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Of course I went immediately to the cottage, where I found Ellen sitting with her mother. Mrs. Matley had appeared from the first totally incapable of comprehending the nature of the sorrows that oppressed her daughter, and it was in vain that I had frequently, in reply to her everrecurring question of "Where's Charlie ?" endeavored to impress upon her the sad truth. She always listened with the same vacant smile, and in a few minutes repeated the inquiry. Now, as I entered the room, she cried, "Here she is, Ellen; I said she would come this fine day!"

Ellen covered her face, and I saw that her tears were falling fast in spite of her efforts to control them. No doubt at that moment her heart pined to hear again the pattering of the little feet that used to bound forth to meet me ere I crossed the threshold; no doubt her thoughts were of the sweet voice whose glad shout had so often announced my approach. I know that my own heart ached as I remembered these things. I drew a chair beside Ellen, and threw my arm round her, but she did not raise her head. The old woman watched her with an anxious, bewildered look, and said

"I wish, ma'am, you could tell me what ails her; she sits there all day, crying, crying, and I cannot comfort her. Where's Charlie? She never cries when Charlie is here. Where's Charlie ?"

I felt Ellen's whole frame shaken with sobs. "Come away," I whispered; "do come away!" But she did not seem to hear my words.

"Won't she listen to you?" continued Mrs. Matley. "I try to cheer her. I tell her that her husband will soon be here-somebody said so, I know; and then I talk about Charlie. She used to smile whenever I spoke of his pretty ways, dear child! Indeed, ma'am, she 'll be happy again if you only bring Charlie back."

A loud, hysterical cry burst from Ellen. "This must not be," I exclaimed, as with gentle force I raised her from her seat, and led her into the garden. "You must come to my house, Ellen, for a few days," I said.

She pressed my hand and whispered, "You are very kind to me. God will bless you for it all."

In the silence that followed many a sweet summer sound fell on our ears, and presently the same bird that had flown to the window when Charlie was dying (tame, because it had been fed at the cottage during the previous winter) came fearlessly almost to our feet. Ellen pointed to it.

"Do you remember?" she said. "I cannot bear all these sounds-all this joy. Life and beauty everywhere; light, and mirth, and sunshine, and my child in his grave! Think what it is, when at last I fall asleep for a while in the long night, to see again that rosy face, to feel his cheek on mine, his soft arm about my neck; to dream we are listening for his father's step, and even at the moment we spring forward to welcome him, to awake and remember what and where they are! And then to hear my mother all day long repeating the question my own poor heart is ever whispering, 'Where's Charlie?' You can feel how dreadful all this is."

"Indeed, Ellen, I feel it from my soul," I replied. "You must live with me for a time. Your being here is useless to your mother, as you may safely trust her attendant, and you are exposing yourself to unnecessary torture. Come, we will prepare at once.

We went up to her chamber. There stood the little bed, with its snowy sheets folded down, even as if ready for the child to occupy that night. His clothes were spread on a chair beside it, and some of his little toys lay scattered about the room, just as his own hands had left them. I understood it all.

When Ellen's preparations were completed, I took the things she had packed up and left the room. Before she followed me, I saw her kneel beside the little bed and kiss the pillow where her child's bright head had lain. My tears blinded me, and I turned away; but she almost immediately followed, softly closing the door and locking it, lest any busy hand should, in her absence, meddle with her precious relics of the departed. A friend's carriage waited for us, and we were soon on our way. The shortest road to my house led by the church, but I had given directions that we should be driven another way. Ellen perceived my design in so doing, and she said

"I thank you much; but I would rather go by the church You can show me the place where But she could not finish the sentence.

Under one of the noble elm-trees, of which there are several scattered about the churchyard, Charlie's body had been laid. I led Ellen to the little mound that marked the spot. It was already covered with daisies, and the golden sunshine fell, as if lovingly, upon it. I moved to a little distance, that the poor mother might feel herself alone but she rejoined me in a few minutes, and in reply to my look of anxiety struggled to smile, saying

"God comforts me much. I am glad I have been here. It was wrong to murmur at the sunshine and the joy as I did but an hour ago; they have a new and better meaning for me now."

