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still thought no great time would pass without in life had clasped Kate ! How could she dare to his seeing her; in its turn that hope died also. die in his embrace, who had sought and won poor Still, day by day, she looked for him, for her heart Kate ?” and again she tried to separate the inaniwas sick with waiting.

mate forms. But Death was stronger than even She was friendless, too—an outcast; the de. Kate's frantic jealousy ; and Death had said to those serted paramour was nought but an object of con- two of bis victims, " Ye ne'er shall sunder more." tempt ; none were found like the one Great Master Wildly Kate called on the grim monarch to aid to take her kindly by the hand, and with encou- ber; wildly she implored him now to free her in ragement to do well, say, “Go and sin no more." | her misery; and then she argued with him-No; she was down in the world, and the world “Could you not have cast him on these shores, " trod on her harshly. Her parents, also, dealt she cried, " while yet the dim spark of floating life hardly with her. She was a cause of mortificatiou lingered ? and mated me to him as you have to them, and they seemed to hate her. The blessed her. She might have valued life without villagers whispered that Lord Roland's gold might him, for she had no lingering thought to make have bought back their favour; perhaps it might; that life a tortare; she could have lived without gold can buy almost anything!

him, for that golden circle on her dainty finger At last a year had passed ; a year, which had proves that she had no lingering thought of him faded the bloom on Kate's cheeks, and dimined in her mind, which made her hold herself in the light of her laughing eyes.

loathing when not blinded by his presence.' Upon a wild and angry night, the Scotch packet

She knelt down, and took the cold band of the boat, crossing from Liverpool

, became the play. young creature, whom very justly she felt to be thing of the stormy waters. Driven on the Lord Roland's bride. She drew the wedding rocky coast of the Isle of Man, she struck; and ring from it, and placed it on her own hand; and as then the mad waves seemed to vent their fury on this fated vessel. All hope of rescue to the un. brow of him whom she had loved so intensely.

it met her eye, she knelt down and kissed the pale happy passengers was over, for no boat could put

“Roland, I signed for thee," she whispered, as out to their aid. Slowly the wounded vessel drifted down the Ramsey coast, struggling to save heaven it had been my fate to be linked to thee in

though he could have heard her. “Would to the precious buman burden within her-struggling uselessly

, for she was filling fast. With a look of death. Happier thus than living on this sad earth despair--a heart of despair-the captain ordered without thee," and she placed her arm uuder his all hands to take to the boats. His order was cold head; but her hand touched the forehead of obeged, and through that fearful sea, the wearied had stung her, and again a fierce look of anger

pure young wife. Kate started as if a riper crew, piloted their shrinking burden towards the

crossed her face. friendly shore. But that shore was at a distance, and ere it could be reached, the boats (with one

“Will you come between him and me now," exception) had been swamped by those hungry waves.

she cried, “will you stand nearer to him even in That one remaining freight of human life strug. the grave than I shall ?” and her wild face looked gled on still; it neared the bay, almost grated on

wilder still with despair. the shore, when a white crested billow, with a “Did you love him as I did ? What did ye for sullen roar, came on, bearing to it the fate of its sake for him ? Name, or friends, or the respect companions.

of your own proud heart ? I gave up all

. The night, with its dark horrors, rolled away, Would you have taken him without bis title or his and the morning sun shone on the shores of gold? I trow not; but I would have linked my Ramsey. How could it smile so brightly over the late to his, had I been obliged to toil for the very terror of the previous night ?--over the terror of bread he ate." And again she kissed the dead, the coming day? over the ghastly object which lay cold face-again and again. in poor Kate's way as she slowly walked along But news of the wreck had flown to the town; that beach.

people came to the shore to see the vestiges of There, before her, firmly clasped in the embrace it, and Kate herself led them to the place, where of death, lay two beings of human mould. Alay Lord Ronald and his young bride. feeling-of what she could not define-tempted “Ye must take them away,” she said, " and her to look on their ghastly faces ; she stooped, give them that burial which the heavens refuse !" and raised that which she feared the most to gaze And she parted the hair on Lord Roland's bror,

