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I've nothing to do with it-it's all guess work, and a man who beers and horses all the neighbourhood, must keep a good tongue in his head. But one thing I will say, just to give you two gentlemen a hint, that haps you had better not meddle in this matter, or you may make a mess of it. Sally, is not that chicken ready?" And he called from the door of the room to the bar.

"I certainly shall meddle with it, my good friend," said Ned Hayward, in a determined tone, "and that very soon. I'm not the least afraid of making a mess, as you call it, certain that none of it will fall upon myself. So, as soon as we have got supper, which seems a devilish long time coming, we will set off, Mr. Beauchamp, if you please, for this good magistrate's and try-"

He was interrupted in the midst of his speech, though it had by this time nearly come to a conclusion, by a voice in the passage, exclaiming, "Groomber, Mr. Groomber," and the host instantly vociferated, "Coming, sir, coming," and rushed out of the room.

The voice was heard to demand, as soon as the landlord appeared blocking up the way, "Have you a person by the name of Beauchamp here ?"

"Yes, your worship," replied the host, and after a few more words, in a lower tone, the door of the room was thrown open, and Mr. Wittingham was announced, just as Mr. Beauchamp was observing to his newfound friend, Ned Hayward, that the voice was very like that of the worthy magistrate to whom he had applied.

Mr. Wittingham was a tall and very respectable-looking gentleman, somewhat past the middle age, and verging towards that decline of life which is marked by protuberance of the stomach, and thinness of the legs. But, nevertheless, Mr. Wittingham carried it off very well, for his height diminished the appearance of that which is usually called a corporation, and his legs were skilfully concealed in his top-boots. He was exceedingly neat in his apparel, tolerably rosy in the gills, and having a certain dogmatical peremptory expression, especially about the thick eyebrows and hook nose, which he found wonderfully efficacious in the decision of cases at petty sessions.

The moment he entered the room, he fixed his eyes somewhat sternly upon Mr. Beauchamp (whom we have forgotten to describe as a very gentlemanlike-even distinguished-looking person of about thirty years of age), and addressing him in a rough, and rather uncivil tone, said, "Your name, I think you told me, is Beauchamp, sir, and you came to lay an information before me against certain persons for stopping a chaise upon the king's highway."

"I am, as you say, sir, called Beauchamp," replied the other gentleman, "and I waited upon you, as the nearest magistrate, to give information of a crime which had been committed in your neighbourhood which you refused to receive. Do me the honour of taking a seat."

"And pray, sir, if I may be so bold as to ask, who and what are you?" inquired the magistrate, suffering himself to drop heavily into a chair.

"I should conceive that had very little to do with the matter,” interposed Ned Hayward, before Mr. Beauchamp could answer. "The simple question is, whether an attempt at highway robbery, or perhaps a worse offence, has or has not been made this night, upon Mrs. and Miss Clifford,

as they were going over to my friend Sir John Slingsby's; and allow me to say that any magistrate who refuses to take a deposition on such a subject, and to employ the best means at his command to apprehend the offenders, grossly neglects his duty."

The host brought in the roast fowl, and stared at the dashing tone of Ned Hayward's speech towards one of the magnates of the neighbourhood. Some words in the commencement of that speech had caused Mr. Wittingham's countenance to fall, but the attack upon himself in the conclusion, roused him to indignant resistance, so that his reply was an angry demand of "Who the devil are you, sir?"

"I am the devil of nobody, Mr. Wittington," answered Ned Hayward. "I am my own devil, if any body's, and my name is Edward Hayward, commonly called Captain Hayward, late of the 40th regiment, and now unattached. But as my supper is ready, I will beg leave to eat my chicken hot. Beauchamp, won't you join? Mr. Wittington, shall I give you a wing? Odd name, Wittington. Descendant of the renowned Lord Mayor of London, I presume?"

"No, sir, no," answered the magistrate, while Beauchamp could scarcely refrain from laughing. "What I want to know is, what you have to do with this affair?"