Indeed, during the remainder of the day she appeared more composed than I had yet seen her since her affliction, and when we were parting for the night, she said that her mind was calm, though she thought till that day the suddenness of her trials had so stunned her, that she had hardly comprehended their extent

As she ceased to speak, I heard a sound of slow and heavy wheels and the tread of several horses drawing near the house. I supposed I looked uneasy, for Ellen inquired, with a searching glance, if I knew what that sound meant. I tried to appear unconcerned as I answered, that it was doubtless occasioned by one of the many wagons that were constantly passing my door, and I urged her to retire to rest, as it was already midnight.

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No," she said, "I must see first what this is." And she placed herself at the window.

I stood beside her, trembling with the conviction that Mr. Cayley's information had been incorrect, and that the funeral procession of her husband was about to pass before Ellen's eyes. The rumbling of the wheels came slowly nearer. Presently there was a glare flung by many torches, which were borne by horsemen; these were immediately followed by a hearse, and the procession was closed by a few more horsemen, cloaked in black.

"It is even as I thought," said Ellen, turning to me. "I must follow at once."

I believed her mind wandered, and I went with her to her own room; but she threw a cloak about her, and tied a veil closely over her widow's cap. I then understood her meaning.

"Stop, Ellen," I cried, as she left the room

"If you will go, at least let me accompany of utter imbecility. The old woman lingered you."

She waited for me on the stairs, and we left the house together, following the sad procession as it moved slowly down the street to the church. She walked steadily, refusing my assistance; but once my hand accidentally touched hers, and I started at its extreme coldness. When we entered the church, the friends and attendants of the dead, already assembled, made way for us, and we took our stand close at the head of the coffin. Not a sound escaped Ellen. Without wavering, without weeping, she stood by while the service was read, and even till the body was lowered into the dark vault. When all was done, and those present were preparing to depart, I laid my hand on her arm. Gentle as was the touch, she fell to the ground as if struck by a mortal blow. One deep groan escaped from her white lips, and then I thought, in truth, that her sorrowful spirit had flown to rejoin those she loved in a happier world. Many rushed forward to raise her from the floor, and she was quickly conveyed to my house, where, after several hours of insensibility, she awoke to a consciousness of all that had passed.

another year, during which time I was constantly
a visitor at the cottage. Her first question when-
ever she saw me, even to the last, was "Where's
Charlie?" for there was some link in her remem-
brance between me and that beloved child. In all
else her memory and intelligence were totally
gone. One day I turned anxiously to Ellen, hear-
ing her sigh as her mother pronounced the accus-
tomed words; but she smiled faintly, and said-
"Do not fear for me now: I can bear it better
than I once did."

On Mrs. Matley's death, I easily persuaded Ellen to become a permanent inmate of my house, and for fifteen years we shared the same home. I will not trust myself to speak of the hour in which she was taken from me. There is a second and a larger mound now beneath the old churchyard elm, and I often visit it, treading the narrow path worn by Ellen's feet in her daily visits of old to the grave of her child.

Within the church, on the side wall of the recess which contains the vault of the Courtlands, is a marble slab bearing a simple inscription to the memory of Ellen's husband, and recording in few words the manner of his death, and below this inscription are engraved the names of his wife and child, with the dates of their departure from this

A long and dangerous illness was the consequence of my poor friend's last severe trial; but youth and a good constitution carried her through it. On being restored to health, she returned to life. her mother, who was rapidly sinking into a state

AN influential public meeting was held at Liver-enlisted the affections of an ardent people on the pool on 22d July-Mr. Brown, the new member side of temperance, and he has broken the long for South Lancashire, in the chair-to memorialize the government on the subject of the present postal arrangements to and from Liverpool. The proceedings expanded from a local to a general character. Mr. Jeffrey spoke of Mr. Rowland Hill as the only man fit to administer with advantage the great reform of which he was the author. The same idea was embodied in one of the resolutions it incorporated this assertion—

reign of debauch. He has removed one obstacle from the material improvement of the Irish people. His personal sacrifices have been very great, unstinted, stretched to the extent of his whole means. There is a generous trustingness in that devotion, which in itself deserves acknowledgment. Fees for future service are of doubtful expediency; but assuredly a free gift to indemnify Theobald Mathew, to repay his generous trust, and to endow a good and benevolent man with the means of ease for the remainder of his life, would in this case be a merited, a graceful, and a pious tribute to virtue.-Spectator, August 1.