It was bim, himself—her dearly loved and arranged it as he had worn it in life. Roland, whom she bad so longed for and expected. They recognised him at once, and whispered his And closely clinging to him lay a gentle creature; name—and bent their looks to the ground, for his arm round her, and her golden ringlets they knew that Kate's grief must be. Then they coiling themselves about his head and neck. took them away to their burial; they placed them

Kate tried to drag her from him with the fierce in their last narrow home, and Kate stood by and impulse of a jealousy which even that sight could saw the earth Gill up the pit. She watched all with a not disarm.

tearless eye, an unquivering lip; and then, when “What rigut had she to rest in those arms, which all was finished, she ivalked away again to the

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place where she had first found them. There she , and especially of the latter, are all benevolent; remained all day,--so cold and motionless. and the phynnodderee seems to be a very good

Tbat day came to a close; and she remained sort of a spirit; mysteriously threshing corn, col. there still. None came to seek her—none felt for lecting strayed sheep, and performing similar good ber; she was an outcast by ber own act, and pity, natured offices. Formerly it was a custom with charity seemed not to exist for her. Night threw all pious Manx people—we say pious, because it its sable mantle over the earth-tben Kate rose was regarded in that light-to place bread and and ascended the cliffs which border the bay. water every night before going to bed for the

“Here I spent the last night with him," she fairies. The cottage doors were left open to facili. said, "here! And the moon shone then as it tate their entrance, and all means of winning their sbines now. Oh, loy sad heart must surely break good graces were adopted. But, unfortunately, with its great woe, to have lived through so many others besides the fairies entered the open doors, months-clinging to the belief that he would re- and availed themselves not only of the bread proturu and clasp me to his heart, and look into my vided for the goblins, but of other things besides; eyes, and call me his, bis own! And then to so the Manx people have been obliged to discon. find bim as I have found him-aye, faithless, faith- tinue their midnight fairy feasts, and resort to the less to me! sworn to another, but dead-to very wise but unpoetical precaution of bolts and

And she threw herself down on the locks on their windows and doors, and of fastening very spot where once before, on tbat last night of them too." their interview, he had sat by her.

The neighbourhood of Ramsey abounds with Then a low, plaintive cry came o'er the murmur- beautiful walks. We remember an adventure ing waters—once, twice, -and it ceased. Kate which once happened to us in one of these walks, heard it well, and for the first time since Roland left which will scarcely be believed by enlightened she smiled--smiled peacefully, happily.

English people. We mention it in illustration of “ I hear thee again, thou unseen spirit,” she said, the singularly unambitious and inert temperament “I listen once more to thy now welcome warning, of some of the peasantry of the mountains. We welcome because this time thy knell tolls for me had strayed from the high road, and followed the —thy plaintive cry is but ny death dirge. I am course of the mountain stream, which carried us ready to come at thy bidding, I have lived past all through a valley to the foot of one of the hills of life worth living for. Farewell! Earth, you leading to Snafield. It was a beautiful spot, so hold nothing that can enchain me now !”

quiet and lonely, nothing but the rippling stream at our feet, and the great mountains towering

above, and making us feel very insignificant. The The following morning she had not returned to beauty of the scenery, its poetry, and its stillness her home. She was sought in vain, no tidings of tempted us to go on, so we walked in the same diher were ever heard. Some fishermen, it seems, rection for perhaps another half mile. had on that evening fancied they saw a dark object Now we were completely within the mountains ; floating out to sea; they had pulled after it, but they shut us up on every side, and although we had missed it. Her fate then became, and conti- could not be more than four miles from Ramsey, nues a mystery. The villagers ascribed her disap- still we seemed to be as completely separated from pearance to the same cause as her birth, and con- it as if it had never existed. We sat down on jectured that she had returned to her elfin compa- the trunk of an old tree and began to feel for the nions and progenitors..

