her two remaining infants. guard their innocent lives? thirst for blood.

Alas, alas! was no watchful angel ready to
The second child fell a victim to the mother's

The next morning poor Pedro was awakened as before. His grief and rage knew no bounds, as he beheld his little Maria thus cruelly murdered but a few feet from where he had been sleeping.

"This shall not happen again," he at length exclaimed, rousing himself from his grief. "I will watch every night till I have discovered the accursed Bruxa who has destroyed our children, and punish her for her vile wickedness."

It is impossible to describe the wretchedness and the agony of Maria; she grew thin and pale, till scarce a wreck remained of her former beauty. The neighbours remarked it; some pitied her, but others shook their heads, and whispered that, perhaps, she herself was of the sisterhood of the Bruxas.

Pedro kept his word: if he slept, it was in the day-time. Night after night he watched, with a lamp burning in his room, and his two-handed sword clenched firmly in his grasp, as he sat watching the door, to cut down the dreaded Bruxa should she enter. In consequence, for a long time Maria could not join the demon's orgies, but at last, after a day of unusual exertion, Pedro slept on his post, and his wife took the opportunity noiselessly to slip out, and to hurry eagerly to meet her sisters in iniquity. Now she was the companion of the chief of the devils himself, and while revelling in his unlawful orgies she for the moment forgot all her wretchedness. Quickly the time came for her to re-assume her batlike form, and from afar she scented the fresh breath of her youngest infant. Pedro was asleep as she flew into the chamber-the soft fanning of her wings lulled him as well as the child into a deeper slumber. Soon, the life-blood drawn from its veins, the innocent babe was a lifeless corpse. The dreadful deed committed, she was about to quit the cottage, when one of her long wings struck against the door and closed it with a loud noise. The sound awoke Pedro, who, beholding the noxious bird in the room, the dreadful Bruxa, the destroyer of his children, made a stroke at it with his two-handed sword, and clove its skull in two. Instead of seeing the bird, as he expected, fall lifeless at his feet, he beheld his wife stretched dead upon the floor, a torrent of blood flowing from her head. At the same moment the whole house was shaken to its foundations by a terrific crash of thunder, and in a volume of smoke and flame a troop of demons carried off the body of the accursed Bruxa.

Scarcely had morning dawned when the hag, Josefa, hobbling up to the door, put her head into the room. "I told you I would have vengeance for the insults you offered me, ha! ha! ha! beware how you again offend a Bruxa," she croaked out as she pointed with her long skinny hand to the dead body of his last child, and away she went, and was never more seen in the neighbourhood. Poor Pedro was found by his neighbours in the morning sitting on his bed, with his bloody sword in his hand, while he gazed on the pool of blood at his feet, and raving mad. After some difficulty he was secured, for he threatened the life of every one who approached, his friends guessing, pretty correctly, the dreadful events which had occurred. He never recovered his senses, but died in the same unhappy state a few years afterwards, a warning to all men never to offend a Bruxa.

431

THE INFANT HERCULES.

FROM THEOCRITUS.

BY ROBERT SNOW.

JUST ten months old was the infant Hercules,
And with him his twin brother Iphicles

Grew up.

Alcmena, who had given the breast

One night to both, and wash'd, and settled them to rest
Within the hollow of the brazen shield

From Pterelaüs in the battle-field

Won by Amphitryon, laid on either head

Her gentle hand, and to her charges said,

66

Sleep the sweet sleep, my boys, my precious lives!

That soothly for the coming day revives.

Ay nestle there without or care or sorrow;

So may ye waken on a happy morrow."

Thus sang she with a voice calming and low;

And till they slept, she rock'd the great shield to and fro.
Which task fulfill'd, herself she did undress ;

Then to Amphitryon's side gave heat and happiness.
'Twas midnight; and Orion was upheaving

I' the east his club, as he the heavens were cleaving ;
And far below the Pole, the lowering Bear
The level fogs was shaking from his hair;
When two vast Snakes by Juno's jealous power
Were sent, the infant Hercules to devour.
Not like vile earthly snakes, grovelling and cold,
But to the sleeping Children's door they roll'd,
Created to that end, in upright orbs of gold;
And by how many spires their way they wound,
By just so many points they deign'd to touch the ground.
Each on his head wore, turret-like, a hood;

His belly vermeil with enamell'd blood.

Not pleasing, no! hideous their beauty, fell

Their splendour, copied from their native hell!

