My father argued sair, my mother didna speak,
But she lookit in my face, till my heart was like to

Sae they gied him my hand, though my heart was

at the sea, And Auld Robin Gray was gudeman to me.

Ah! sair, sair did we greet, and muckle did we

We took but ae kiss, and we tore ourselves

I wish I was dead! but I'm no like to dee,
And why was I born to say, “Wae's me?".

I hadna been a wife a week but only four,

I gang like a ghaist, and I carena to spin; When mournfu' as I sat on the stane at the door, I daurna think on Jamie, for that wad be a sin; I saw my Jamie's wraith, for I could not think it he, But I'll do my best a gude wife aye to be, Till he said, “I'm come hame to marry thee." | For Auld Robin Gray is kind unto me.




(HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW, born February 27, 1807, at Portland, llaine. Educated at Bowdoin College, Brunswick; has travelled much in Europe ; is Professor of Modern Languages at Harvard University.]

HERE is no flock, however In that great cloister's stillness and seclusion,

watched and tended, I By guardian angels led,
But one dead lamb is Safe from temptation, safe from sin's pollution,

She lives, whom we call dead.
There is no fireside, how-

soe'er defended,
But has one vacant

Day after day we think what she is doing

In those bright realms of air;

Year after year, her tender steps pursuing,

Behold her grown more fair.
The air is full of farewells

to the dying,

Thus do we walk with her, and keep unbroken And mourning for the dead;

The bond which nature gives, The heart of Rachel for her child'en crying,

Thinking that our remembrance, though unspoken, Will not be comforted.

May reach her where she lives.

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(From the “ Sentimental Journey.")

(LAURENCZ STERNE, born at Clonmel, November 24, 1713. Educated at Cambridge, took orders, and obtained the living of Sutton.

Subsequently a prelend of York. Died in lodgings in Bond Street, March 18, 1768.]

AND as for the Bastille, the terror is in the word. | as if impatient. I fear, poor creature, said I, I Make the most of it you can, said I to myself, the cannot set thee at liberty. "No," said the starBastille is but another word for a tower, and a ling, “I can't get out; I can't get out.” I vow I tower is but another word for a house you can't never had my affections more tenderly awakened ; get out of. Mercy on the gouty! for they are in nor do I remember any incident in my life where it twice a year; but with nine livres a day, and the dissipated spirits, to which my reason had pen, and ink, and paper, and patience; albeit a been a bubble, were so suddenly called home. man can't get out, he may do very well within, at Mechanical as the notes were, yet so true in tune least, for a month or six weeks, at the end of which, to nature were they chanted, that in one moment if he is a harmless fellow, his innocence appears, they overthrew all my systematic reasonings upon and he comes out a better and a wiser man than the Bastille, and I heavily walked up-stairs, unhe went in.

saying every word I had said in going down them. I had some occasion (I forget what) to step into Disguise thyself as thou wilt, still, Slavery, said the court-yard as I settled this account; and re- | I, still thou art a bitter draught; and though member I walked down-stairs in no small triumph thousands in all ages have been made to drink of with the conceit of my reasoning. Beshrew the thee, thou art no less bitter on that account. 'Tis sombre pencil! said I, vauntingly, for I envy not thou, thrice sweet and gracious goddess, addressits powers which paints the evils of life with so ing myself to Liberty, whom all in public or in hard and deadly a colouring. The mind sits terri. private worship, whose taste is grateful, and ever fied at the objects she has magnified herself and will be so, till Nature herself shall change; no tint blackened : reduce them to their proper size and of words can spot thy snowy mantle, or chemic hue, she overlooks them.

power turn thy sceptre into iron; with thee to 'Tis true, said I, correcting the proposition, the smile upon him as he eats his crust, the swain is Bastille is not an evil to be despised; but strip it happier than his monarch, from whose court thou of its towers, fill up the fosse, unbarricade the art exiled. Gracious Heaven! cried I, kneeling doors, call it simply a confinement, and suppose down upon the last step but one in my ascent, 'tis some tyrant of a distemper and not of a man grant me but health, thou great Bestower of it, which holds you in it, the evil vanishes, and you and give me but this fair goddess as my combear the other half without complaint.

