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He seemed so safe, the grizzled man,

And he gripped the tiller so

That the yacht lunged forth, and seaward ran,
With the skiff behind in tow.

A peer with his child and his dame demure
Came aft, as pale as a ghost:

"I'll make you rich as you now are poor,
If you bear us safe from the waves and sure!"
But the pilot left his post.

He paled at the mouth, and a smile he found Like a smile of power long sought.

Over they bore, and high aground

Stood the Englishman's splendid yacht. "Take to the boats! In the breakers wild The yacht will splintered be.

My wake will guide to a haven mild:
My lord and my lady and the little child
Shall come in the skiff with me."

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"Your rich lady is fair and grand,
Her hand is silky fine:

Coarse and hard was my wife's hand,
And yet that hand was mine.
Your child has blue eyes and golden hair,
Like a little child o' God:

My lass didn't look much anywhere;
God better it, she was pale and spare,
Like the child of a common clod.

"Well, these were my kingdom on the earth, They were all the good I knew ;

I thought them a treasure of mighty worth,
But they weren't much to you.

But now is the time of reckoning nigh,
And you with an hour shall cope

The wild fire flamed where the skiff flew along That'll well make up for the years gone by

Toward land with its cargo rare ;

Aft stood the pilot, tall and strong,

His eye had an eerie glare.

Leeward he looked at the Gaesling's top,
And windward at Hesnaes cliff;

Then he left the helm, and he sang out, "Stop!"
Then he heaved up an oar, and he let it drop,
And he thrust it through the skiff.

In swept the sea, the foam dashed by,
On the wreck there raged a fight;
But the mother lifted her daughter high,
Her terror turned her white.
"Anna, my child! my child!" cried she:
Then quivered the grizzled man;
He gripped the sheet, set the helm to lee,
And the boat was 'most like a bird to see,
As through surf and foam it ran.

It struck, they sank; but beyond the flood
All quiet was the sea:

A ridge lay hid, and there they stood
In water to the knee.

"The ground gives way !" the peer cried out,—

That have bowed my back and dimmed my eye, And ruined all my hope."

He raised the child in his powerful grip,
His arm round the lady coiled:
"Stand back, my lord! A single step
Will cost you wife and child!"
Then up the Briton leapt in scorn,

But was far too weak to fight;

His breath was hot and his eyes were worn, And his hair, as they saw by the light of the morn,

Turned grey that single night.

But Terry's brow has lost its frown,
Freely his breast expands;

He sets the child full gently down,
And tenderly kisses its hands.
He breathes as freed from a prison's pains,
His voice is calm and still:

"Terry Wigan his better self regains;
Till now the blood was dammed in my veins,
Revenge was in my will.

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THE SCOTCH CHARACTER.- Scottish people | by English eyes, is generally a man who has are usually credited with two qualities, neither | raised himself to wealth. Long exercise of of which, as it seems to me, they possess. self-denial has made it a second nature. He They are inordinately fond of money, and they are possessed of infinite caution. "A canny Scot" has come to be a proverbial expression. As to their alleged avarice, it is to be noted that Scotland, in comparison with England, is a poor country, and therefore, of necessity, its inhabitants will set a higher value on a definite sum of money. Then, within the present century Scotland has become much richer than formerly; possibilities of gain have been opened up undreamt of before. Into this the Scot has thrown himself with all his intense eagerness. He has been quick to see and grasp the enormous power of wealth, and in some cases the passion for accumulation has superseded all else—the devotion to money has become almost sublime in its intensity. But these are exceptional cases. Scotchmen, in accordance with their extreme character, often attain to a height of reckless expenditure to which there is, happily, nothing in English character to be compared. But the national history proves that, without a single hesitation, they have again and again sacrificed material welfare to political and religious ideas, and this to an extent to which English history presents no parallel. The wealthy Scot, as seen

