played the mandoline at the open window on summer evenings, and selected Soho as his dwelling-place because he said it reminded him so of the Continent,-even Captain Crane's apartments paled in point of actual comfort before the first-floor of No. 92, although the Captain's blinds had decidedly the best of it in the matter of tassels; whilst the lady wax-flower maker and Miss Parkins, who was popularly supposed to be a court milliner, both agreed that the first-floor of No. 92 set a most excellent example to the street; though the waxflower lady, still viewing matters through the artistic lens, said that it wasn't so much the windows themselves, but that the surrounding dirt and miserableness "threw them out."

The interior of the apartments which constituted the first-floor upon which we have descanted, and into which but few of the Little Green Street denizens had ever been permitted to enter, more than justified the generally-expressed belief in their neatness and comfort. The furniture, which was for the most part of the regular lodging-house stamp,-hard, angular, and uncompromising,-had been evidently added to by some one with a tasteful eye and a decided propensity to cushions. A comfortable old-fashioned sofa, a downright bower of an easy-chair, an elegant little work-table, and a couple of handsome engravings, completely cast into the shade the six meagre chairs, the rickety Pembroke-table, and the threadbare carpet which were the property of Mrs. Molloy, the landlady, and which might have been in the possession of Mrs. Molloy's grandmother, so ancient and hideous did they appear beside their modern companions. A little common piano occupied one side of the apartment, and a great pile of music suggested the probability of the owner of the room being professional.

Up and down this little front drawing-room, on an autumn evening some few years ago, there paced an elderly woman, who was evidently impatient at the delay of some one expected in to tea,-for she oscillated between the window and the tea-things, and sniffed and grunted with undisguised annoyance, and looked at the little clock upon the mantelpiece continually, and refused to be comforted. Not that there was any body present to attempt the task of soothing the agitated feelings of the poor old woman, nor, from the expression of her countenance, would that duty have been a remarkably easy one to perform; for, in sooth, her features were hard and somewhat forbidding; her mouth was pulled down with a chronic pucker; and there was a something about her stiff and undeceptive false brown front that repressed familiarity or sympathy. Her dress was cheap and dingy, her hands were horny with hard work, and her entire appearance spoke of unremitting toil and suffering.

"Dear, dear!" exclaimed the old woman as, for the thirtieth time,