panion, and shower down thy mitres, if it seem I was interrupted in the heyday of this soliloquy good unto thy Divine Providence, upon those with a voice which I took to be of a child, which heads which are aching for them. complained "it could not get out." I looked up and The bird in his cage pursued me into my room. down the passage, and seeing neither man, woman, | I sat down close by the table, and leaning my nor child, I went out without further attention. | head upon my hand, I began to figure to myself In my return back through the passage, I heard the miseries oí a confinement. I was in a right the same words repeated twice over; and looking frame for it, and so I gave full scope to my op, I saw it was a starling, hung in a little cage. imagination. "I can't get out! I can't get out!” said the I was going to begin with the millions of starling. I stood looking at the bird; and to my fellow-creatures born to no inheritance but every person who came through the passage, it slavery; but finding, however affecting the picture ran fluttering to the side towards which they ap- was, that I could not bring it near me, and proached it, with the same lamentation of its that the multitude of sad groups in it did but captivity—“I can't get out,” said the starling. I distract me, I took a single captive, and having

God help thee ! said I; but I'll let thee out, first shut him up in his dungeon, I then looked cost what it will; so I turned about the cage to get through the twilight of his grated door to take his the door. It was twisted and double twisted so picture. fast with wire, there was no getting it open with. I beheld his body half wasted away with long out pulling the cage to pieces. I took both hands expectation and confinement, and felt what kind to it. The bird flew to the place where I was of sickness of the heart it was which arises attempting his deliverance, and thrusting his head from hope deferred. Upon looking nearer, I saw through the trellis, pressed his breast against it him pale and feverish. In thirty years th)

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western breeze had not once fanned his blood; , affliction. I heard his chains upon his legs as he had seen no sun, no moon, in all that time, he turned his body to lay his little stick upon nor had the voice of friend or kinsman breathed the bundle. He gave a deep sigh: I saw the iron through his lattice; his children-but here my enter into his soul. I burst into tears—I could heart began to bleed, and I was forced to go on not sustain the picture of confinement which my with another part of the portrait.

fancy had drawn. He was sitting upon the ground upon a little I started up from my chair, and calling La straw, in the furthest corner of his dungeon, Fleur, I bid him bespeak me a remise, and have it which was alternately his chair and bed. A little ready at the door of the hotel by nine in the calendar of small sticks lay at the head, notched morning. all over with the dismal days and nights he had "I'll go directly,” said I, “myself to Monsieur passed there. He had one of these little sticks in | the Duc de Choiseul.” his hand, and with a rusty nail he was etching | Le Fleur would have put me to bed; but, not another day of misery to add to the heap. As I | willing that he should see anything upon my darkened the little light he had, he lifted up a cheek which would cost the honest fellow a hearthopeless eye towards the door, then cast it down, ache, I told him I would go to bed by myself; and shook his head, and went on with his work of l bid him go do the same.



ODE TO THE NORTH-EAST WIN D.* The Rev. CHARLES KINGSLEY, M.A., born at Holne, on the borders of Dartmoor, June 12, 1819. Educated at King's College,

and Magdalen, Cambridge, at which latter place he took a first-class in classics and a second in mathematics. Rector of Eversley, which was bis first cure. He took a foremost part in all movements for the benefit of the working classes ; was

Professor of Modern History at Cambridge from 1860-1869. Died 1875.7
WELCOME, wild North-Easter!

Shame it is to see
Odes to every zephyr;
Ne'er a verse to thee.

Welcome, black North-Easter!

O'er the German foam;
O'er the Danish moorlands,

From thy frozen home.
Tired we are of summer,

Tired of gaudy glare, Showers soft and steaming,

Hot and breathless air. Tired of listless dreaming,

Through the lazy day; Jovial wind of winter,

Turn us out to play! Sweep the golden reed-beds,

Crisp the lazy dyke;
Hunger into madness

Every plunging pike.
Fill the lake with wild-fowl;

Fill the marsh with snipe;
While on dreary moorlands

Lonely curlew pipe. Through the black fir-forest,

Thunder harsh and dry, Shattering down the snow-flakes

Off the curdled sky. · Hark! the brave North-Easter!