"That a post-office system carried to the utmost possible perfection, at whatever cost short of actual waste, would yield a larger revenue than has hitherto been derived from such a source; and therefore it appears most desirable, on every account-moral, social, commercial, and fiscalTHE Universal German Gazette states, that an that the whole of Mr. Rowland Hill's plans of imperial ordinance has just been issued, permitpost-office management should be carried into im-ting the Jews in Hungary to redeem, by the paymediate effect, with all such further improvements ment of a sum once paid down, their yearly as experience and new facilities may suggest; taxes for leave to reside and carry on business. and that it is the opinion of this meeting that the In five years all special duties on the Jews are to services of Mr. Rowland Hill himself, in perfect- cease. ing the post-office system, would be extremely valuable to the country."

SPEAKING of the colonies generally, Lord John Russell declared that Lord Grey agreed with him A NEW attempt to raise a fund of 70007. in order in admitting the justice and expediency of extendto purchase an annuity of 800l. a year for the ing free institutions as far as they possibly can be Reverend Theobald Mathew, is advertised in our extended; his conviction being, that wherever columns; and we are asked to support the effort. Englishmen are assembled in great numbers, they Donatives are suspicious things in Ireland. How are not so well governed by a secretary of state as can we avoid applying our own rules, and how by institutions which enable them in some degree will they fit this claim? In sooth, we confess that to exercise self-government. we are not disposed to apply them too strictly here. It is not clear what definite and stable results have followed Mr. Mathew's exertions; and there was no lack of inducement to the service, in the idolizing homage which the missionary of temperance has received. On the other hand, it is certain that a real and great service has been rendered: Mr. Mathew may not have created a well-informed and deliberate opinion against drunkenness; but he has

MR. GREEN, accompanied by no fewer than twelve ladies and gentlemen, ascended from Cremorne Gardens in his large Nassau balloon on Monday evening. The machine passed over London at a low altitude, affording an excellent view of the town to the voyagers, and of the balloon to townspeople. After being in the air fifty-two minutes, descended at Leyton, in Essex.

From Fraser's Magazine.

PROPOSALS FOR A CONTINUATION OF IVANHOE.

IN A LETTER TO MONSIEUR ALEXANDRE DUMAS,
BY MONSIEUR MICHAEL ANGELO TITMARSH.

To the Most Noble Alexandre Dumas, Marquis
Davy de la Pailleterie.

every word of Monte-Cristo with the deepest interest; and was never more delighted after getting through a dozen volumes of the Three Musketeers, than when Mr. Rolandi furnished me with another dozen of the continued history of the same heroes could get the lives of Athos, Porthos, and Aramis under the title of Vingt Ans après; and if one until they were 120 years old, I am sure we should all read with pleasure. Here is the recess coming the season over-no debates to read-and no novels!

But suppose that heroes of romance, after eighty or ninety years of age, grow a thought superannuated, and are no longer fit for their former task of amusing the public; suppose you have exhausted most of your heroes, and brought them to an age when it is best that the old gentlemen should retire; why not, my dear sir, I suggest, take up other people's heroes, and give a continuation of their lives? There are numbers of Walter Scott's novels that I always felt were incomplete. The Master of Ravenswood, for instance, disappears, it is true, at the end of the Bride of Lammermoor. His hat is found, that is to say, on the sea-shore, and you suppose him drowned; but I have always an idea that he has floated out to sea, and his adventure might recommence-in a maritime novel, say-on board the ship which picked him up. No man can induce me to believe that the adventures of Quentin Durward ceased the day after he married Isabelle de Croye. People survive even marriage; their sufferings don't end with that blessed incident in their lives. Do we take leave of our friends, or cease to have an interest in them, the moment they drive off in the chaise and the wedding-déjeuné is over? Surely not! and it is unfair upon married folks to advance that your bachelors are your only heroes.