first time that we had been walking a very long Whatever her fate, no more was heard of her. way; then we remembered that we had just as In a few months, the house she lived in became far to walk back again ; and wished we could deserted; the old people who had passed for her meet with some friendly peasant tongue to put us parents left, and went to Douglas ; but no one in the way of getting back by some quicker, casier would live in the house. It was said to be haunted, route. A cottage seemed a forlorn hope; we and maidens who walked there at night, listening to looked on each side of us, but could discover the vows which were breathed into their willing nothing like a human habitation, and we were just ears by those who sought to win them, told of a going to give up the search and return by the way ghastly face which they had seen, of a pale hand we came, when a welcome stream of blue smoke through which the moonlight streamed, and on curling up from among the trees met our eyes. which a wedding ring glistened, raised in an atti- We made for it at once, and saw that it proceeded tude of warning. Years passed, and the house fell from what appeared to be a sort of mud but; or into decay, and the name of Kate Christian became rather a construction of mud and moss; for the nothing but a sad memory.

walls were of the former material, the roof of the That superstition which we have noted, of ascrib- latter. ing to a particular fairy, the prototype of the We advanced cautiously, and were met by a Irish banshee, and the Scottish “brownie,” called pig, a dog, a cow, and a woman; we chronicle by the Manx the “phynnodderee,” the power of them in the order of their advance. The woman forewarning death, is a very favourite theme with being the only one of these animals whom we supthem. The attributes of the banshee or “ brownie,” | posed to be endowed with speech, we addressed

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her, and asked her if she could tell us a nearer husband, she told us, was a labourer. This was way to Ramsey than that by which we had come. an extreme case. The Manx peasantry are said At first she did not seem to hear, but when our to be a frugal, industrious race. We cannot enquestion was repeated, she told us that she knew tirely coincide in the opinion. A great deal of nothing about Ramsey; that she had been there poverty exists among them, which they seem too many (we believe she said sixteen) years before, idle to resist. However, with all their porerty, but she never went there now, “there was no they are a proud people in their way thinking a good in it and it was a long way."

great deal of genealogical descent. We remember “But would you not like to see its streets, and that the woman of whom we bought our butter shops, and people ?” we asked. “No;" she bad had a genealogical tree, framed and glazed, and plenty to see at home, she had her horses, and hanging up in her little parlour. She looked on her cows, and her sheep.

it with extreme veneration, and evidently considered And how do you get your livelihood ?" we it a monument of truth. asked.

“ Christian” is a great name in the island, and "I make butter !" she replied; "and my hus- this market woman of ours was a “Christian.” band sells it to the ships for England, and we sell In fact, you met " Christians" everywhere in Man our sheep, and sometimes our eggs, when we can high and low “Christians,” rich and poor find them.”

“Christians," deemster “ Christians" and peasant "When you can find them! what do you “ Christians." We have an historical tale of one mean?”

member of this house which does not redound very “Why the hens lay about the hills, and some- much to his credit. In the time (so it is reported) times we can't find them."

when the Countess of Derby held Castle Rushen Now this was a Manx family who certainly against the Parliamentary troops of England, might be considered tolerably well off; yet the General Christian was the commander of the Manx manner in which they lived, from sheer idleness, forces. It seems that his loyalty was not proof from the absence of even necessary ambition, was against some temptation offered to bin--for the miserable to a degree. The woman herself was odium of betrayal, of surrendering the keys of the almost in a state of nudity, her bair cut short, and garrison to the invaders, bas been thrown on him. standing out from her head-her soiled and tanned An attempt has been made to vindicate him from skin looking anything but womanly. Two or three this charge, bat--the charge still stands against children were lying on the ground beside her. Her him.

OLD BOOKS.

In his

brain, which is as dry as the remainder biscuit after a voyage, he hath strange places erammed with observation, the which he vents in mangled forms.

