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door. At length Martin Franc mustered courage enough to dress himself and go down, while his wife followed him with a lamp in her hand; but no sooner had he lifted the latch, than the ponderous body of Friar Gui fell stark and heavy into his arms.

nants of the broken string, and then hurried homeward with the animal upon his shoulders.

He was hardly out of sight when the man with the sack returned, accompanied by two others. They were surprised to find the sack still lying on the ground, with no one near it, and began to jeer

"Mercy!" exclaimed Marguerite, crossing her- the former bearer, telling him he had been frightened self; "here is the monk again!"

at his own shadow on the wall. Then one of them

"Yes, and dripping wet, as if he had just been took the sack upon his shoulders, without the dragged out of the river."

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least suspicion of the change that had been made

Oh! we are betrayed!" exclaimed Marguerite, in its contents, and all three disappeared.

in agony.

"Then the Evil One himself has betrayed us," replied Martin Franc, disengaging himself from the embrace of the sacristan; "for I met not a living being; the whole city was as silent as the grave."

"St. Martin defend us!" continued his terrified wife. "Here, take this scapulary to guard you fiom the Evil One; and lose no time. You must throw the body into the river, or we are lost! Holy Virgin! How bright the moon shines!" Saying this, she threw round his neck a scapulary, with the figure of a cross on one end, and an image of the Virgin on the other; and Martin Franc again took the dead friar upon his shoulders, and with fearful misgivings departed on his dismal errand. He kept as much as possible in the shadow of the houses, and had nearly reached the quay, when suddenly he thought he heard footsteps behind him. He stopped to listen; it was no vain imagination; they came along the pavement, tramp, tramp! and every step grew louder and nearer. Martin Franc tried to quicken his pace, but in vain; his knees smote together, and he staggered against the wall. His hand relaxed its grasp, and the monk slid from his back and stood ghastly and straight beside him, supported by chance against the shoulder of his bearer. At that moment a man came round the corner, tottering beneath the weight of a huge sack. As his head was bent downwards, he did not perceive Martin Franc till he was close upon him; and when, on looking up, he saw two figures standing motionless in the shadow of the wall, he thought himself waylaid, and, without waiting to be assaulted, dropped the sack from his shoulders and ran off at full speed. The sack fell heavily on the pavement, and directly at the feet of Martin Franc. In the fall the string was broken; and out came the bloody head, not of a dead monk, as it first seemed to the excited imagination of Martin Franc, but of a dead hog! When the terror and surprise caused by this singular event had a little subsided, an idea came into the mind of Martin Franc, very similar to what would have come into the mind of almost any person in similar circumstances. He took the hog out of the sack, and, putting the body of the monk into its place, secured it well with the rem

Now it happened that the city of Rouen was at the time infested by three street robbers, who walked in darkness like the pestilence, and always carried the plunder of their midnight marauding to the "Tête-de-Bœuf," a little tavern in one of the darkest and narrowest lanes of the city. The host of the "Tête-de-Bruf" was privy to all their schemes, and had an equal share in the profits of their nightly excursions. He gave a helping hand, too, by the length of his bills, and by plundering the pockets of any chance traveller that was luckless enough to sleep under his roof.

On the night of the disastrous adventure of Friar Gui, this little marauding party had been prowling about the city until a late hour, without finding anything to reward their labours. At length, however, they cl a iced to spy a hog hang. ing under a shed in a butcher's yard, in readiness for the next day's market; and as they were not very fastidious in selecting their plunder, but, on the contrary, rather addicted to taking whatever they could lay their hands on, the hog was straightway purloined, thrust into a large sack, and sent to the "Tête-de-Boeuf" on the shoulders of one of the party, while the other two continued their nocturnal excursions. It was this person who had been so terrified at the appearance of Martin Franc and the dead monk; and as this encounter had interrupted any further operations of the party, the dawn of day being near at hand, they all repaired to their gloomy den in the "Tête-de-Bœuf." The host was impatiently waiting their return; and asking what plunder they had brought with them. proceeded without delay to remove it from the sack. The first thing that presented itself, on untying the string, was the monk's hood.

"Hang it!" cried the host, as he opened the neck of the sack, "what's this? Your hog wears a cowl!"

"The poor brute has become disgusted with the world, and turned monk!" said he who held the light, a little surprised at seeing the head covered with a coarse grey cloth.

"Sure enough he has!" exclaimed another, starting back in dismay, as the shaven crown and ghastly face of the friar appeared. "Holy St. Benedict be with us! It is a monk stark dead!" A dead monk, indeed!" said a third, with an

MY MIND TO ME A KINGDOM IS.

incredulous shake of the head; "how could a dead monk get into this sack? No, no; there is some diablerie in this. I have heard it said that Satan can take any shape he pleases; and you may rely upon it this is Satan himself, who has taken the shape of a monk to get us all hanged. My advice is, to take him to the butcher's yard, and hang him up in the place where we found the hog."

