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ample, I will quote the lines. In reading, mark how inevitably one incident follows another:

There was a little cottage girl,

Once forced from morn till night to whirl
The spinning-wheel, to earn the bread
With which her mother might be fed;
But though she had so much to do,
She learn'd to read, and spell and sew.
Soon as her poor old mother died,
Her wants were comfortably supplied
By a good clergyman-and she
Taught all his little family;
But soon a dreadful war began
And many people in the town

Were kill'd, and had their houses too
Burnt, then what could poor Catherine do?
To hide, she in an oven got,

But soon the soldiers found her out
And would have killed her very soon,
But as she screamed, her voice was known
By a young gallant officer,

Who took her home and married her;
But he was forced to go away
To battle, and was killed that day.
Poor Cath'rine then became a slave
To a rich man, who one day gave
An entertainment to the king,

this kind of composition. "Some of his pieces of verse," writes Macaulay's biographer, "are almost perfect specimens of the nursery lyric. From five to ten stanzas in length, and with each word carefully formed in capitalsmost comforting to the eyes of a student who is not very sure of his small letters -they are real children's poems, and they profess to be nothing more." I have not made any extensive search in other biographies for kindred verses-that is a labor for the anthologist-but as a foretaste of the quality of the material now waiting to be unearthed and collected together for the contentment of the nursery, I will quote the following lyric, the authorship of which I have tried in vain to trace:

There was a little girl, she wore a little hood,

And a curl down the middle of her forehead,

When she was good, she was very, very good,

But when she was bad, she was horrid.

Whom Cath'rine served, and a sad thing One day she went up-stairs, while her par

He thought it, she a slave should be,
With so much grace and modesty.
He heard with wonder and delight,
Poor Catherine her tale recite;
But more delighted was to find
She had a cultivated mind:

And very soon was changed the scene,
For Catherine became a queen.

The compiler of the Child's Anthology would, after examining, however thoroughly, all previous collections of poetry, have completed but a small portion of his task. For then would come the search for these playful verses which so many men, not professionally writers for children, have thrown off with the aim of pleasing little friends. Just as "The Giant's Shoes," written by Professor Clifford for the entertainment of his children, is one of the best non. sense stories in the language, so are some of these rhymes without parallel. Sir George Trevelyan tells us that Macaulay, posing as The Judicious Poet, a myth in which his young readers more than half believed, was much given to

ents unawares,

In the kitchen down below were oc

cupied with meals,

And she stood upon her head, on her little truckle-bed,

And she then began hurraying with her heels.

Her mother heard the noise, and thought it was the boys,

A-playing at a combat in the attic, But when she climbed the stair and saw Jemima there,

She took and she did whip her most emphatic!

Authorities differ as to the opening of the poem:

There was a little girl who had a little curl Right down the middle of her forehead. is a common and preferable reading; and more people than not believe that when the word "horrid" is reached the poem is over. Few know that Jemima was the rebel's name. Few but are astonished to learn of the versatility of her heels. That the above quotation of

the whole piece is correct may be accepted as gospel, for the sufficient reason that the Spectator says so. In such matters (as in records of feline vagaries) the Spectator is to be followed blindly. Technically, the poem is masterly. For force and vividness the phrase "occupied with meals" stands alone in poetry for children.

Perhaps, then, some one will compile for us these Anthologies. That for the child should, I think, come first, because he has been defrauded too long; because, for too long, he has been offered little but doggerel on the one hand, and fine, but to him incomprehensible, poetry on the other. Such a collection might be satisfying enough to discourage parents and guardians in the purchase of other and less worthy new children's books, and so, in turn, deter publishers from adding to the congested yearly output of this kind of literature. For there is no doubt that the children of to-day are too wantonly supplied with reading. Our grandmothers and grandfathers, whose nursery shelves held a poor dozen books, but who knew that dozen well and remembered them through life, were more fortunate than their descendants, who are bewildered by the quantity of matter prepare for them by glib writers, and who, after reading everything, find little or nothing worthy of recollection. The need for the Grown-up's Anthology is not so pressing. The Grown-ups can harvest it for themselves. Indeed, it probably is the duty of every lover of poetry to be his own Palgrave.