As You Like It. A dull man grown whimsical. -- Townshend,

When I came to this London lodging-house I home and much of hope have passed away, and brought with me but a few books of my dearly can only be remembered now as things which ar beloved old library. For, with the majority of not, nor can be again. Whither are ye gone, those sweet companions of the solitude of “lang poor old books of mine ? In some dusty cellar of syne," I have, alas, parted for ever. Misfortunes some Cockney bibliopole do ye fatten the moth!

come not,” said Shakespeare, as spies, but in -or on some petty bookstall do ye in strange whole battalions.” I, in common with many heavy company greet the sight of the book-loving passerhearts, have proved, in all its bitterness, the bitter by, who perbaps will take ye up earelessly, and lay truth of that dictum-for the misfortune that ye down coldly, as he gazes on my name scrawled brought me here, and darkened my early life so on your title-pages, without one thought of the sadly, has not only deprived me of a home, but circumstances attending your separation from your also of my books, which, from my childhood, were quondam owner, or one sympathetic sigh for the that home's delight. Aye, well-I have lost luckless student who has lost ye and the home of books and home together, but, thank God, I have his boyhood for ever ? retained pleasant memories of both. Time and Vain are such inquiries-vainer still the regrets trouble can kill my memory of neither; my heart that they embody, I know well. But I have tomay indeed

grow dull and heavy; and my hair, as day seen, by the merest chance, at a bookstall, au years wear on, may be sprinkled with the dust odd volume of Shakespeare, which volume once with which Father Time powders our poor heads belonged to me ; and that same book has called to so unsparingly; but memory will not die, though my mind an infinity of stray recollections whiph I

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shall find far more easy to entertain than to ex- | waiting-room during a shower) can I read some press. Nevertheless, such expression will have books which my evil genius generally throws in my the twofold effect of passing away a dull hour of way. To instance à few “ books that are no mine, and—may I hope ?-of awakening in books." I cannot deliberately sit down to a your mind tender recollections of the books dear to stedfast perusal of “ bloody battles” and “glorious you long ago, though their very names may have victories.” Mars of a surety did not shine on my been, ere now, forgotten in this busy world of ours, humble birth—I am no Fortinbras nor Tybalt which Wordsworth truly says is “too much with perhaps I am of the number of those depraved us” men of to-day.

persons who prefer the dolce far niente to an In these rambling reminiscences of the desultory armless sleeve and three orders ; like that inglorious reading of a young life, you must pardon much individual in Ben Jonson's play, “The Silent incoherence, an entire lack of chronological ar- Woman,” I may think— "fortitude doth consist rangement, and mere sketchy dissertations on magis patiendo quam faciendo, magis ferendo quam neglected beauties. I merely propose to my- feriendo." Nor can I read The Racing Calendar, self to call to my own mind a few associations, a Parliamentary blue book, or a fashionable pleasing, if vague, connected with my lost books novel; though books that are usually esteemed as

and to perform a like kind office for you, who,“ dry" by fast gentlemen generally-books such I trust, have at your elbows, or in your snug as Sir Thomas Brown's “ Vulgar Errors," Sir libraries at home, the books to which I here refer, Philip Sydney's “Arcadia," more particularly his and of which I am now deprived. With these “ Defence of Poesie," and Burton's "Anatomio few words then of preface or apology, I will for of Melancholy"--are to me sufficiently nourishing the nonce imagine myself in my long-lost library and easy of mental digestion. chair, with yourself, good reader, by my side- Let this paper blush, as my deputy, when I a glass of old wine before us both, and a cigar in confess that the allegorical Spenser has few charms each of our sapient mouths to pass away time for me. What is Una but an unreal shadowy pleasantly, as well as profitably witbal.