This proposition so pleased the others that it was executed without delay. They carried the friar to the butcher's house, and, passing a strong cord round his neck, suspended him to a beam in the shade, and there left him.

When the night was at length past, and daylight began to peep into the eastern windows of the city, the butcher arose, and prepared himself for market. He was casting up in his mind what the hog would bring at his stall, when, looking upward, lo! in its place he recognised the dead body of Friar Gui.

"By St. Denis!" quoth the butcher, "I always feared that this friar would not die quietly in his cell; but I never thought I should find him hanging under my own roof. This must not be; it will be said that I murdered him, and I shall pay for it with my life. I must contrive some way to get rid of him."

So saying, he called his man, and, showing him what had been done, asked him how he should dispose of the body, so that he might not be accused of murder. The man, who was of a ready wit, reflected a moment, and then answered

"This is indeed a difficult matter; but there is no evil without its remedy. We will place the body on horseback as well as we may, and bind it fast with cords; and then set the horse loose in the street, and pursue him, crying out that the monk has stolen the horse. Thus all who meet him will strike him with their staves as he passes,

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and it will be thought that he came by his death that way."

Though this seemed to the butcher rather a mad project, yet, as no better one offered itself at the moment, and there was no time for reflection, mad as the project was, they determined to put it into execution. Accordingly, the butcher's horse was brought out, and the friar was bound upon his back, and with much difficulty fixed in an upright position. The butcher then gave the horse a blow upon the crupper with his staff, which set him into a smart gallop down the street, and he and his man joined in pursuit, crying

"Stop thief! Stop thief! The friar has stolen my horse."

As it was now sunrise, the streets were full of people,-peasants driving their goods to market, and citizens going to their daily avocations. When they saw the friar dashing at full speed down the street, they joined in the cry of "Stop thief!— Stop thief I" and many who endeavoured to seizo the bridle, as the friar passed them at full speed, were thrown upon the pavement, and trampled under foot; others joined in the halloo and the pursuit; but this only served to quicken the gallop of the frightened steed, who dashed down one street and up another like the wind, with two or three mounted citizens clattering in full cry at his heels. At length they reached the market-place. The people scattered right and left in dismay; and the steed and rider dashed onward, overthrowing in their course men and women, and stalls, and piles of merchandise, and sweeping away like a whirlwind. Tramp-tramp-tramp!-they clattered on; they had distanced all pursuit. They reached the quay; the wide pavement was cleared at a bound,-one more wild leap,-and splash!-both horse and rider sank into the rapid current of the river,-swept down the stream,-and were seen no more!

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Lo! 'tis a gala night
Within the lonesome latter years!
An angel throng, bewinged, bedight
In veils, and drowned in tears,
Sit in a theatre, to see

A play of hopes and fears,
While the orchestra breathes fitfully
The music of the spheres.

Mimes, in the form of God on high,
Mutter and mumble low,
And hither and thither fly;

Mere puppets they, who come and go
At bidding of vast formless things
That shift the scenery to and fro,
Flapping from out their condor wings
Invisible Woe!

That motley drama-oh, be sure
It shall not be forgot!

With its Phantom chased for evermore,
By a crowd that seize it not,

Through a circle that ever returneth in
To the selfsame spot;

And much of Madness, and more of Sin
And Horror the soul of the plct.

But see, amid the mimic rout
A crawling shape intrude!

A blood-red thing that writhes from out
The scenic solitude!

It writhes!-it writhes!-with mortal pangs
The mimes become its food,
And the angels sob at vermin fangs

In human gore imbued.

Out-out are the lights-out all!
And, over each quivering form,
The curtain, a funeral pall,

Comes down with the rush of a storm;
And the angels, all pallid and wan,

Uprising, unveiling, affirm
That the play is the tragedy. "Man,"
And its hero the Conqueror Worm.

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CRE thy locks of golden light
Change to winter's snowy white,
And old Care has passed his plough
O'er the sunshine of thy brow;
Ere a troop of sorrows march
O'er thy pretty eyebrows' arch,
And each brow reversed wears
Footprints of the woes of years;
Whilst thine eyes, like sable sloes,
Each with lustrous beauty glows,
Whilst they sparkle forth their glee
At the shout of revelry;

Ere those orbs that, wondering, stand
Looking out on fairy land,
To cavernous shades retire,
Sullen with their wasted fire,
Shrinking from each ray of hope,
Like a peevish misanthrope;

Ere the rose has fled thy cheek,
Whilst thy coral lips are sleek,
And sweet smiles around them play,
Sportive as a dancing fay,

Whilst thine ears to bend are slow

To the tenderest tale of woe;
Whilst thy parent's fondest strain
Lures thee to the daisicd plain;
Whilst sweet music tunes thy breath,
And thy thoughts are free from death;
Like the lark, go dance and sing,
Making all the welkin ring;

As the butterfly and bee,

Let thy wanderings be free,
And, throughout thy May-time hours,
Live
upon the sweetest flowers;
Happy, happy days for thee,
Days of love and poesy.