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E. V. LUCAS.

From Temple Bar. "CAPTAIN SCARLET'S" COAT.

AN ANECDOTE.

(With which is also given for the first time an account of the robbery of the Manchester Mail. From the most authentic sources.) Lord Stayneyard was one of the most distinguished ornaments of the Upper House. He not only boasted the finest

collection of cravats to be found in the kingdom, but he dealt faster than any man in White's. The gossips at St. James' hinted that, had a certain minister held office but six months longer, he would as like as not have had the Buckhounds offered him. No doubt he would have refused them, because, as Charles Fox once said of him, Lord Stayneyard would be the last mau alive who would wish to be of even nominal service to any government. However, at the time of which I write he was but two-and-thirty and was exceedingly popular: not what might call a coming man, for the truth was that he had always been there.

one

It was generally admitted that he had only done one wise thing in his life. He himself used to avow that this sin

gle sensible action counterbalanced a longish sequence of foolish ones. Un-· der the heading, "List of Marriages,” the deed is recorded in the pages of the Gentleman's Magazine of the year 1775. "June 2d, Viscount Stayneyard to Miss Seton," runs the brief announcement.

Miss Myrtilla Seton was the daughter of the chaplain and rector of Laughton, his lordship's place in South Derbyshire. Her mother had been a niece of Lord Darecourt; so, though she match was nowhere considered a més-. brought her husband no fortune, the alliance. All acknowledged her great beauty and charm of manner. In less which has long since disappeared, bethan two seasons Stayneyard House, came the most popular rendezvous in the fashionable world.

The parties at Laughton were somewhat less formal than the Mayfair entertainments; as was natural where a round of covert-shooting, cards, foxhunting, dancing and theatricals were the chief pleasures.

It was at the close of '84. Mr. Pitt was at Brighton preparing his Irish policy. Parliament would not meet before the end of the following January. At Laughton Park were assem-. bled a number of guests for the new year. On the eve of it there was to. be a dance, and on New Year's day a

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theatrical entertainment, varied with pounds of Colonel Bradley one windy
songs and music.
night three weeks back on the Ash-
bourne road. The recollection of his
encounter with the distinguished sol-
dier stirred him to immediate action.
In a very few minutes, when it would
be totally dark, he judged the Man-
chester Mail would come toiling up
that hill. "Captain Scarlet” would be
there to meet it.

The company included the Dowager Lady Letherby and the Misses Elizabeth and Dorothea Sutton-the Lexingtons-the bishop and his good lady-Lord Edenmore-Sir John and Lady Marchington-Tommy Hurdlestone

Miss Goodchild, a host of others, and Mr. George Hawley. But on the 29th and 30th the guests had been admittedly a little dull, for that universal favorite, George Hawley, had been absent on a brief visit to an old friend of his living on the borders of Leicestershire. He was to return to Laughton on the 31st in order to be present at Lady Stayneyard's dance.

sat

New Year's eve was that rare occur rence, a bye day, with Mr. Hugo Meynell's pack. George Hawley drinking port in Squire Sheldon's oak parlor. It was close on three o'clock in the afternoon when he rose to go. The squire naturally protested at losing the finest company in the world, and before they had touched on the Westminster Scrutiny, or even a second bottle had been cracked. But Hawley was firm. He had promised Lady Stayneyard very faithfully to return in time for her dance. There lay at least a twelve-mile ride before him, and there was, moreover, some likelihood of a fall of snow before night.

So he took his leave of the genial squire, and half an hour after sundown was within six miles of Laughton Park. He was riding quietly on the highroad, when suddenly a curious idea came across his mind. He felt a shade weary of the monotony of the fashionable life he had led at Laughton Park for near a week. The old, strange eagerness for adventure possessed him. Quick as thought his mind was made up.