cannot now throw away those habits without
which he could not have risen. A little con-
sideration, too, will show that the Scot is just
as little entitled to whatever praise may belong
to a cautious people. He is by nature exces-
sively passionate and impulsive; the current
of his thoughts is much more swayed by senti-
ment than reason. Of course, there are other
elements in Scottish character which go to
change this. They conceal it, but they do not
affect it. We do not call Vesuvius cold be-
cause its sides are covered with hard lava.
The caution of the Scot is exactly similar to
that of the man who has charge of a powder
magazine. If he is to save his life he must
adopt precautions such as are unknown to other
men. So the depth of Scotch feeling is hid
with a superficial reserve. There is what
'seems to the Englishman an absolutely unnec
essary reticence an adoption, as it were, of
measures to guard against events not likely to
happen; but the reason is, that a word or an
action which the more tolerant Englishman
would hardly notice will often be enough to
move to the greatest rage a smouldering fire,
and to lead to an outbreak absolutely dispro-
portioned to its cause. St. James's Magazine.

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IV. THE TREASURE of FranCHARD. Part II.,. Longman's Magazine,
V. THE PARCELS POST,
VI. MIRRORs and Mirror-FRAMES,

563

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Saturday Review,
Queen,.

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For EIGHT DOLLARS, remitted directly to the Publishers, the LIVING AGE will be punctually forwarded for a year, free of postage. Remittances should be made by bank draft or check, or by post-office money-order, if possible. If neither of these can be procured, the money should be sent in a registered letter. All postmasters are obliged to register letters when requested to do so. Drafts, checks and money-orders should be made payable to the order of LITTELL & Co.

Single Numbers of THE LIVING AGE, 18 cents.

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Full four hundred varying years,

Have passed with change of smiles and tears,
Since names of York and Lancaster,
Bade men's pulses leap and stir.

Calm beneath the northern skies,
All the plain of Towton lies,

Where the lark sings, blithe and clear,

In the morning of the year,
Where the merry beck is flowing;
And the joyous winds are blowing,
Echoes from the moor and hill;
Very peaceful, very still,
Lies the field of battle, spread
With clustering roses, white and red.

Yorkshire airs are hard and cold,
Keen the blasts from Yorkshire wold,
Nor biting frost, nor drifting snow,
Kill the roses' roots below;
Drive the plough, and sow the soil,
Spend all arts of strength and toil.
Sure as is the call of spring,
Wake the roses, glistening
Rosy red and purely white,
As they gleamed on Towton fight.
Bear the storied plants away-
Slow and sure will they decay;
There and there alone they blow,
By brave blood, shed long ago,
In some mysterious fashion fed,
Towton Roses, white and red!

All the Year Round.

THE DREAM.

IN the dream I dreamt to-night
Love came, armed with magic might;
Fret and fever, doubt and fear,
Foes that haunt his kingdom here,
Misconception, vain regretting,
Bootless longing, cold forgetting,
The dark shades of change and death,
Ever hovering on his path,
Vanished, from or sound or sight,
In the dream I dreamt to-night.

Time's strong hand fell helpless down;
Fate stood dazed without her frown;
Sly suspicion, cold surprise,
Faded 'neath the happy eyes;
And the voice I love was speaking,
And the smile I love was making
Sunshine in the golden weather,
Where we two stood close together;
For you reigned in royal right,
In the dream I dreamt to-night.

And I woke, and woke to see

A cold world, bare and blank to me,

A world whose stare and sneer scarce hidden, Told me that as fruit forbidden,

Love and trust must ever pine

In so sad a clasp as mine;

All too faint and fragile grown,

For gifts that youth holds all its own;
Ah, best to wake, forgetting quite,

The sweet dream I dreamt to-night.

All The Year Round.

IN SUMMER FIELDS.

YE flowers in your wonderful silence,
Ye birds with your wonderful sound,
The love of my God are declaring;
For ye are the language he found.

Ye smile to the eye of my spirit,

Ye sing to the ear of my soul; Ye waken soft echoes of anthems Which over God's Paradise roll.

Ye bloom as ye bloomed once in Eden,
Make holy and sacred the sod;
Ye sing as ye sang when in rapture
Man counted you angels of God.

By you- common things of the desert-
God's love has this mi acle wrought :
Ye fill me with exquisite gladness,
With worship which silences thought.
Sunday Magazine.
MARY HARRISON.

SISTER, awake! close not your eyes! The day its light discloses :

And the bright morning doth arise Out of her bed of roses.