MY LORD-Permit a humble literary practitioner in England, and a profound admirer of your works, to suggest a plan for increasing your already great popularity in this country. We are laboring, my lord, under a woful dearth of novels. Fashionable novels we get, it is true; the admirable Mrs. Gore produces half-a-dozen or so in a season; but one can't live upon fashionable novels alone, and the mind wearies rather with perpetual descriptions of balls at D House, of fashionable doings at White's or Crocky's, of ladies' toilettes, of Gunter's suppers, of déjeûners, Almack's, French cookery, French phrases and the like, which have been, time out of mind, the main ingredient of the genteel novel with us. As for historical novelists, they are, or seem to be, asleep among us. What have we had from a great and celebrated author since he gave us the Last of the Barons? Nothing but a pamphlet about the Water-cure, which, although it contained many novel and surprising incidents, still is far from being sufficient for a ravenous public. Again, where is Mr. James? Where is that teeming parent of romance? No tales have been advertised by him for time out of mind-from him who used to father a dozen volumes a year. We get, it is true, reprints of his former productions, and are accommodated with Darnley and Delorme in single volumes; but, ah, sir! (or my lord,) those who are accustomed to novelty and live in excitement, grow sulky at meeting with old friends, however Of all the Scottish novels, however, that of meritorious, and are tired of reading and re-read- which the conclusion gives me the greatest dising even the works of Mr. James. Where, finally, satisfaction is the dear old Ivanhoe-Evannoay, as is the famous author, upon the monthly efforts of you call it in France. From the characters of whose genius all the country was dependent? Rowena, of Rebecca, of Ivanhoe, I feel sure that Where is the writer of the Tower of London, the story can't end where it does. I have quite Saint James, Old Saint Paul's, &c.? What has too great a love for the disinherited knight, whose become of the Revelations of London? That mys-blood has been fired by the suns of Palestine, and tic work is abruptly discontinued, and revealed to whose heart has been warmed in the company of us no more; and though, to be sure, Old Saint the tender and beautiful Rebecca, to suppose that Paul's is reprinted with its awful history of the he could sit down contented for life by the side of plague and the fire, yet, my dear sir, we are such a frigid piece of propriety as that icy, faultfamiliar with the plague and the fire already; less, prim, niminy-piminy Rowena. That woman our feelings were first harrowed by Old Saint is intolerable, and I call upon you, sir, with Paul's in a weekly newspaper, then we had the your great powers of eloquence, to complete this terrible story revealed altogether in three volumes fragment of a novel, and to do the real heroine with cuts. Can we stand it rereprinted in the justice. columns of a contemporary magazine? My feelings of disappointment can't be described when, on turning to the same periodical, attracted thither by the announcement of a story called Jackomo Omberello, (I have a bad memory for names,) I found only a reprint of a tale by my favorite author, which had appeared in an annual years ago. There is a lull, sir-a dearth of novelists. We live upon translations of your works; of those of M. Eugène Sue, your illustrious confrère; of those of the tragic and mysterious Soulié, that master of the criminal code; and of the ardent and youthful Paul Féval, who competes with all three.

I have thrown together a few hints, which, if you will do me the favor to cast your eyes over them, might form matter, I am sure, sufficient for many, many volumes of a continuation of Ivanhoe; and remain, with assurances of profound consideration,

Sir,

Your sincere admirer,
M. A. TITMARSH.

No person who has read the preceding volumes of this history can doubt for a moment what was the result of the marriage between Wilfrid and Rowena. Those who have marked her conduct I, for my part, am one of the warmest admirers during her maidenhood, her distinguished politeof the new system which you pursue in France ness, her spotless modesty of demeanor, her unwith so much success of the twenty-volume-alterable coolness under all circumstances, and her novel system I like continuations. I have read lofty and gentle-woman-like bearing, must be sure

PROPOSALS FOR A CONTINUATION OF IVANHOE.

