were all alike in need of beer. Mr. Tookey, the deputy clerk, and that large jocose-looking wheelwright, and choir leader, Ben Winthrop, become litigious in talk, that same evening, and again the landlord interposes with his accustomed formula: "Come, come, a joke's a joke. We're all good friends here, I hope. We must give and take. You're both right and your both wrong, as I say. I agree wi' Mr. Macey, here, as there's two opinions, and if mine was asked, I should say they're both right. Tookey's right and Winthrop's right, and they've only got to split the difference and make themselves even." The possibilities of Ghost-seeing in general, and the credibility of a certain ghostly Cliff's Holiday in particular, breeds further contention and collision in the Rainbow parlour; and again this landlord is ready with his olive-branch and universal solvent. 66 Ay, but there's this in it, Dowlas," said the landlord, speaking in a tone of much candour and tolerance. "There's folks, i' my opinion, they can't see ghos'es, not if they stood as plain a pikestaff before 'em. And there's reason i' that. For there's my wife, now, can't smell, not if she'd the strongest of cheeses under her nose. I never see'd a ghost myself; but then I says to myself, Very like I haven't got the smell for 'em.' I mean, putting a ghost for a smell, or else contrairiways. And so, I'm for holding with both sides; for, as I say, the truth lies between 'em. And if Dowlas was to go and stand, and say he'd never seen a wink o' Cliff's Holiday all the night through, I'd back him; and if anybody said as Cliff's Holiday was certain sure for all that, I'd back him too. For the smell's what I go by." The landlord's analogical argument is not well received by the farrier-a man intensely opposed to all compromise; but it tells, more or less, with the rest of the company; and it tells, in another way, in the story which, to say a good deal, is one of George Eliot's best.

There is something here to remind us of another loquacious publican, the one in Smollett, with his story of the two goblins that had been making a racket at Commodore Trunnion's, and which Mr. Hatchway averred to be a couple of jackdaws that had fallen down the chimney, and made a flapping with their wings up and down the room,-a theory highly offensive to the tetchy commodore, who stormed like a perfect hurricane, and swore "he knew a devil from a jackdaw as well as e'er a man in the three kingdoms." He owned, indeed, that the birds were found, but denied that they were the occasion of the uproar. "For my own part, master," quoth the publican to Mr. Pickle, "I believe much may be said on both sides of the question.'

* Peregrine Pickle, ch. ii.

581

A LEGEND OF SAINT BRITA.

BY WILLIAM JONES.

THERE are women of ev'ry creed, fashion, and sort,
Good, bad, and indifferent, varied, in short,

In tempers as well as in features:

Some tall, others little, some stout, others lean,
Some proud as a bishop, or rather a queen,
Or easy persuaded, as Eve must have been-
The mother of credulous creatures!

Some women are swayed by the glance of an eye,
Whilst others, who mildest coercion defy,

Never melt at the softest of phrases;

And some, who are young, are too old for their years,
And others, who make a good market of tears,
Though (matches apart) may be sweet pretty dears,
At a spark will enkindle like blazes!

There are strong-minded women, and others less so,
Who their mind at a stretch but imperfectly know,
In fact, we may doubt if they have one;
And others who look upon life as a race,
To be run for at quite a sensational pace,
Who whirl on at random, sans bridle or trace,
To bewilder and somewhat deprave one!
If I were commissioned, like Paris of old,
To give whom I listed an apple of gold,
I would not be blinded by beauty:

To the Palmam qui meruit ferat divine
My choice meritorious would always incline,
And the fruit of real gusto should ever be mine,
As a matter of flavour and duty.

There's a name that the world may know little about,
But you may in the Legenda soon find it out,

That rarest of women, Saint Brita!
So famous, that bishops and abbots, as well,
Popes, cardinals, others, too many to tell,
Would anathemise any with candle and bell

Who ventured to thwart or to slight her.
A stout will she had; a manner uncommon
Of dealing with mortals or sprites superhuman,
She was most remarkably plucky;
For all the temptations good Anthony had,
And other saints worried, too, almost as bad,
Rather tended to make her more lively than sad,

And those who could daunt her were lucky.

She was haunted by demons so monstrous and dread,
That to talk of them only, each hair on one's head
Stands up quite as stiff as a poker:

Some had tails that were scaly, club feet, and huge paws,
Eyes larger than saucers, bone fingers, and claws,

With crocodile teeth, that looked sharper than saws,
Or the glance of a Liverpool broker.

VOL. LXIII.

2 Q

Some were shaped like a monkey, gorilla, or cat,
With beaks like a vulture, and wings like a bat-
Putting nature in wildest confusion:

Such a mass incongruous of creatures uncouth,
Far worse than a nightmare could conjure, in sooth,
And, besides, 'twas no dream, but an ocular truth-
At least 'twas to her no delusion.

Such braying and yelling, such screeching and riot,
When one would suppose that the saint wanted quiet,
With night to invite her to slumber;

But no rest could be had 'midst the clatter and din,
For beneath and above her, without and within,
To this "chamber of horrors" came figures of sin,
By figures not easy to number!

But calm was Saint Brita, no terrors could fright her;
Nay, the scene, though revolting, seemed quite to delight her,
It pleased an ascetic caprice:

She jeered at the monsters, and gave them in turn
Such a look of derision as made their throats burn,
And bade them "move on,”-better manners to learn,
In a way that would grace the police.