See! the clear sun, the world's bright eye, In at our window peeping!

Lo, how he blusheth to espy

Ús idle wenches sleeping.

Therefore awake! make haste, I say,
And let us without staying,

All in our gowns of green so gay,
Into the park a-maying.

Bateson's Madrigals.

From The Edinburgh Review.

THE LIFE OF DON JOHN OF AUSTRIA.* THE publication of these volumes is a fitting tribute to the memory of a highly accomplished Scottish gentleman, and, in our opinion, it places the late Sir William Stirling Maxwell in the first rank of the historians and writers of this country. Such as it is, this memorial is the result of his own industry and genius. He brought to it the unremitting perseverance of five-and-twenty years. In accuracy and abundance of research, in purity of style, in brilliancy of descriptive power, and in a just, though somewhat sarcastic estimate of human character and actions, it seems to us to be inferior to no work which has issued from the press for many years; and we are convinced that it will confer upon its author no mean amount of posthumous fame. Our admiration of so finished a performance is only dashed by our deep regret that he who had already given the final touches to these pages did not survive to witness their reception by the world.

course towards the ancient walls of Stirling. It would be hard to name in broad Scotland a spot more dear to our history, our poetry, and our national life. Here, then, the young laird of Keir, the inheritor of an ample fortune, accumulated the treasures of literature and art which he esteemed above all his other possessions. In the cedarn chambers and galleries of his library, ornamented with innumerable mottoes and devices, in which he took a fanciful delight, Keir had collected a vast and curious assemblage of books, embracing a variety of subjects, but in one branch unrivalled in the literature and annals of Spain. From an early age Mr. Stirling had been struck, like his friend Richard Ford, by that passionate attraction to Spain which we have witnessed more than once in minds of no common order. He had visited the country, he had mastered the language. The romance, the heroism, the daring of the Spanish character; the stern dignity tempered by a biting wit; the subtle combinations of policy, and even the ruthless execution of those schemes by men who were for a moment all but the masters of the world, exercised an irresistible fascination

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The history of the book itself partakes in some degree of the mystery and romance that attach to the illustrious subject of this biography. William Stirling over him. He devoted his literary life, of Keir, the son of Archibald Stirling and | and it was a life of no common labor, to a Elizabeth, daughter of Sir John Maxwell, was born in 1818. He graduated at Trinity College, Cambridge, in 1839; sat in Parliament as member for Perthshire from 1852 to 1868; and succeeded to the baronetcy of Maxwell of Pollock in 1866.† The house of Keir, hard by the old cathe-light and a fresh interest on the closing dral of Dunblane and the banks of Allan Water, commands from a gentle eminence that fertile vale through which the streams of the Forth and the Teith roll on their

Don John of Austria; or, Passages from the History of the Sixteenth Century, 1547-1578. Illustrated with plates and numerous wood engravings. By the late Sir WILLIAM STIRLING MAXWELL, Baronet, K.T. Two volumes folio. London: 1883.

↑ Sir William Stirling Maxwell, K.T., was lord rector of Edinburgh University 1872-4; chancellor of Glasgow University 1874-8; he was a trustee of the British Museum. Though defeated at the election for the County of Perth in 1868, for which he had previously sat for sixteen years, he was re-elected in 1874, and retained the seat till his death. We are indebted for these dates to Mr. Joseph Foster's useful record of the Members of Parliament for Scotland, published in

1882.

complete mastery of the Spanish reigns of the sixteenth century. His first publi. cation, indeed, was the "Annals of the Artists of Spain,” published in 1848. This was followed, in 1852, by the "Cloister life of Charles V.," which threw a new

scenes of Yuste. In 1870, the magnifi cent volume entitled "The Chief Victories of Charles V.," with the designs of Martin Heemskerck, and a multitude of choice and curious illustrations, was presented to the members of the Philobiblon Society, and reviewed at the time in this journal. Two years later, the still rarer and more costly volume of the "Portraiture of the Sixteenth Century" was presented to some of Sir W. Stirling Maxwell's friends and to some public libraries; but of this work only fifty copies were printed. "The Procession of Pope Clement VII. and the Emperor Charles V.," from the designs of Hogenborg, with

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