"Every thing in the world," answered Ned Hayward, carving the chicken," as I and my friend Beauchamp here had equal shares in saving the ladies from the clutches of these vagabonds. He came back here to give information, while I rode on with the ladies to protect them. Bring me a bottle of your best sherry, landlord. Now, I'll tell you what, Mr. Wittington-haven't you got any ham that you could broil? I hate chicken without ham, it's as insipid as a country magistrate.-I'll tell you what, Mr. Wittington, this matter shall be investigated to the bottom, whether you like it or not, and I have taken care to leave such marks upon two of the vagabonds, that they'll be easily known for the next month to come. One of them is devilish like you, by the way, but younger. I hit him just over the eye, and down about the nose, so that I'll answer for it I have lettered him in black and blue as well as any sheep in your fields, and we'll catch him before we've done, though we must insist upon having the assistance of the justices."

"I think, sir, you intend to insult me," said the magistrate, rising with a very angry air, and a blank and embarrassed countenance.

"Not a whit, my dear sir," answered Ned Hayward. "Pray sit down and take a glass of wine."

"I wont, sir," exclaimed Mr. Wittingham, "and I shall leave the room. If you have any thing to say to me, it must come before me in a formal manner, and at a proper hour. To-morrow I shall be at the justice-room till eleven, and I hope you will be then prepared to treat the bench with respect."

"The most profound, sir," said Ned Hayward, rising and bowing till his face almost touched the table before him, and then as Mr. Wittingham walked away with an indignant toss of the head, and closed the door behind him, our gay friend turned to his companion, saying, "There's something under this, Beauchamp. We must find out what it is."

THE MUMMELSE E.

BY JOHN OXENFORD.

[The Mummelsee is a lake in the vicinity of Strasburg, situated among steep mountains, and inhabited, according to popular tradition, by water spirits, to which the people give the name of Mümmelchen. The two following poems are from the German of A. Schnetzler, who, by the name "Mummler," designates the ruling spirit of the lake.]

I.

THE MUMMELSEE.

I.

IN the Mummelsee-that darksome lake,
Are many lilies growing;

They bow their heads and gently shake
When wanton gales are blowing.
But when the shades of night are spread,
And the full moon glistens overhead,
Leaving their flow'ry home,

Like nymphs to earth they come.

II.

The winds were loud, and the reeds beneath,
With their rustling song are joining,

And the lily maidens form a wreath,
Their fairy limbs entwining.

And round they go with foot so light,
With faces white, and garments white,
Till their pale cheeks they flush,
As with a rosy blush.

III.

Still rustle the reeds to the roaring blast,
And the forest whistles loudly,

O'er the green hill-side the shades flit fast,

As the clouds o'er the moon sail proudly.
And up and down through the grass so wet,
The lily-maids are dancing yet;

The waves upon the shore
Are swelling more and more.

IV.

From the lake a giant-fist appears,
And a bearded head is peeping,
A crown of twisted reeds it wears,
From its locks the wet is dripping.
It cries with such a thund'ring sound,
That echoes from the rocks rebound:
"Back to your wat'ry bed,
You lilies most ill-bred."

* Unerzogen.

V.

The dance is stopp'd, with pallid cheeks,
Loud scream the Mummler's daughters,
The father shouts: "See, morning breaks,
Haste back into the waters."

And now the mist begins to rise,

And morn begins to tint the skies,
The lilies waver o'er

The waters as before.

II.

THE MUMMElsee's revenge.

I.

Silent and smooth the waters lie,
The lake must be asleep;
As red as blood the evening sky
Rests on the murky deep.

Only the reeds that tremble round,
Are whisp'ring with mysterious sound.

II.

"Who is it from the forest there, with timid foot draws near?
Within that sack most painfully a weight he seems to bear."
Why, that must be Red Dietrich-the poacher known to all-
Right through the ranger's body just now he sent a ball.
And now into the waters the corpse he comes to throw,
But our old Mummler will not esteem such gifts, I trow.

