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“Couched, but not bed-ridden," exclaimed Glanville, laughing.

“No, not yet, thank heaven!” said old Smirke. “Glanville, I'll not quit this house till I've altered my will."

“Having already changed your mind,” said Glanville, laughing, “you know I always said, that although I never complained of your personal disposition, I protested against the injustice of the disposition of your property. And you have to thank me, old boy, for having made you uncomfortable; for I have shown you your errors; and it is only an old friend like myself that can venture upon such an experiment with impunity. But I rejoice in the deed-although I may lose a legacy."

“ You sha'nt,” interrupted old Smirke.
“I won't have it," cried Glanville. “I hate duplicity!”

Three years and nine months after this strange eventful history old Smirke died !

A host of expectant relatives swarmed from all parts, and crowded the gloomy mansion, wishing to pay the last tribute of respect to their dear and much-lamented kinsman!

Hyena was there—an important smile, dashed with an expression of sorrow, flickered over his countenance like a ray of diluted moonlight, as he officiously did the honours of the house, as if he were already in possession of the long-coveted wealth of his uncle. He regarded his cousin Arthur with a look of mingled contempt and pity ; but still he smiled, for long custom had rendered his muscles incapable of any other expression.

The funeral over, Glanville, the oldest friend and executor of the deceased opened the will. What a moment of intense anxiety ! With the exception of a few trilling legacies, and considerable bequests to charitable institutions, which Hyena felt as so many deductions from his purse, the whole of the real and personal property of the deceased was bequeathed to his nephew Arthur! Did Hyena smile? No: reader, he laughed-on the wrong side of his mouth!

ALFRED CROWQUILL.

SILENT LOVE.

BY SIMON DACH.*
What is Love's sweetest, truest bliss ?

For Beauty's charms to glow and die,
Would you seek other joys than this,

And for a fairer fortune sigh,
You may torment yourselves in vain,
But what you wish you 'll never gain.
He that is loved, and loves again,

Can easily his faith display;
But he is blest who suffers pain,

Who grieves, and yet is ever gay.
If you another game would try,
You still may love, but Hope will fiy.
He who would Love's high meed obtain,

And thus his long-sought bliss insure,
One single heart should strive to gain,

With patience hope, with joy endure.
His constancy he thus will prove,
And merit well the prize of Love.

• Born 1605, at Memel-died 1659.

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S. Heloïus in hâc urbe fuit episcopus, qui, defunctus, sepulturus est a fidelibus. Nocte autem sequenti, veniens quidam paganus lapidem qui sarcophagum tegebat revolvit, erectumque contra se corpus Sancti spoliare conatur. At ille, lacertis constrictum, ad se hominem fortiter amplexatur, et usque mane, populis spectantibus, tanquam constipatum loris, ita miserum brachiis detinebat. *** ** Judex loci sepulchri violatorem jubet abstrahi, et legali pænæ sententiâ condemnari ; sed non laxabatur a Sancto. Tunc intelligens voluntatem defuncti, Judex, factâ de vità promissione, absolvit, deinde laxatur, et sic incolumis redditur: non vero fur de missus quin se vitam monastericam amplexurum spopondisset.

Greg: Turonens: de Gloria Confessorum.

SAINT ALOYS

Was the Bishop of Blois,
And a pitiful man was he,

He grieved and he pined

For the woes of mankind,
And of brutes in their degree.-

He would rescue the rat

From the claws of the cat,
And set the poor captive free;

Though his cassock was swarming

With all sorts of vermin,
He'd not take the life of a flea ! -

Kind, tender, forgiving

To all things living,
From injury still he'd endeavour to screen 'em,
Fish, flesh, or fowl,—no differenee between 'em-

Nihil PUTAVIT A SE ALIENUM.

The Bishop of Blois was a holy man,

A holy man was he !
For Holy Church
He'd seek and he'd search

As a Bishop in his degree.-
From foe and from friend
He 'd “rap and he'd rend,"

To augment her treasurie.
Nought would he give, and little he 'd lend,

That Holy Church might have more to spend.
“ Count Stephen” * (of Blois) “ was a worthy Peer,

His breeches cost him but a crown,
He held them sixpence all too dear,

And so he call’d the Tailor lown.”

Teste Messire lago, a distinguished subaltern in the Venetian service, circiler A.D. 1750. His biographer, Mr. William Shakspeare, a contemporary writer of some note, makes him say“ King Stephen," inasmuch as the “ worthy peer subsequently usurped the crown of England. The anachronism is a pardonable one.- Mr. Simpkinson of Bath.

Had it been the Bishop instead of the Count,
And he'd overcharged him to half the amount,

He had knock'd that Tailor down
Not for himself!-

He despised the pelf;
He dress'd in sackcloth, he dined off delf;
And, when it was cold, in lieu of a surtout,
The good man would wrap himself up in his virtue.*
Alack ! that a man so holy as he,
So frank and free in his degree,
And so good and so kind, should mortal be!