Not a mile away, and approached by a desolate lane, were some disused farm buildings. In the thatching of the roof of one of these was hidden the famous scarlet coat, and his larger pistol was also there. He had not clapped eyes upon his notorious property since he had taken a clear hundred

With that unerring sense of localities, which had been no small factor in making the man so successful, he reached the lonely homestead. Here he dismounted and entered. Standing on one of the feeding troughs, he ran his hand between the thatching and a broad rafter. There, sure enough, he found the coat. It was of silk and unlined. Around the edge of the collar ran a narrow gold braid. Folded neatly it occupied a very small space. A little further along the rafter his hand struck the leather holster containing the horse pistol. This was wrapped round with hay, and was, be assured himself, perfectly uninjured from exposure to damp. He loaded it carefully, as also the smaller weapon he carried with him where danger might chance to come. Though snow had not yet fallen, the night was bitterly cold, and he decided not to wear the silk coat there and then in exchange for his riding coat, as was his usual custom, but to put it on at the last minute over the other, for the garment was made loose so as to admit of this arrangement. Then he strapped the holster to the saddle, Blouzelinda, his mare, waiting patiently all the while. He regretted greatly not having any false white stockings handy for the bay. These were little makebeliefs, bandages, in fact, which he had found very useful and misleading more than once of a dark evening: as when Mr. Sheriff Lounger had caused a handbill to be issued offering a reward to any person giving information as to the whereabouts of a suspiciouslooking stranger, riding a bay with three (if not four) white, stockings; whereas Blouzelinda had not a single white hair in her body. But he de

Icided with his usual complacency to been desperately slow. But he had

make the best of things. Play ran rather high at Laughton, nor had he been having the best of luck at the card table: so if fortune should smile on him, and send in his way a well-laden yet awestruck mail coach-why George Hawley would probably prove equal to the occasion.

'And he did. I am of opinion that if the authorities at his Majesty's prison of Newgate had ever had it in their power to publish a volume of the memoirs and adventures of the Honorable George Hawley, commonly known as "Captain Scarlet," the robbery of the Manchester Mail on New Year's eve, 1784, would rank as his most daring and successful exploit. The very audacity of the man took the passengers (but five in number and three of them inside) by surprise.

"Coin of the realm, gentlemen," he said "coin is all I ask. There is too much paste abroad, and too poor a market for it, for me to petition you, humyour bly, though persuasively, for jewels."

"And I beg you to be quick," he went on. "It blows (thank you) uncommon like snow. A paltry twenty guineas, not more, I'll warrant in this light purse. Why, sir! I vow I took you at A thousand first sight for Trade. apologies. Speed is everything. May '85 bring you luck, gentlemen, and this But I way again with fuller purses. detain you. Three of your horses are dying to be off, and the fourth is, I fear, already dead. Good-evening."

The off-wheeler lay in the roadway; the "Captain” had given the poor brute the right barrel the moment the coach The had come within pistol-range. others kicked and fidgeted, whilst the postboys and guara alternately trembled and swore. For all the dim light of the coach lamps, they had caught a glimpse of a man in a mask with a pistol, a resolute figure in red. twinkling they knew him for the notorious "Captain Scarlet," the talk and terror of every tavern on the road.

In

a

It had been the deuce of a long speech for him, for the passengers had

looted them of nearly two hundred and fifty pounds between them, and now lost no time in galloping down a side lane.

After a distance of nearly a mile he pulled up He could hear no sound of pursuit, and rightly judged that none had been made. So he slipped the coins and notes into a small bag he carried. This he placed in an inner pocket of his Then he took off the third waistcoat.

coat, folding it neatly into as small a space as possible, and placing it in one of the large outer pockets of his riding coat. The pistol and holster he put carefully into another pocket.