29-VOL. I.

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JOHNSON was right. I don't agree to all
The solemn dogmas of the rough old stager:
But very much approve what one may call
The minor morals of the "Ursa Major."
Johnson was right. Although some men adore
Wisdom in woman, and with learning cram her,
There isn't one in ten but thinks far more

Of his own grub than of his spouse's grammar.

I know it is the greatest shame in life;

But who among them (save, perhaps, myself), Returning hungry home, but asks his wife What beef-not books-she has upon her shelf? Though Greek and Latin be the lady's boast, They're little valued by her loving mate; The kind of tongue that husbands relish most Is modern, boiled, and served upon a plate.

Or if, as fond ambition may command,

Some home-made verse the happy matron show him,

What mortal spouse but from her dainty hand
Would sooner see a pudding than a poem ?

Young lady-deep in love with Tom or Harry-
'Tis sad to tell you such a tale as this;
But here's the moral of it: don't ye marry;
Or, marrying, take your lover as he is-
A very man, with something of the brute
(Unless he prove a sentimental noddy),
With passions strong, and appetite to boot-
A thirsty soul within a hungry body!
A very man-not one of Nature's clods-

With human feelings, whether saint or sinner; Endowed, perhaps, with genius from the gods, But apt to take his temper from his dinner.

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[Mr. SAMUEL LOVER was born in Dublin in 1797. He began life as a painter, and was a member of the Royal Hibernian Society of Arts. But literature speedily claimed him; aud, as poe`, novelist, dramatist, and musician, he delighted thousands. Died 1868.]

"WHY, thin, I'll tell you," said Rory. "I promised my mother to bring a present to the priest from Dublin, and I could not make up my mind rightly what to get all the time I was there. I thought of a pair o' top-boots; for, indeed, his reverence's is none of the best, and only you know them to be top-boots, you would not take them to be top-boots, bekase the bottoms has been put in so often that the tops is wore out intirely, and is no more like top-boots than my brogues. So I wint to a shop in Dublin, and picked out the purtiest pair o' top-boots I could see-(whin I say purty, I don't mane a flourishin' taarin' pair, but sitch as was fit for a priest, a respectable pair o' boots) and with that, I pulled out my good money to pay for thim, whin jist at that minit, remembering the thricks o' the town, I bethought o' myself, and says I, 'I suppose these are the right thing?' says I to the man.-'You can thry them,' says he.-' How can I thry them?' says I. -Pull them on you,' says he.-'Throth, an' I'd be sorry,' says I, 'to take sitch a liberty with them,' says I.-'Why, aren't you goin' to ware thim?' says ho.-' Is it me?' says I, 'me ware topboots ? Do you think it's takin' lave of my sinsis I am?' says I.-' Then what do you want to buy them for?' says he.-- For his reverence, Father Kinshela,' says I. 'Are they the right sort for him?'-' How should I know ?' says he.-'You're

a purty bootmaker,' says I, 'not to know how to make a priest's boot!'-'How do I know his size?' says he.-'Oh, don't be comin' off that way,' says I. 'There's no sitch great differ betune priests and other min!'"

"I think you were very right there," said the pale traveller.

"To be sure, sir," said Rory; "and it was only jist a come off for his own ignorance.'—'Tell me his size,' says the fellow, and I'll fit him.'-'He's betune five and six fut,' says I.-' Most men are,' says he, laughin' at me. He was an impidint fellow.' It's not the five, nor six, but his two feet I want to know the size of,' says he. So I persaived he was jeerin' me, and says I, 'Why, thin, you respectful vagabone o' the world, you Dublin jackeen! do you mane to insinivate that Father Kinshela ever wint barefutted in his life, that I could know the size of his fut,' says I, and with that I threw the boots in his face. Take that,' says I, 'you dirty thief o' the world! you impidint vagabone o' the world! you ignorant citizen o' the world!' And with that I left the place."

"It is their usual practice," said the traveller, "to take measure of their customers." "Is it, thin ?"

"It really is."

"See that, now!" said Rory, with an air of triumph. "You would think that they wor

* By kind permission of Messrs. Routledge and Sons.

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