Then, turning his head,
With a feeling of dread,

Beheld there no phantom at all!

But, though as a priest he no courage did lack,
Yet he ordered the vassal to keep to his back,
And he held the rushlight high

As he stalked o'er the floor

Of the long corridor,

He constantly turned his eye;

When, chancing to see on the neighbouring wall A shadow not like the vassal at all;

But there, with eyes as big as a crown,

With the very same hat, and the very same gown, Stood the phantom with a light;

It glided on first to the castle gate,

The prior stalked after, compelled by fate,
In a pretty tarnation fright;

He tried to be

At his conjuro-te,

But his tongue quite failed him, it felt so thick,
As dry as a parrot's, or Flanders brick;

They came to the portal, the gates were wide,
Not a soul was on watch either out or inside.
The phantom pointed down the vale,

And smiled as if in scoff,

And nodded its head with a mournful nod,
As if to say, "Be off!"

The priest he turned his head away

To think of some trick

To circumvent Nick,

For he knew he'd the devil to pay,

When suddenly he received such a kick

On his holy gown behind,

That, to believe

Such a ghost could achieve

He must have been out of his mind;

The toe was like steel

That made him feel.

He fell with the blows

On his reverend nose,

But he picked himself up in a trice;
Yet still that great toe

Kept on kicking him so

In the whereabouts not over nice,
That over and over

He rolled in the clover,

And the rocks tapped his shaven crown.
He prayed and implored,

He shouted and roared,

"Till he'd rolled about halfway down;

Then he got on his feet

In case a repeat

Might finish the job quite brown;

And the portcullis grinned at the luckless wight As he bolted down the ravine;

He heard the abbey vesper-bell,

And loud laughs mingling quite as well.
In the morning he starts,
And leaves those parts,
And goes to Canterburie,
And hides his shame
With another name,
With a like fraternitie.
His brother so stout,
Who had kicked him out,
With his needlework wife,
Lived a happy life,

Till they died in the natural course,
When he lied by her side,

In sculptured pride,

With his valiant legs across.

THE SPORTSMAN'S FIRESIDE.

BY PAUL PRENDERGAST.

DOMESTIC life, no less than Nature, has its scenery. The boudoir, the nursery, nay, even the kitchen, are at times pictures in their way. But, of all social prospects, the finest, if not the most pleasing, is that of the dessert-table on a winter's evening. The rich red window-curtains, closely drawn, reflect a comfortable warm tint over the whole room. The decanters and glasses sparkle at their manifold angles with the lively glitter of the wax-lights, intermingled with the ruddier glow of the fire. The service of plate and china, grouped in elegant disorder, is piled with fruit of various kinds and hues, and the diversified tints of the whole mass of objects are in contrast with the dark surface of the rosewood or mahogany. Subject worthy of the pencil of a Rembrandt! Picture of luxury and comfort! What poet, remembering him of his two-pair-back, could behold it without a sigh, and a wish for a thousand a-year?

Such was the scene displayed on an evening in the latter end of December, in the snug dining-parlour of a little shooting-box some few miles distant from a market-town in the West of England. The house stood about two hundred yards from the roadside, at the back of an enclosed shrubbery. In front of it there was a little row of pollard lime-trees, and behind it lay a paddock, skirted by an oakcoppice. Attached to it were commodious stables, and other offices. This little paradise might have been deemed a fac-simile of the residence of the anonymous bard, who sang of the felicity which he participated with his beloved Rosa in a cottage near a wood; and altogether it was as eligible a messuage as was ever advertised by Mr. George Robins.

At the head of the table sat, conning, with an abstracted air, the pages of a recent work of fiction, a young and beautiful girl. She seemed an impersonation of the sanguine temperament; and the coldest observer would have admired her fine hazel eyes, her glossy chesnut curls, and the mingled bloom and alabaster of her complexion. Her attire was tastefully ornamental; her age might have been twenty, or thereabouts.

Right in front of the fire, whereon glowed a huge, half-charred log, there reclined, in a crimson-covered arm-chair, an individual of the opposite sex. He was clad in a velveteen shooting-jacket. His feet, encased in a pair of old boots that had been cut down into slippers, reposed by the heels one on each hob; his hands were buried beneath the skirts of his upper vestment, and his head was bent forwards, as if in profound meditation, on his chest. Ever and anon the young lady, raising her eyes from her book, wistfully regarded him; and as often, with a slight sigh, resumed her studies.

They were a wedded pair. About twelve months had now elapsed since Edward Clayton had led Emily Vaughan to the altar. She loved him; why she knew not, further than because she did. Her mind, though certainly not below the feminine average, was not analytic. And could a self-scrutiny have discovered a no more re

condite source of her affection than an admiration for his fine figure, handsome profile, blue eyes, and dark hair, still certain it was that she loved him. And, in accepting his hand, what visions of future happiness did she picture to herself! His means were ample; not that she was mercenary, or would have married an old man or a bad character for money; but she had received a fashionable education, and felt all those elegant wants and longings which are its consequences. Now they would be gratified. What bliss! what transport! If a few anticipations like these mingled with her more disinterested feelings, still the chief element in her prospective felicity was the idea of living together with Edward, in the constant reciprocation of endearments.