Breast-high lies the scent, On by holt and headland,

Over heath and bent.
Chime, ye dappled darlings,

Through the sleet and snow,
Who can override you ?
Let the horses go!

cre Chime, ye dappled darlings,

(Drawn by H. SANDERLOCK.) Down the roaring blast, You shall see a fox die

'Tis the ladies' breeze,
Ere an hour be past.

Bringing home their true loves
Go! and rest to-morrow,

Out of all the seas:
Hunting in your dreams,

But the black North-Easter,
While our skates are ringing

Through the snow-storm hurled,
O'er the frozen streams.

Drives our English hearts of oak
Let the luscious South-wind,

Seaward-round the world.
Breathe in lovers' sighs;

Come, as came our fathers,
While the lazy gallants

Heralded by thee;
Bask in ladies' eyes.

Conquering from the eastward,
What does he but soften

Lords by land and sea.
Heart alike and pen?

Come, and strong within us
'Tis the hard grey weather

Stir the Vikings' blood;
Breeds hard Englishmen.

Bracing brain and sinew,
What's the soft South-Wester?

Blow, thou wind of God!
- Ry kind permission of Rev. Charles Kingsley, and Messrs. Macmillan and Co.
3_VOL. I.



[GEORGE COLMAN, the Younger. See Page 6.]


Y HO has e'er been in London, | The doctor looked wise : “A slow fever," he said;

that overgrown place, Prescribed sudorifics and going to bed. LODGINGS, Has seen “Lodgings to “Sudorifics in bed,” exclaimed Will, "are humbugs! Let” stare him full in

I've enough of them there without paying for the face;

drugs!” Some are good, and let

Will kicked out the doctor; but when ill indeed, dearly; while some, 'tis

E'en dismissing the doctor don't always succeed; well known,

So, calling his host, he said, “Sir, do you know, Are so dear, and so bad,

I'm the fat single gentleman six months ago ? they are best let alone.

“Look'e, landlord, I think,” argued Will with a E Will Waddle, whose temper grin,

was studious and lonely, “That with honest intentions you first took me in; Hired lodgings that took single gentlemen only; But from the first night-and to say it I'm boldBut Will was fat, he appeared like a ton,

I've been so precious hot that I'm sure I caught Or like two single gentlemen rolled into one.

cold." He entered his rooms, and to bed he retreated, Quoth the landlord, “Till now I ne'er had a dispute; But all the night long he felt fevered and heated; I've let lodgings ten years; I'm a baker to boot: And though heavy to weigh, as a score of fat sheep, In airing your sheets, sir, my wife is no sloven, He was not by any means heavy to sleep.

And your bed is immediately over my oven.” Next night 'twas the same, and the next, and the “The oven !" says Will. Says the host, “Why next;

this passion? He perspired like an ox; he was nervous and vexed; In that excellent bed died three people of fashion ! Week passed after week, till, by weekly succession, Why so crusty, good sir?” “Zounds !” cried Will His weakly condition was past all expression.

in a taking,

“Who wouldn't becrusty with half a year's baking?" In six months his acquaintance began much to doubt him,

Will paid for his rooms; cried the host, with a sneer, For his skin, like a lady's loose gown, hung | “Well, I see you've been going away half a year!" about him;

“Friend, we can't well agree; yet no quarrel," Will He sent for a doctor, and cried like a ninny :

said, "I have lost many pounds-make me well—there's “But I'd rather not perish while you make your


a guinea."


[DECKER (date and place of birth unknown) was at first connected with Ben Jonson as a dramatist, but subsequently quarrellad

with him. He is supposed to have died, after a life of poverty and irregularity, about the year 1628.]

Ant thou poor, yet hast thou golden slum. Canst drink the waters of the crisped spring? bers ?

O sweet content !
O sweet content!

Swimm'st thou in wealth, yet sink'st in thine own Art thou rich, yet is thy mind perplexed ?

tears ?
O punishment !

O punishment !
Dost thou laugh to see how fools are vexed, Then he that patiently Want's burden bears,
To add to golden numbers, golden numbers ? No burden bears, but is a king, a king!
O sweet content! O sweet, O sweet content ! O sweet content! O sweet, O sweet content!
Work apace, apace, apace, apace ;

Work apace, apace, apace, apace.
Honest labour bears a lovely face :

Honest labour bears a lovely face: Then hey nonny nonny, hey nonny nonny! | Then hey nonny nonny, hey nonny norny

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