Their hiss their quick black tongues in venom steep'd;
And from their eyes detested sparkles leap'd.
Jove saw, yet hinder'd not: and so they came
On to the Infants' bed: a vaporous flame
Of fire went with them, that o'ercame the night,
And through the dwelling cast a baleful light.
The Babes awoke. Iphicles shriek'd, and strove
To fly. Not so the gallant Boy of Jove.
He reach'd forth both his arms, and with a grasp
Of godlike force, seized either hateful Asp
About the poisonous passage of the throat,
And held; and straight to suffocation smote!
Writhing, their horrid folds the Serpents tied

About the Babe unwean'd-the Child who never strove or cried

When in his nurse's arms: then they unwound

Themselves, this way and that, when no relief they found

From his stern gripe; and so relax'd their twines,

As torture shot along their weary spines.

Alcmena heard the noise, and first awoke.

"Quick, quick, Amphitryon! rise"-'twas thus she spoke

66

Stay not to bind your sandals on your feet

With overwhelming fear my heart doth beat

The story says that Alcmena bore to her husband Amphitryon, Hercules and Iphicles at a birth; but that Hercules was, in fact, the son of Jupiter. Hence Juno's hatred to the infant Hercules.

432

THE INFANT HERCULES.

Hark how the baby Iphicles is crying!
I'm sure 'tis he-the darling child is dying-
And see! the walls with light are all aglow-
No light of dawn-'tis long before cock-crow-
Some mischief is abroad, husband, there is, I know!"
Amphitryon from his bed leap'd at the word,
And from its peg unhook'd his trusty sword,
Hung near the cedarn cornice of the bed;
And stood prepared to strike intruders dead :
When a gross sudden darkness fill'd the room!—
He paused-then call'd aloud each sleepy groom,
Breathing unconscious heavy slumbers out:

"Awake! lights, lights!" he cried: the alarum'd rout
At length assembled, to the corridor,

Blades snatch'd in haste, and ill-lit torches bore.
And father, mother, all, in strange array,
Rush'd to the chamber where the Nurslings lay.
But when they saw the naked Child had foil'd
The infernal Snakes, that still about him coil'd,
They all at once their palms together smote,
And their one voice rang with amazement's note!
But the dead Things the wondrous Suckling show'd
Amphitryon, and his face with laughter glow'd
Triumphant; for he sate up in his bed,

And, like new playthings, shook them o'er his head
Then from his limbs their knotted lengths he tore,
And cast in scorn upon the chamber floor.

Meanwhile Alcmena folded in her arms
Iphicles, frantic with these wild alarms;
And Hercules was wrapp'd beneath his fleece
And once again the household slept in peace.
Soon as the ruddy morning did appear,
Alcmena for Tiresias, mighty Seer,
Sent in all haste: in order each event
To his far-fathoming mind did she present,

;

That fell that night and said, "Prophet, declare

If woe to me and mine the Gods prepare:

Speak, for thou know'st! mine ears no tittle of it spare
Man must encounter all the Fates devise-

But speaking thus, I seem to wish to teach the wise."
Tiresias said, Daughter of Perseus' line,

46

Be of good cheer! for by my gift divine

Of prophecy, I read Alcmena's name

Writ in all temples dedicate to Fame.

And many a Greek maid, broidering on her knee,

Shall interweave at evening songs of thee.

This is a Hero of thy body born,

By whom a crown of stars is to be worn

Among the Gods in heav'n; and here on earth
His acts shall blazon forth his glorious birth.

O noble heart, lord of a noble breast!

Twelve labours thine shall set the world at rest;
Subdue all shapes of tyranny and rage;
And with its shapes, the soul of ill assuage;
Until the lamb shall with the lion feed,
And children in a line the leopard lead.

Daughter! yet doth thy son draw vital breath:

Therefore must he pass through the gates of death
But when his earthly period shall expire,

He shall put off his clay on the Thessalian pyre;
And spite of the unrelenting Deity,
Who envies him his birthright of the Sky,
His mighty spirit to highest Heav'n shall tow'r,
Jove's offspring, next alone to Jove in pow'r!"

PAPERS FROM THE DIARY OF A FORTUNATE.

BY W. M. MORRISON, ESQ.

CHAP. II.

"The world was all before me where to choose."

"Oh, love, how potent is thy mystic art."-BYRON.

"There's a divinity that shapes our ends rough, hew them how we will."

No sooner had I reached the street than the paroxysm of enthusiasm and self-confidence that had hitherto supported me began to give way to calmer and more desponding thoughts. A cold, drizzling rain beat against my face with a presage of the world into which I had so suddenly ventured. The soft, mild voice of my sister again rang in my ears, "Where are you going, The ?" This was the question, the rub, and, like that which puzzled the noble Dane, incapable of a very ready solution.

A moment before I had stood on the threshold of the great world, and now I had put my foot in it." Ce n'est que le premier pas qui coûte." The first plunge and we are in for it.