LIBRARY. 'PC. I. fW.

"Where you were locked up with the Jewess in the tower," is a remark, too, of which Wilfrid keenly felt, and, perhaps, the reader will understand, the significancy. When the daughter of Isaac of York brought her diamonds and rubies-the poor, gentle victim!—and, meekly laying them at the feet of the conquering Rowena, departed into foreign lands to tend the sick of her people, and to brood over the bootless passion which consumed her own pure heart, one would have thought that the heart of the royal lady would have melted before such beauty and humility, and that she would have been generous in the moment of her victory.

that her married conduct would equal her spinster of us is there acquainted with the sex that has not
behavior, and that Rowena the wife would be remarked this propensity in lovely woman, and
a pattern of correctness for all the matrons of how often the wisest in the council are made to be
England.
as fools at her board, and the boldest in the battle-
Such was the fact. For miles around Rother-field are craven when facing her distaff?
wood her character for piety was known. Her
castle was a rendezvous for all the clergy and
monks of the district, whom she fed with the rich-
est viands, while she pinched herself upon pulse
and water. There was not an invalid in the three
ridings, Saxon or Norman, but the palfrey of the
Lady Rowena might be seen journeying to his
door, in company with Father Glauber her almo-
ner, and Brother Thomas of Epsom, her leech.
She lighted up all the churches in Yorkshire with
wax-candles, the offerings of her piety. The bells
of her chapel began to ring at two o'clock in the
morning; and all the domestics of Rotherwood
were called upon to attend at matins, at complins,
at nones, at vespers, and at sermon. I need not
say that fasting was observed with all the rigors
of the church; and that those of the servants of
the Lady Rowena were looked upon with the most
favor whose hair shirts were the roughest, and
who flagellated themselves with the most becom-
ing perseverance.

In fact, she did say, "Come and live with me as a sister," as the last chapter of this history shows; but Rebecca knew in her heart that her ladyship's proposition was what is called bosh, (in that noble Eastern language with which Wilfrid, the Crusader, was familiar,) or fudge, in plain Saxon, and retired, with a broken, gentle spirit, neither able to bear the sight of her rival's happiness, nor willing to disturb it by the contrast of her own wretchedness. Rowena, like the most high-bred and virtuous of women, never forgave Isaac's daughter her beauty, nor her flirtation with Wilfrid, (as the Saxon lady chose to term it,) nor, above all, her admirable diamonds and jewels, although Rowena was actually in possession of them.

Whether it was that this discipline cleared poor Wamba's wits or cooled his humor, it is certain that he became the most melancholy fool in England, and if ever he ventured upon a joke to the shuddering, poor servitors who were mumbling their dry crusts below the salt, it was such a faint and stale one, that nobody dared to laugh at the timid innuendoes of the unfortunate wag, and a sickly smile was the best applause he could muster. Once, indeed, Guffo, the goose-boy, (a In a word, she was always flinging Rebecca into half-witted poor wretch,) laughed outright at a Ivanhoe's teeth. There was not a day in his life lamentably stale pun which Wamba palmed upon but that unhappy warrior was made to remember him at supper-time. It was dark, and the torches that a Jewish maiden had been in love with him, being brought in, Wamba said, "Guffo, they and that a Christian lady of fashion could never can't see their way in the argument, and are forgive the insult. For instance, if Gurth, the going to throw a little light upon the subject." swine-herd, who was now promoted to be a gameThe Lady Rowena, being disturbed in a theologi-keeper and verderer, brought the account of a cal controversy with Father Willibald, (afterwards canonized as St. Willibald of Bareacres, hermit and confessor,) called out to know what was the cause of the unseemly interruption, and Guffo and Wamba being pointed out as the culprits, ordered them straightway into the court-yard, and three dozen to be administered to each of them.