creation ? what are Spenser's heroes ? Attributes Gentle reader, look tenderly on these lucubra- of mankind, it may be-but not men. We cannot tions of a bookworm. I am a devourer of other bend our minds to the idea of Una's existence ; men's ideas—somewhat thin diet, you will say she is a bright phantom-but, after all, a cold smilingly—and as Charles Lamb in those inimitable myth. Not so the men and women of Ovid's Essays of Elia affirms—“I love to lose myself in creation. Have we not in schoolhood participated other men's minds. When I am not walking, I in the terrors of Daphne in her flight? Can we am reading. Books think for me.” Thus I have not give up our minds to wander with lo ? can we read books of all kinds (with the exception of not even weep for her at some period of our publications of the Dr. Dryasdust school, which I schoolhood ? I could do all this, when a boy of carefully eschew) ever since I donned a jacket. I twelve—my heart may have grown harder since wish to be understood here as confining my recol- then. In fine, Spenser may please the imaginalections almost entirely to English literature (the tion, but his creations are of too thin and cold a classics being out of the sphere of random recol- nature to warm the heart. “Tell it not in Gath, lections like these), for I know little of French, proclaim it not in the streets of Ascalon,” if I less of Italian, and least of German. I have confess that Thomson's "Castle of Indolence,” as a indeed perused (but discontentedly) divers transla- whole, fails to arrest my continued attention. The tions of divers well-meaning translators, those description of the scenery around that "castle unthanked purveyors of another's ideas, in a dry, hight of Indolence" is admirably adapted to make sapless form. For what translator can give even any reader comfortably lazy. The verse marches a part of thy mighty mind, oh Goëthe ? What lazily, so that I own I have fallen asleep while the literal varlet can unravel the knotted skein of thy book was before me—"a great proof of Thomson's tangled thonghts? What translator can delight power of pleasing !" exclaims a sarcastic reader. us with the racy humour of Cervantes ? Who can And yet, in truth, by going to sleep I paid the show unto us Sancho, as he is—" honest Sancho” highest compliment in my power to the writer of whose very fooleries are piquant ? and what that fine poem. I own that I take little interest translator, (look not so sternly, thou ghost of in allegories such as Spenser's and bis imitators. jovial Smollett,) can robe in English apparel the I shall here be reminded that He “who spake as meagre form of that mad personification of Chivalry, never nian spake,” inculcated the sublimest moral Don Quixote? How commonplace, cold, and truths in the form of allegories. But the parables vapid, oh Don, seem (when filtered through our of Jesus appeal to us as men—for they speak of language till their rich extravagance is weakened) man. The man "who went down to Jericho, and tby sweet love-songs to her of famed Toboso, the | fell among thieves," is to us a real man of flesh delicate Dulcinea-of whom let not the coarse and blood-—not an attribute made flesh and called tongue of Saucho speak!

Jesus spoke of an event which doubtless As to books— I can admire a few, love many, was of frequent occurence; and so his parable but by no possibility, (even though I should be touched his hearers' hearts the more from the fact unhappily located at a country railway station's of its oraisemblance.

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Again, is not that rich man in the parable-advent of some river-loving rustic hoping to fill that selfish voluptuary, who “fared sumptuously his creel ere sunset ? Doth not the soothing sound every day," a much more lively example of the of water, gurgling over the smooth stones of the evil influence of riches and selfishness than any brook supply a music (quite apart from the incold personification of riches or selfishness-such trinsic beauty of the song) to those sweet lines of as we should find in Spenser ? Could poverty, Marlow, " Come live with me, and be my love ?" personified, and called a man of woes, affect the If any should doubt this, let them imagine Walton's mind in the same manner as doth the lowly Milkmaid singing that sweet song in the reeking Lazarus at the rich man's gate ? We see many room of the inn, whither Piscator and his friends like Lazarus-many wretches, like him, sit at the betook themselves to sup. Which is the fitter gates of the rich of our land; and too often they place for the song, or the reading of it? are regarded with the indifference of the rich On the other hand, no one would think of Hebrew of old; and, because we know these perusing Burton's " Anatomie of Melancholy" in things so to be, that parable of the rich man and the fields on a summer's day. This is a book to Lazarus comes home more forcibly to our hearts. be read in an ancient library by the light of the Lazarus is not a myth; and, to conclude my lamp—a book to be read by the student, and, remarks touching allegory, is it not much better perchance, by the idle connoisseur of quaintness, to show us a poor man than a personification of during the dull hours between breakfast and poverty, which must of necessity be but a lifeless luncheon. The latter reader will, of course, read fancy?