Edward Clayton belonged to no profession. He was under no necessity of following one; nor did his inclinations prompt him to do so for amusement. Nor had he a taste for science or literature. Neither was he ambitiously disposed. The streamlet in summer, in winter the field and cover, were his world. He was the most expert angler and renowned shot in the county. His acquaintance marvelled what could have induced Ned Clayton to marry. It was, however, really no marvel. He felt lonely; breakfast was a bore to him; he longed for some fair hand to mix his brandy-and-water of an evening, and Emily was the prettiest girl he knew.

And thus they sat, the sportsman and his bride. He was not, however, quite motionless: his head occasionally leaped up and fell again, and now and then his limbs started a little. Nor was he altogether silent: indistinct murmurs at intervals escaped his lips, and measured sounds, inarticulate, but unequivocal, proceeded from a neighbouring organ. In point of fact, he slept. He had been out for a long day's shooting, and had come home tired, insomuch that he had sat down to dinner without making his toilet, further than washing himself and kicking off his boots.

The lady continued momentarily gazing at her dormant lord. All was silent save his snoring, and the voice of the wind without, which was singing one of the sweetest and most solemn dirges ever heard by the side of a winter fire.

At length she impatiently closed the volume before her, and, after casting one more complaining glance at her husband, reclined pensively in her seat, and thus half thought, half murmured to herself:

"Dear me, how very dull this is! What a pity that Edward should go to sleep like this every day after dinner, except when he has company, and then he and all the rest take too much wine. How much more pleasant it would be if I were to work now, and he were to read to me; or if we were to sit and chat; or if he would hear me sing or play to him!-Edward, dear!"

This sudden and somewhat alarmed exclamation was occasioned by a kind of choking sound in his throat, accompanied by a heaving of his shoulders; phenomena occasionally characteristic of gentlemen who go to sleep in their chairs.

Umph!- eh?" ejaculated the sleeper, or something to that

effect.

She jumped up, and patted him on the shoulder. He shook himself, half opened his eyes, and muttered, “Don't.”

"Edward!"

He replied with a loud snore.

She stood and watched him for a

"How tiresome!

few seconds, and returned to her chair.

"Fast asleep again!" she presently exclaimed. Oh dear! I am weary of this stupid book!"

She closed the volume, and pushed it impatiently from her, when her eye rested on a pile of music on a chair beside the piano. Again she rose, sauntered towards the instrument, took up, half unconsciously, one of Labitzky's waltzes, mechanically placed it on the stand, and seated herself on the music-stool. Her delicate finger fell gently on one of the notes; its vibrations died faintly away. She looked over her shoulder; still there was Clayton, buried in slumber, and snoring as fast as ever. "There's no waking him,” she thought; and off she struck with the waltz.

"Hey! halloo!" cried the husband, starting from his slumber. She stopped short in the middle of a passage, and wheeled herself round, her eyes meeting his, now wide open, and staring over the back of his chair.

"I wish you hadn't made that row," he said. Couldn't you sit still, and keep quiet a little for once? You've woke me up with that hammering."

"Don't be angry, Edward," she replied. "Do you know it's eight o'clock, and you've been asleep these two hours?"

"Well; and you'd want to sleep too, if you had been beating cover all day."

"My dear, I am sure sleeping so much is not good for you. Now, can it be?"

"What can you know about it?"

"Why, Edward, bed is the proper place for sleep; and I am sure it would be much better for you to exert yourself, and keep awake, and have your tea, and go to bed early."

"I want some sherry-negus."

The materials were at hand, and she proceeded with great good humour to compound the beverage; Mr. Clayton in the meanwhile amusing himself, first by a bout of yawning and stretching, and then by hammering the log on the fire with the poker.

Ought not Edward Clayton to have thought himself a happy fellow? Here he was, with a beautiful young wife mixing his sherry and water, pleased with the task, and ready to sweeten the draught with conversation, music, or anything else that she could do to please him. He had no cares, no anxieties to vex him; there was plenty of money at his command, a good house of his own over his head, and a life before him, of which every day promised to be like the present.

Receiving his glass of negus, without, however, taking the trouble to thank the compounder, he took two or three sips at it, and then, crossing his legs, sat staring intently into the fire. His wife took a little low ottoman, and placed herself thereon beside him.

Don't lean there; it fidgets me," he said, as she affectionately rested her elbow on his knee. "Where's my cigar-case?"

"My dear Edward, are you going to smoke?"

Why not?"

Why, hadn't

you better go into your little room up stairs?