66

"I got you out of Front de Bouf's castle," said poor Wamba, piteously, appealing to Sir Wilfrid of Ivanhoe, "and canst thou not save me from the lash ?"

"Where you were locked up with the Jewess in the tower!" said Rowena, haughtily, replying to the timid appeal to her husband; "Gurth, give him four dozen!"

And this was all poor Wamba got by applying for the mediation of his master.

In fact, Rowena knew her own dignity so well as a princess of the royal blood of England, that Sir Wilfrid of Ivanhoe, her consort, could scarcely call his life his own, and was made, in all things, to feel the inferiority of his station. And which

famous wild-boar in the wood, and proposed a
hunt, Rowena would say, "Do, Sir Wilfrid, per-
secute those poor pigs-you know your friends the
Jews can't abide them!" Or when, as it oft
would happen, our lion-hearted monarch, Richard,
in order to get a loan or a benevolence from the
Jews, would roast a few of the Hebrew capitalists,
or extract some of the principal rabbi's teeth,
Rowena would exult and say, "Serve them right,
the misbelieving wretches! England can never be
a happy country until every one of these monsters
is exterminated!" Or else, adopting a strain of
still more savage sarcasm, would exclaim, "Ivan-
hoe, my dear, more persecution for the Jews!
Had n't you better interfere, my love?
majesty will do anything for you; and, you know,
the Jews were always such favorites of yours,"
words to that effect. But, nevertheless, her lady-
ship never lost an opportunity of wearing Rebec-
ca's jewels at court, whenever the queen held a
drawing-room, or at the York assizes and ball,
when she appeared there, not of course that she
took any interest in such things, but considered it
her duty to attend as one of the chief ladies of the
county.

*I knew an old lady in my youth, who, for many years, used to make this joke every night regularly when candles were brought in, and all of us in her family were expected to laugh. Surely it is time that a piece of fun which has been in activity for seven hundred years should at length be laid up in ordinary; and this paper will not have been written altogether in vain if this good end can be brought about.-M. A. T.

His

or

And now Sir Wilfrid of Ivanhoe, having attained the height of his wishes, was, like many a man when he has reached that dangerous elevation, disappointed. Ah, dear friends, is it but too often so in life! Many a garden, seen from a distance,

looks fresh and green, which, when beheld closely, | cookery (all descriptions of eating are pleasant in is dismal and weedy, the shady walks melancholy works of fiction, and can scarcely be made too and grass grown; the bowers you would fain re- savory or repeated too often ;) and, in the face of pose in cushioned with stinging nettles. I have this carousing without the walls, the most dismal ridden in a caique upon the waters of the Bospho-hunger raging within. That there must be loverus, and looked upon the capital of the Soldan of passages between the hostile armies is quite clear. Turkey. As seen from those blue waters, with And what do you say to the Marquis of Limoges palace and pinnacle, with gilded dome and tower- and his sons casting lots about being eaten?-with ing cypress, it seemeth a very Paradise of Ma- a motto from Ugolino and a fine display of filial homed; but enter the city, and it is but a beggarly piety? labyrinth of rickety huts and dirty alleys, where The assault may be made very fine, too-the the ways are steep and the smells are foul, ten- last assault. The old chieftain of Chalus and his anted by mangy dogs and ragged beggars—a dis-sons dropping down, one by one, before the crushmal illusion! Life is such, ah, well-a-day! It is ing curtal-axe of Richard. only hope which is real, and reality is a bitterness and a lie.

Perhaps a man, with Ivanhoe's high principles, would never bring himself to acknowledge this fact; but others did for him. He grew thin, and pined away as much as if he had been in a fever under the scorching sun of Ascalon. He had no appetite for his meals; he slept ill, though he was yawning all day. The jangling of the doctors and friars whom Rowena brought together did not in the least enliven him, and he would sometimes give proofs of somnolency during their disputes, greatly to the consternation of his lady. He hunted a good deal, and, I very much fear, as Rowena rightly remarked, that he might have an excuse for being absent from home. He began to like wine, too, who had been as sober as a hermit; and when he came back from Athelstane's, (whither he would repair not unfrequently,) the unsteadiness of his gait and the unnatural brilliancy of his eye were remarked by his lady, who, you may be sure, was sitting up for him. As for Athelstane, he swore by St. Wullstan that he was glad to have escaped a marriage with such a pattern of propriety; and honest Cedric the Saxon (who had been very speedily driven out of his daughter-in-law's castle) vowed by St. Waltheof that his son had bought a dear bargain.