by snatches for amusement—the student will read Milton's gigantic, sublime genius repels me- steadily for profit. Among the mud of Burton's at a distance I acknowledge liis powers. There collected lore you will find many grains of gold, is, methinks, a procul adeste profani" in the which will well repay you for the trifling trouble very words, “Paradise Lost." I admire—believe of sifting. The lover of quaint quotations may --but like the devils, I tremble. I cannot read profitably glean, in the wake of Democritus “ Paradise Lost” in a garden, on a bright summer's Junior-indeed, several of my friends, would be morning. The birds, the butterflies, all conspire wits, etc., are in the habit of reading Burton, for together to render me light of mind. A thunder the purpose of filching from his lucubrations the storm is the orchestra to whose grand music I wherewithal to adorn a debating society's display would see the fiends flitting to and fro in Pande- of ancient lore. I cannot help wondering why a monium. The other parts I would read alone in book, that has extorted praise from Johnson, Colemy chamber when all was still. Not 'so with ridge, Byron, and many other “eminent bands," “Comus,” that sweetest bud of that mighty poet's (as old Tonson's phrase was) now should be so mind. Read “Comus” in a wood, as I have read undeservedly neglected as it is easy to perceive to it, and if your imagination be strong, you will be the case. To pass on; Shakespeare's “As discourse with the “ Elder Brother” touching You Like It,” may be read anywhere, save in the “divine philosophy," or you will see, through the street, or in Hyde Park, within earshot of the gloomy vista of pines, Comus and his band at carriage-wheels. In both these cases, your pertheir revelry, or that sweet maid arguing with ception of charater must be poor. Who can hold conthe insidious tempter, till that bafiled disputant verse with “the melancholy Jacques" in Rotten flees from her. “L’Allegro" I would read in a Row? But, of all Shakespeare's plays, “Hamlet” hay.field, where the joyous rustic's laughter would to my taste, is the best suited for perasal ; the attune my heart to the gleesome musical lines. beautiful soliloquies seem out of place now-a-days “Il Penseroso" I would read in a rocky cavern near the footlights; the “Ghost of Hamlet's by the sea shore, where I could hear the sullen father” may terrify the groundling, but, methinks, murmur of eternal ocean.

the ghost, whatever amount of chalk may be In those dear, delightful “ Essays of Elia," wasted upon his visage, can never produce in ne Lamb says, “I am not much a friend to out-of- the same fearful pleasure as I can take in the doors reading--I cannot settle my mind to it.” In simple perusal of Hamlet in the privacy of my certain cases we may, without presumption, dissent chamber. Alas ! there are in my mind too many from such opinion. Reader, where is Isaac ideas of too material porter—a beverage in which Walton (“that quaint old, cruel coxcomb,” as the “Ghost of Hamlet's father" (the stage ghost Byron illiberally calls him in “Don Juan,") to be I mean,) hath ever delighted; even while that illread with edification ? In a hot, dull, dirty paid spectre is flitting across the stage, my mental London library in the dog days ?—or in a crimson- eye glances on sundry pots of porter, wherewithal papered dining-room, after dinner, by the light of he will quench his thirst on his exit; and thus, by best spermaceti? Doth not the mental palate of a too truthful imagination, I am doomed to lose my reader eschew such profanations ? Is not old much in the way of wholesome horror. Isaac more grateful to thy mind, thou gentle On the other hand, the works of Etherege, Ro. denizen of our metropolis, when his pleasant chester, and Wycherley may be read, and apprequaintness is " inwardly digested” by the side of ciated as much as they deserve, in the Mall of St. some meandering, gently rippling stream ; when James's Park. An imaginative reader can fill that thy solitude is unbroken, save by the unexpected place with courtiers like Rochester, and fops liko

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