Snow had begun to fall, and for the life of him he could not call to mind any safe hiding-place for his tell-tale coat and pistol nearer to hand than their original one-which he knew must now It would be fully two miles distant.

be exceedingly rash of him to venture
to return there. If snow should con-
tinue to fall obvious traces of his
whereabouts might be left. So, after
much consideration, he decided on an
He would
exceedingly rash course.

take the coat and pistol with him to
On his immediate
Laughton Park.
servants and household
return the
would have to be avoided, but once
alone in his own bedroom he could
place them in a leather valise, in which
he kept locked certain papers, and to
which he had never given his servant

access.

Mr. George Hawley arrived at Laughton about seven o'clock in the evening. The household was in a state of great excitement, preparing for the ball, at which it was expected the duke and duchess and their party would be Hawley entered the house present. unobserved, passing from the stables On through the servants' quarter. the great staircase, as ill luck would have it, whom should he meet but little Horace Stayne. He was a curlyheaded child of seven, and with him Mr. Hawley was, as always with children, a vast favorite.

"Where have you been, Mr. Hawley?" the child questioned. "It has

been oh, ever so dull without you! No one tells me stories of highwaymen or London, and papa and the gentlemen would not let me go shooting with them to-day. Only two days," he went on, "and then it will be my birthday, and though Aunt Lauder will be sure to send me a stupid book, mamma is going to give me a real pony of my own. What have you got in there?" he asked suddenly, running his hand over the outside of the bulging pocket of Hawley's coat.

"Ah, Horace, my boy!" he answered, with fatal readiness, "that's a birthday present for you, but you shall not see it, Master Curious, until the day." At last he made his escape from his little friend, and, dismissing his valet on some pretext or other, carefully stowed the coat and both his pistols in the valise, which he locked.

Notwithstanding a heavy fall of snow. Lady Stayneyard's New Year's ball was a very brilliant affair, and the following morning, when the party reassembled, formed the 'subject of many pleasant recollections and much criticism. But the appearance of the duchess-whether Lady Dora Seton's diamonds were real or paste and the outrageous behavior of Miss Betty Sutton and young Droicey Flottott, who had taken the floor together somewhat oftener than was thought conventional, these, as topics of conversation, paled to insignificance when the news arrived of the latest daring feat on the highway of that scoundrel "Captain Scarlet."

The bishop made the matter the excuse for a learned and very eloquent discourse upon the iniquity of poverty. My lord laughed considerably, contradicted the bishop with great ingenuity, and vowed that he admired the fellow's dash and impudence. Miss Goodchild, a daughter of the most distinguished hanging judge on the circuit, had it from a friend that "Captain Scarlet" was the handsomest, polltest gentleman in the world, a statement which Mr. George Hawley, in his gravely courteous manner, begged leave to doubt.

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The whole treatment of the affair interested Hawley beyond measure. He smiled to himself at the gradual embellishment of the story. At noon, the daring villain had shot a wheeler and a postboy, and taken near four hundred pounds. By one o'clock, the booty was assessed at six hundred, and guineas, and a quantity of diamonds with the near leader thrown in. An hour later-and Mr. Hawley's own invention was responsible for the picturesque addition-the gallant of the road had refused to accept the shillings of a rosy-cheeked milkmaid, and had taken a kiss in exchange.

Horace, you may be sure, was not the least enthusiastic listener to these rumors. Those delightful hours spent with Mr. Hawley in the library had stimulated his interest in robberies on the highway, and he recounted the doings of the mysterious “Captain”—the great "Scarlet"-with vast admiration and enjoyment.

It wanted but a short time of the dinner hour. Lady Stayneyard and Hawley were alone in one of the withdrawing-rooms. She had been loud in her censure of crime on the road. It was

so cowardly, she held. This man they called "Scarlet," had he ever been really face to face with danger? She dared venture to maintain that at heart "Captain Scarlet" was a bully and a coward. Men talked randomly of his courage, but had he not always held the cards?

"Would not 'Captain Scarlet' face death bravely?" he asked.

"It is only the good who dare die," she answered.

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