I ran it through, even from my boyish days,
To the very moment that had made me tell it.
Wherein I spoke of most disastrous chances,
Of moving accidents by flood and field;

Of hair-breadth 'scapes i' the eminent deadly breach;
Of being taken by the insolent foe,

And sold to slavery; of my redemption thence,
And portance in my travel's history.

These things to hear,

Would Desdemona seriously incline:

But still the house affairs would draw her thence;
Which ever as she could with haste despatch,
She'd come again, and with a greedy ear
Devour up my discourse: which I observing,
Took once a pliant hour; and found good means
To draw from her a prayer of earnest heart,
That I would all my pilgrimage dilate,
Whereof by parcels she had something heard,
But not intentively; I did consent;
And often did beguile her of her tears,
When I did speak of some distressful stroke

That my youth suffered. My story being done,

She gave me for my pains a world of sighs:

She swore,-in faith, 'twas strange, 'twas passing strange; 'Twas pitiful, 'twas wondrous pitiful:

She wish'd she had not heard it; yet she wish'd

That Heaven had made her such a man: she thank'd me,

And bade me, if I had a friend that loved her,

I should but teach him how to tell my story,

And that would woo her. Upon this hint, I spake;
She loved me for the dangers I had pass'd;
And I loved her, that she did pity them.
This only is the witchcraft I have used;
Here comes the lady, let her witness it.

Enter DESDEMONA.

Duke. I think this tale would win my daughter too.

Good Brabantio,

Take up this mangled matter at the best;

Men do their broken weapons rather use,
Than their bare hands.

Bra. I pray you hear her speak;

If she confess that she was half the wooer,
Destruction on my head, if my bad blame

Light on the man! Come hither, gentle mistress :

Do you perceive, in all this noble company,
Where most you owe obedience?

Des. My noble father,

I do perceive here a divided duty:

To you, I am bound for life and education;
My life and education both do learn me
How to respect you; you are the lord of duty,
I am hitherto your daughter: But here's my
And so much duty as my mother shew'd
To you, preferring you before her father,
So much I challenge, that I may profess
Due to the Moor, my lord.

Bra. Heav'n be with you! I have done.
Please it your grace, on to the state affairs.
Come hither, Moor;

husband;

I here do give thee that with all my heart,
Which, but thou hast already, with all my heart
I would keep from thee.

Duke. If virtue no delighted beauty lack,

Your son-in-law is far more fair than black.

Bra. Look to her, Moor; have a quick eye to see;
She has deceived her father, and may thee.-Shakespeare.

OUR NEXT-DOOR NEIGHBOURS.

THEY were a young lad of eighteen or nineteen, and his mother, a lady of about fifty, or it might be less. The mother wore a widow's weeds, and the boy was also clothed in deep mourning. They were poor-very poor; for their only means of support arose from the pittance the boy earned by copying writings for booksellers.

They had removed from some country place and settled in London; partly because it afforded better chances of employment for the boy, and partly, perhaps, with the natural desire to leave a place where they had been in better circumstances, and where their poverty was known. They were proud under their reverses, and above revealing their wants and privations to strangers. How bitter those privations were, and how hard the boy worked to remove them, no one ever knew but themselves. Night after night-two, three, four hours after midnight-could we hear the occasional raking up of the scanty fire, or the hollow or half-stifled cough,

which indicated his being still. at work; and day after day, could we see more plainly that nature had set that unearthly light in his plaintive face which is the beacon of her worst disease.

Actuated, we hope, by a higher feeling than mere curiosity, we contrived to establish, first an acquaintance, and then a close intimacy, with the poor strangers. Our worst fears were realized; the boy was sinking fast. Through a part of the winter, and the whole of the following spring, the mother attempted to procure needlework embroidery-anything for bread.

A few shillings now and then, were all she could earn. The boy worked steadily on; dying by minutes, but never once giving utterance to complaint or murmur.