More than this, for the saint had a rosary made,
With beads half as thick as my fist, on a braid

As strong as a man-of-war's cable;

And this she laid on them with might and with main,
Till they made the roof ring in vexation and pain,
And she pummelled them soundly again and again,
As long as her strength would enable.

The devil was wrath when he heard what was done,
And thought it was time to diminish her fun,

In a manner that might be styled clever;
For, dressed à l'Adonis, and handsomer still,
He tried all his blandishments, ready at will,
And with exquisite ease and Lotharian skill

He vowed he would love her for ever!
But Brita was plain as the plainest could be,
I may even say ugly, in some slight degree,
Which rendered her hard of believing,
That a mortal saint could insidious assail;
And spying by chance a small bit of his tail,
She hammered it down to a chair with a nail,
His dignity sorely aggrieving!

Enraged he declared he would love her no more,
As smiling politely she showed him the door,
And bade him " Remember his duty;

For it certainly was a most grievous offence
To waste time and talents on people of sense,
Who saw through his wiles and his flimsy pretence-
Let him try them on folly and beauty!"

It happened, soon after, they met once again;
'Twas the last, for all hopes of deluding were vain,
As the tempter found out to his sorrow:
He had heard some loud snoring in church on his way,
So looked in to see what there might be to pay,

To his credit will deeply the balance lay,

And 'gainst those who indulgences borrow.

He found that a preacher, erratic no doubt,
Had stray'd from his text, and had wandered about
In a prosy, monotonous ramble:

The monks were all dozing, and laymen as well,
They seemed to be under a mesmerist's spell;
With a chuckle, thought Satan, "This visit will tell,
And yield me a pretty fair scramble."

He stood near a pillar and counted his sheep,
Very black ones they were, and to snore in their sleep
Was evidence nasal unshaken:

Then taking a goat-skin he entered their names,
And the letters first crackled, then burst into flames,
As he hurriedly wrote down the list of his claims,
Before they had time to awaken.

The parchment was filled, a few sinners remained,
So he tried with his teeth to enlarge it, and gained
A little more space for addition:

'Twas a critical juncture, the moments ran fast,
A few scratches more, and the sum would be cast,
And make a round number of those who, at last,
Were doomed to a total of perdition.

But in tugging and stretching to make it all right,
In the haste and excess of impatient delight,

The skin was divided asunder:

His head struck the pillar with such a rude thump, That it brought out a mountain of flesh for a bump, And the sleepers awoke with a start and a jump,

For it sounded like very near thunder!

Now Saint Brita, who never felt drowsy at church,
And amused to see Satan once more in the lurch,
Laughed aloud at his ugly grimaces:

A blow on the head he could pretty well bear,
But the mirth of the saint was too galling to hear;
With a look that most others would wither and sear,
He vanished-but left a few traces.

In his fury he tore up the sulphury scroll,
And with it the lease of each slumbering soul,
Very nearly the tenants of evil :

The pieces were pasted and framed, we are told,
A warning to all, both the young and the old,
How in church if they ever are lukewarm or cold,
They are apt to be snared by the devil.

584

WHOSE WIFE WAS SHE?

FROM THE FRENCH.

BY MRS. ALFRED M. MÜNSTER.

I.

I SEND you, madame, the true history of Mademoiselle de la Faille, of which we have heard so many extraordinary versions. This account I have faithfully and laboriously compiled from the manuscript notes of Monsieur Moizas, as well as from portions of the address delivered by him before the parliament of Paris, in defence of one so lovely and so unfortunate, however blameworthy. I also owe much to the kindness of Madame Carmé, who permitted me to have free access to the private papers of her parents; and as you will probably see her before I shall, I beg you will offer her by best thanks for the manner in which she facilitated my researches.

In 17-, at Toulouse, there existed between a Monsieur de Garran and the family of Monsieur de la Faille so great an intimacy, that the worthy gossips of the city predicted that a marriage must inevitably result therefrom. Nor was the rumour so ill-founded as such things sometimes are. Monsieur de Garran, a captain of artillery in the

Regiment, then stationed at Toulouse, was a young and handsome man, as much distinguished for bravery in the field as for his proficiency in those accomplishments which make the charm of social intercourse. Talented and brilliant in conversation, his society was sought by all the best families of Toulouse and its neighbourhood; and that fact alone was a certificate of his unblemished descent, for in Toulouse, especially at that time, four generations of noble ancestors were not considered sufficient to entitle a man to rank himself amongst the old nobility. Monsieur de la Faille was one of the principal magistrates of Toulouse. Timid and cautious by temperament and habit, he was, like most persons of similar character, immovable as a rock when he had once formed a resolution; and his birth, wealth, and social position made him as much respected as his gentle ingratiating manners caused him to be loved.

He was a widower with one child, a daughter called Clémence, the beauty of the city. Mademoiselle de la Faille had so perfect a figure, that that alone, even if united with a very moderate amount of beauty of face, must have made good her title to be called a beautiful woman, but Clémence had a face which left no charm of expression, feature, or complexion to be desired. It was but natural that she and Monsieur de Garran, both young, handsome, and agreeable, and both free in heart and fancy, being constantly thrown together, should first be attracted towards each other, and after a time find that their mutual attraction had merged into a deeper feeling; it was so, and everything seemed for once favourable-birth, fortune, position, and age, for French girls are married young, and Clémence was fifteen, while George de Garran was twentyfive.