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The old one's sleep is very light-he surely will awake,
If e'en a trav'ller throws by chance a stone into the lake.
At once 'tis fiercely boiling-wild storms begin to rise,
And then, unless like lightning the heedless trav❜ller flies,
No mortal eye shall ever behold his form again,
For there, beneath the waters, a corpse he will remain.

IV.

The murd❜rer at the water stops-he flings his burden down-
He breathes a curse, and then the sack into the lake is thrown.
"There, go beneath the waters, and chase the fish below,
While freely through the green-wood I hunt the stag and roe.
Your blazing wood shall warm me, as much as I desire,
For there beneath the waters you have no need of fire."

V.

He says, and now he would escape-a thorn-bush holds him tight,
A thousand and a thousand teeth seem all at once to bite.
The lake is fiercely boiling, wild storms begin to rise,
The heavy sound of thunder is rolling through the skies.
All Heaven in flames is glowing-the lake its bank o'erflows,
And, rising, o'er the murd'rer the raging waters close.

VI.

Silent and smooth the waters lie,
Revenge is now asleep,

And peacefully the moonbeams lie
On that unfathom'd deep.

Only the reeds that tremble round,
Are whisp'ring with mysterious sound.

THE FORTUNE OF FRANCE;

OR,

THE HOTEL DE CLUNY.

BY DUDLEY COSTELLO.

CHAP. I.

WHAT PASSED BETWEEN ARTHUR DE GOUFFIER, JEAN BOUCHET, AND PHILIP GURNEY OVER THEIR CUPS, AT THE ECU DU DAUPHIN.

ON New Year's Day, in the year 1515, there was mourning in the city of Paris, for the just and virtuous Louis XII. was dead! The people wept for the loss of him who was called their "Father," and the sage counsellors of the deceased monarch remembered with apprehension the prediction which he had uttered respecting his youthful successor: "Ce gros gas-là gâtera tout."

There was, indeed, reason to fear that a prince with passions so ardent and unrestrained as those of Francis I., would neutralise or subvert all that the wise policy of Louis had effected; but the danger, however menacing towards France, was most imminent as regarded his own position and the tenure of his royal sway; the greatest foe to his authority was himself. Three months had scarcely gone by since the event occurred which had doubly perilled all the hopes of the heir-presumptive to the crown of France, in the marriage of the late king to the lovely sister of Henry VIII. of England, and the admiration of Francis for the royal bride. The slave of beauty in every rank of life, the Comte d'Angoulême, had been smitten by the charms of the young queen, and heedless of the suicidal effect of success, had striven to win her love; but, ere it was too late, the remonstrances and arguments of his faithful and discerning friend Gouffier de Boisy, who had formerly been the governor of Francis, prevailed over his infant passion by showing him, qu'il jouait à se faire un maître, in urging his suit. The prince was wise in time, and in the death of Louis which followed so soon after, he reaped the reward of his forbearance.

But the danger was not yet over, for the circumstances attendant on the marriage of Queen Mary were of a peculiar nature. Young, beautiful, and susceptible, while yet unplighted at her brother's court, her heart had been won, by the handsome, gallant, and all accomplished Charles Brandon, Duke of Suffolk-the chosen friend and companion in arms of Henry VIII. They had already exchanged vows of interminable affection when the fatal news reached them that policy not love was to control their destinies, and that the hand of Mary was to be the bond of union between France and England. The disparity of years between Louis and his bride-for the king was fifty-three, and the princess only sixteen-would have sufficed to darken the prospect of Mary's future life, had her heart even been free; but when her choice was already made and her affections given to one who in feature and mind realised her fondest dreams, it may well be conceived that the announcement that she was given to another was fraught with misery. An appeal to the sympathies of a man so tyrannous and ambitious as Henry was worse than useless; it could not Aug.-VOL. LXXIV. NO. CCXCVI.

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