Or if the world be a sea of troubles, my tiny bark was fairly launched thereon, where was my pole star? where my compass? I looked around and above me for a guiding star, a fixed principle; for who can navigate without? I looked within, into the depths of my own soul. I knew that therein strove two master principles, the False and the True; the earth-born will-o'-the-wisps flittering about in the doubt and darkness of human uncertainty, and the eternal ray of a divine light piercing and dissipating the mist, whose source was far remote, ineffable, and unknown, and round about spread the infinity of the possible with all its vague dreams and countless theories. The time had come that I must choose my deity. What was I to do with my tiny bark-full of hope and energy, to brace the mast and trim the sails, watch the helm narrowly, and keep her head to the tempest; or reckless, heedless, let the one shiver in the storm and abandon the other-tost to and fro-the sport, and not the master of circumstances.

For with the tissue of each human life, more obviously perhaps in that of the enterprising and the active, but more or less with all, is woven the clue that guides and accomplishes their destiny, Chance, or Deity, Providence or Fate. I am not alluding to our professions, but to the unconscious, and even to ourselves greatly unknown faith, that regulates our thoughts and actions. The religion of the inner man that breaks forth in moments of energy and passion-in the fervent appeal, "God help us," and the intense "God be praised," of the one, or the hearty benedictions or maledictions on Chance and Fate of the other. And these are the great gods, the Dii majorum gentium. We have our lesser and terrestrial idols-Fame, Wealth, Sensualism, Self-worship, Hero-worship, worship of the Golden Calf, the former deifying the sound, the latter the substance. But the man who thinks and acts for the good of himself and others, with a purpose and with means, carves out to himself a deity— refers his endeavours to a holy faith, or a reckless self-complaisant fatalism.

Within is the temple and the shrine, we must fill them, though with idols of our own imagining, thus the false testifies to the true, and the finite to the infinite. Thanks to my mother, I took up with omnipotence, guided by intelligence, and with a brief "God help me," sat forward on my way. And here ends the metaphysical and the metaphorical. Fleetstreet is before me, numberless umbrellas rise like ambitious balloons over numberless heads. The tramp of male boots and female pattens augment the accustomed roar; I have neither umbrella nor great coat; custom had rendered them unnecessary luxuries. I could stand wet, and cold, and hunger, to a certain degree, and therefore went whistling on, with a bold air of defiance to the weather, between whom and myself there was a kind of old acquaintanceship-we had come to terms.

My first essay was rather disheartening. I must, to make the source of my chagrin intelligible, premise with the fact, that although I always considered myself a tolerably good-looking fellow, my nose, I must confess, formed the most conspicuous feature of my face-it was slightly too large and prominent; mind you, I would not wish it understood that it is in any way an untoward or ill-formed organ, simply sizeable and conspicuous. After elbowing my way for some distance through that stream of humanity, which ebbs and flows, and flows and ebbs, due east and west, with no contemptible current, I entered a large print-shop in one of the by-streets. As no one appeared, I began to amuse myself with a large portfolio of prints, lying upon the counter. Scarcely, however, had I opened it, when a fierce little ferretty-looking man rushed out of a small parlour in the depths, and seizing me, without a word of explanation, began to vociferate the euphonious name of Betty, in a voice worthy of Stentor. I was frightened. I thought the man was mad; he turned, however, towards me, and I noticed that he was blind, or nearly so.

Oh!

"I've caught ye 'eh," chuckled the little man. "You dreadful specimen of youthful depravity. Rob yer own father, thou viper? Timothy, Timothy!"

"My name is not Timothy," cried I.

"Let me go."

"You won't take me in again,” replied the little man, chuckling. “Not Timothy?" he cried, passing his hand carefully over my face, and letting it dwell upon my nose, with a laugh of triumph; "not Timothy, eh? I suppose this isn't Timothy's nose? That's a good'un."

I protested that neither the nose nor name of Timothy belonged to me; but in vain.

"Where are those first proofs of affection you stole and pledged? Where Zaleka, that you sold to Salamons ?"

"Salamons?" echoed I, off my guard.

"Eh, Salamons. You needn't try to feign your voice; I know you, you graceless boy. Where's Sir John-."

"Sir John, what Sir John?"

"Sir John Falstaff and Bardolph, each worth-."

"Forty marks," interrupted I, beginning to relish the joke. "But what of Salamons ?"

"What of Salamons? Why, he is a cheat, rogue, liar, like yourself. That picture he sold to Lady Thurston for 700 guineas he never came honestly by."

"What picture?" I exclaimed, in intense interest, for I already concluded there could be but one Salamons.