Yet so it is—for loud and clear
From St. Nicholas' tower, on the listening ear,

With solemn swell,

The deep-toned bell
Flings to the gale a funeral knell;

And hark !-at its sound,

As a cunning old hound, When he opens, at once causes all the young whelps Of the cry to put in their less dignified yelps,

So—the little bells all,

No matter how small, From the steeples both inside and outside the wall,

With bell-metal throat

Respond to the note,
And join the lament that a prelate so pious is
Forced thus to leave his disconsolate diocese,

Or, as Blois' Lord May'r

Is heard to declare, “Should leave this here world for to go to that there."

And see, the portals opening wide,
From the Abbey flows the living tide ;-

Forth from the doors

The torrent pours,
Acolytes, Monks, and Friars in scores,
This with his chasuble, that with his rosary,
This from his incense-pot turning his nose awry,

Holy Father, and Holy Mother,
Holy Sister, and Holy Brother,
Holy Son, and Holy Daughter,
Holy Wafer, and Holy Water;

Every one drest

Like a guest in his best, In the smartest of clothes they're permitted to wear, Serge, sackcloth, and shirts of the same sort of hair As now we make use of to stuff an arm-chair, Or weave into gloves, at three shillings a pair,

- Mea
Virtute me involvo.-HOR.

And employ for shampooing in cases rheumatic,-a
Special specific, I'm told, for Sciatica.

Through groined arch, and by cloister'd stone,
With mosses and ivy long o'ergrown,

Slowly the throng

Come passing along,
With many a chaunt and solemn song,
Adapted for holidays, high-days, and Sundays,-

Dies ise, and De profundis,

Miserere, and Domine dirige nas,Such as, I hear, to a very slow tune are all Commonly chaunted by Monks at a funeral,

To secure the defunct's repose, And to give a broad hint to Old Nick, should the news Of a prelate's decease bring him there on a cruise, That be a better be minding his P's and his Q's, Aad noi carne too near,--since they can, if they choose, Mate bine shake in his hoofs-as he does not wear shoes.

sal on they go,

A goodly show, u inosteps sure, though certainly slow, er two, in a very long row;

With feathers, and Mutes

In mourning suits,
Undertaker's men walking in hat-bands and boots,
Then comes the Crosier, all jewels and gold,
Barne by a lad about eighteen years old;
Nest, on a black velvet cushion, the Mitre,
Beyne by a younger boy, 'cause it is lighter.

Eight Franciscans sturdy and strong
Bear in the midst the good Bishop along;
Eight Franciscans stout and tall
Walk at the corners, and hold up the pall,

Eight more hold a canopy high over all,
With eight Trumpeters, tooting the Dead March in Saul.-
Behind, as Chief Mourner, the Lord Abbot goes, his
Monks coming after him all with posies,
And white pocket-handkerchiefs up at their noses,
Which they blow whenever his Lordship blows his.-

And oh! 'tis a comely sight to see
How Lords and Ladies of high degree

Vail, as they pass, upon bended knee,
While quite as polite are the Squires and the Knights,
In their helmets, and hauberks, and cast-iron tights.

Aye, 'tis a comely sight to behold,

As the company march
Through the rounded arch

Of that Cathedral old

Singers behind 'em, and singers before 'em,
All of them ranging in due decorum,
Around the inside of the Sanctum Sanctorum,

While, brilliant and bright,

An unwonted light
(I forgot to premise this was all done at night)
The links, and the torches, and flambeaux shed
On the sculptured forms of the Mighty Dead
That rest below, mostly buried in lead,
And above, recumbent in grim repose,

With their mailed hose,

And their dogs at their toes,
And little boys kneeling beneath them in rows,

Their hands join'd in pray'r, all in very long clothes,
With inscriptions on brass, begging each who survives,
As they some of them seem to have led so-so lives,
To Praie for the Sowles of themselves and their wives.-

-The effect of the music, too, really was fine,
When they let the good prelate down into his shrine,

And by old and young

The · Requiem' was sung ; Not vernacular French, but a classical tongue, That is—Latin-I don't think they meddled with GreekIn short, the whole thing produced-so to speakWhat in Blois they would call a Coup d'oil magnifique !

Yet, surely, when the level ray

Of some mild eve's descending sun
Lights on some village pastor, grey

In years ere ours had well begun-
As there-in simplest vestment clad

He speaks, beneath the churchyard tree,
In solemn tones, but yet not sad,

Of what Man is — what Man shall be !
While, clustering round the grave, half hid

By that same quiet churchyard yew,
The rustic mourners bend, to bid

The dust they loved a last adieu-
- That ray, methinks, that rests so sheen
Upon each briar-bound hillock green,
So calm, so tranquil, so serene,
Gives to the eye a fairer scene,
Speaks to the heart with holier breath
Than all this pageantry of Death.-

But Chacun à son goût, this is talking at random-
We all know “ De gustibus non disputandum !
So canter back, Muse, to the scene of your story,

The Cathedral of Blois

Where the Sainted Aloys
Is by this time, you 'll find, “ left alone in his glory."

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