"Ha, St. Richard !-ha, St. George!" the tremendous voice of the lion-king was heard over the loudest roar of the battle; at every sweep of his blade a severed head flew over the parapet, a spouting trunk tumbled, bleeding, on the flags of the bartizan. The world hath never seen such a warrior as that lion-hearted Plantagenet, as he raged over the keep, his eyes flashing fire through the bars of his morion, snorting and chafing with the hot lust of battle. One by one les enfans de Chalus fell down before him: there was only one left at last of all the brave race that in the morning had fought round the stout Sir Enguerrand :-only one, and but a boy-a fair-haired boy, a blue-eyed boy! he had been gathering pansies in the fields but yesterday-it was but a few years, and he was a baby in his mother's arms! What could his puny sword do against the most redoubted blade in Christendom?-and yet Bohemond faced the great champion of England, and met him foot to foot! Turn away, turn away, fond mother! Engeurrand de Chalus bewail the last of thy race! his blade is crushed into splinters under the axe of the conqueror, and the poor child is beaten to his knee!

"Now, by St. Barbacue of Limoges," said Bertrand de Gourdon, "the butcher will never strike down yonder lambling! Hold thy hand, Sir King,

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Swift as thought the veteran archer raised his arblast to his shoulder, the whizzing bolt fled from the ringing string, and the next moment crushed quivering into the corslet of Plantagenet.

It was while enjoying this dismal, but respecta-or, by St. Barbacueble existence, that news came to England that Wilfrid's royal master and friend was bent upon that expedition against his vassal, the Count of Limoges, which was to end so fatally before the Castle of Chalus. As a loyal subject, Sir Wilfrid hastened, with a small band of followers, to the assistance of his master, taking with him Gurth, his squire, who vowed he would have joined Robin Hood but for that, and Wamba the Jester, who cut a good joke for the first time, as he turned headover-heels when the Castle of Rowena was once fairly out of sight.

'T was a luckless shot, Bertrand of Gourdon! Maddened by the pain of the wound, the brute nature of Richard was aroused his fiendish appetite for blood rose to madness, and grinding his teeth, and with a curse too horrible to mention, the flashing axe of the royal butcher fell down on the blond ringlets of the child, and the children of Chalus were no more!

I just throw this off by way of description, and to show what might be done. Now ensues a splendid picture of a general massacre of the garrison, who are all murdered to a man, with the exception of Bertrand de Gourdon. Ivanhoe, of course, saves him for the moment; but we all know what his fate was. Bertrand was flayed alive after Richard's death; and as I don't recol

I omit here a chapter about the siege of Chalus, which, it is manifest, can be spun out to any length to which an enterprising publisher would be disposed to go. Single combats, or combats of companies, scaladoss, ambuscadoes, rapid acts of horsemanship, destriers, catapults, mangonels, and other properties of the chivalric drama, are at the use of the commonest writer; and I am sure, my dear sir, you have too good an opinion of me to re-lect any chapter in any novel where a man's being quire that these weapons should be dragged out, piece by piece, from the armory, and that you will take my account for granted.

A chapter about famine in the garrison may be rendered particularly striking. I would suggest as a good contrast a description of tremendous feasting in the camp of Richard, in honor of his queen, Berengaria, with a display of antiquarian

skinned alive is described, I would suggest this as an excellent subject for a powerful and picturesque pen. Ivanhoe, of course, is stricken down and left for dead in trying to defend honest Bertrand. And now if ever there was a good finale for a volume, it is the death of Richard.

"You must die, my son," said the venerable Walter of Rouen, as Berengaria was carried

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