"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 trifling 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? * Born 1605, at Memel-died 1659. 602 THE GOLDEN LEGEND. No. 6. THE LAY OF ST. ALOYS. BY THOMAS INGOLDSBY, ESQUIRE. 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 pœnæ 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, He grieved and he pined Though his cassock was swarming He'd not take the life of a flea !— To all things living, From injury still he 'd endeavour to screen 'em, The Bishop of Blois was a holy man,— 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, He held them sixpence all too dear, And so he call'd the Tailor lown." " * Teste Messire Iago, a distinguished subaltern in the Venetian service, circiter 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, Not for himself! He despised the pelf; He dress'd in sackcloth, he dined off delf; 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, The deep-toned bell As a cunning old hound, When he opens, at once causes all the young whelps No matter how small, From the steeples both inside and outside the wall, Respond to the note, And join the lament that a prelate so pious is 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;— The torrent pours, Holy Father, and Holy Mother, Holy Sister, and Holy Brother, 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, Meâ Virtute me involvo.-Hon. And employ for shampooing in cases rheumatic,-a Through groined arch, and by cloister'd stone, With many a chaunt and solemn song, Such as, I hear, to a very slow tune are all And to give a broad hint to Old Nick, should the news And not come too near,-since they can, if they choose, Undertaker's men walking in hat-bands and boots,— 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, How Lords and Ladies of high degree Vail, as they pass, upon bended knee, While quite as polite are the Squires and the Knights, Aye, 'tis a comely sight to behold, As the company march Of that Cathedral old!— Singers behind 'em, and singers before 'em, An unwonted light (I forgot to premise this was all done at night) And above, recumbent in grim repose, And their dogs at their toes, And little boys kneeling beneath them in rows, 6 The Requiem' was sung; Not vernacular French, but a classical tongue, That is Latin-I don't think they meddled with Greek- Yet, surely, when the level ray Of some mild eve's descending sun As there in simplest vestment clad Of what Man is what Man shall be ! While, clustering round the grave, half hid The dust they loved a last adieu -That ray, methinks, that rests so sheen Than all this pageantry of Death.— But Chacun à son goût-this is talking at random- Where the Sainted Aloys Is by this time, you'll find, "left alone in his glory." |