One beautiful autumn evening we went to pay our customary visit to the invalid. His little remaining strength had been decreasing rapidly for two or three days preceding, and he was lying on the sofa at the open window, gazing at the setting sun. His mother had been reading the Bible to him, for she closed the book as we entered, and advanced to meet us.

"I was telling William," she said, "that we must manage to take him into the country somewhere, so that he may get quite well. He is not ill, you know, but he is not very strong, and has exerted himself too much lately." Poor thing! The tears that streamed through her fingers, as she turned aside, too plainly shewed how fruitless was the attempt to deceive herself.

We sat down by the head of the sofa, but said nothing, for we saw the breath of life was passing gently but rapidly from the young form before us. At every respiration, his heart beat more slowly.

The boy placed one hand in ours, grasped his mother's arm with the other, drew her hastily towards him, and fervently kissed her cheek. There was a pause. He sunk back upon his pillow, and looked long and earnestly in his mother's face.

"William, William !" murmured the mother after a long interval, "don't look at me so-speak to me, dear."

The boy smiled languidly, but an instant afterwards his features resolved into the same cold, solemn gaze.

"William, dear William! rouse yourself, dear; don't look at me so, love-pray don't! Alas! alas! what shall I do!" cried the widow, clasping her hands in agony-" my dear boy! he is dying!"

The boy raised himself by a violent effort, and folded his hands together" Mother! dear, dear mother, bury me in the open fields-anywhere but in these dreadful streets. I should like to be where you can see my grave, but not in these close crowded streets; they have killed me; kiss me again, mother; put your arm round my neck-"

He fell back, and a strange expression stole upon his features; not of pain or suffering, but an indescribable fixing of every line and muscle.

THE BOY WAS DEAD.

MAUD MÜLLER.

MAUD MÜLLER, on a summer's day,
Raked the meadows sweet with hay.
Beneath her torn hat glowed the wealth
Of simple beauty and rustic health.

Singing, she wrought, and a merry glee
The mock-bird echoed from his tree.

But, when she glanced to the far-off town,
White from its hill-slope looking down,

The sweet song died, and a vague unrest
And a nameless longing filled her breast—
A wish that she hardly dared to own,
For something better than she had known.
The Judge rode slowly down the lane,
Smoothing his horse's chestnut mane.

He drew his bridle in the shade
Of the apple-trees, to greet the maid,

And ask a draught from the spring that flowed
Through the meadows across the road.

She stooped where the cool stream bubbled up,
And filled for him her small tin cup,

And blushed as she gave it, looking down
On her feet so bare, and her tattered gown.

"Thanks!" said the Judge, "a sweeter draught
From a fairer hand was never quaff'd."

He spoke of the grass, and flowers, and trees,
Of the singing birds and the humming bees;

Then talked of the haying, and wondered whether
The cloud in the west would bring foul weather.

And Maud forgot her briar-torn gown,
And her graceful ankles bare and brown;

And listened, while a pleased surprise
Looked from her long-lashed hazel eyes.

At last, like one who for delay
Seeks a vain excuse, he rode away.

Maud Müller looked and sighed: "Ah me!
That I the Judge's bride might be !

"He would dress me up in silks so fine,
And praise me at his toast and wine.

66

My father should wear a broad-cloth coat:
My brother should sail a painted boat.

"I'd dress my mother so grand and gay,
And the baby should have a new toy each day.
"And I'd feed the hungry and clothe the poor;
And all should bless me who left our door."

The Judge looked back as he climbed the hill,
And saw Maud Müller standing still.

"A form more fair a face more sweet,
Ne'er hath it been my lot to meet.

"And her modest answer and graceful air, Shew her wise and good as she is fair.

"Would she were mine, and I to-day Like her a harvester of hay:

"No doubtful balance of rights and wrongs, And weary lawyers with endless tongues,

"But low of cattle and song of birds,
And health of quiet and loving words."

But he thought of his sisters, proud and cold,
And his mother, vain of her rank and gold.