keel, and, with passionate rage in her heart, | cannot write; things which would be treason, to find her way back. not to her lord only, but to her womanhood, and to the King of kings. Her son, the young and fiery Edward, never forgets this insult to his mother; by-and-by he will seek revenge for it on Lewes field; and by mad pursuit of his revenge he will lose the great fight and imperil his father's crown. Again:-it is London in the reign of bluff King Hal-the husband of two fair wives. The river is alive with boats; the air is white with smoke; the sun overhead is burning with golden May. Thousands on thousands of spectators dot the banks; for to-day a bride is coming home to the king, the beauty of whose face sets old men's fancies and young men's eyes agog. On the wharf, near the Queen's Stair, stands a burly figure, tall beyond common men; broad in chest and strong in limb; dressed in a doublet of gold and crimson, a cap and plume, shoes with rosettes and diamonds, a hanger by his side, a George upon his breast. It is the king, surrounded by dukes and earls, awaiting the arrival of a barge, in the midst of blaring trumpets and exploding sakers. A procession sweeps along; stealing up from Greenwich, with plashing oars and merry strains, fifty great boats, with a host of wherries on their flanks; a vessel firing guns in front, and a long arrear of craft behind. From the first barge lands the lord-mayor; from the second trips the bride; from the rest stream out the picturesque city companies. Cannons roar, and bells fling out a welome to the queen; for this is not simply a great day in the story of one lovely woman; but a great day in the story of English life. Now is the morning time of a new era; for on this bright May "The gospel light first shines from Boleyn's eyes," and men go mad with hope of things which are yet to come. The king catches that fair young bride in his arms, kisses her soft cheek, and bears her in through the Bye-ward Tower. The picture fades from view, and presently reappears. Is it the same? The queen-the stair-the barge-the crowd of men-all these are here. Yet the picture is not the same. No burly Henry stands by the stair; no guns disturb the sky; no blast of trumpets greets the royal barge; no train of aldermen and masters waits upon the queen. The lovely face looks older by a dozen years; yet scarcely three have passed since that fair form was clasped in the king's arms, kissed, and carried by the bridge. This time she is a prisoner, charged with having done such things as pen When she alights on the Queen's Stair, she turns to Sir William Kingston, Constable of the Tower, and asks, "Must I go into a dungeon?" "No, madam," says the constable; you will lie in the same room which you occupied before." She falls on her knees. "It is too good for me," she cries; and then weeps for a long time, lying on the cold stones, with all the people standing by in tears. She begs to have the sacrament in her own room, that she may pray with a pure heart; saying, she is free from sin, and that she is, and has always been, the king's true wedded wife. "Shall I die without justice?" she inquires. "Madam," says Kingston, "the poorest subject would have justice." The lady only laughs a feeble laugh. Other, and not less tragic, scenes drew crowds to the Water Way from the Thames. Beneath this arch has moved a long procession of our proudest peers, our fairest women, our bravest soldiers, our wittiest poets-Buckingham and Strafford; Lady Jane Grey, the Princess Elizabeth; William Wallace, David Bruce; Surrey, Raleigh-names in which the splendour, poetry, and sentiment of our national story are embalmed. Most of them left it high in rank and rich in life, to return, by the same dark passage, in a few brief hours poorer than the beggars who stood shivering on the bank; in the eyes of the law, and in the words of their fellows, already dead. From this gateway went the barge of that Duke of Buckingham, the rival of Wolsey, the last permanent High-constable of England. Buckingham had not dreamed that an offence so slight as his could bring into the dust so proud a head; for his offence was nothing; some silly words which he had bandied lightly in the Rose, a city tavern, about the young king's journey into France. He could not see that his head was struck because it moved so high; nay, his proud boast that if his enemies sent him to the Tower, ten thousand friends would storm the walls to set him free, was perhaps the occasion of his fall. When sentence of death was given, he marched back to his barge, where Sir Thomas Lovel, then constable, stood ready to hand him to the seat of honour. "Nay," said the duke to Lovel, "not so now. When I came to Westminster I was Lord High-constable and Duke of Buckingham; now I am but poor Edward Stafford." Landed at the Temple Stair, he was marched along Fleet Street, through St. Paul's Church "I REMEMBER." yard, and by way of Cheap to the Tower; the axe borne before him all the way; Sir William Sandys holding him by the right arm, Sir Nicholas Vaux by the left. A band of Augustine friars stood praying round the block; and when his head had fallen into the dust they bore his remains to St. Austin's Church. On these steps, too, beneath this Water Gate, Elizabeth, then a fair young girl, with gentle feminine face and golden hair, was landed by her jealous sister's servants. The day was Sunday-Palm Sunday-with a cold March rain coming down, and splashing the stones with mud. She could not land without soiling her feet and clothes, and for a moment she refused to leave her barge. Sir John Gage, the constable, and his guards, stood by to receive her. "Are all these harnessed men for me?" she asked. "No, madam," said Sir John. "Yea," she replied, "I know it is so." Then she stood up in her boat and leaped on shore. As she set foot on the stone steps, she exclaimed, in a spirit prouder than her looks -for in her youth she had none of that leonine beauty of her later years-"Here landeth as true a subject, being a prisoner, as ever landed at these stairs; and before thee, O God, I speak it." Perhaps she was thinking of her mother, who had landed on the neighbouring wharf. Anne had fallen on her knees on these cold stones, and here had called on God to help her, as she was not guilty of the things of which she stood accused. In those two attitudes of appeal one reads the nature of these two proud and gentle women, each calling Heaven to witness her innocence of crimeElizabeth defiant, erect; Anne suppliant, on her knees. THE WEAVER AND HIS SHADOW. BY WALTER THORNBURY. Beside a dying woman, A pale man plied the loom, The buzz of the wheel and treddle Filled all the squalid room. It drowned the groans of the children, That loom, with its robe of state; Its threads of pink and silver Deep, in the thickening twilight, A grizzly thing of nothing but bones, His woof is black as a dead man's pall, 133 His thin hands move with a madman's speed, Of his wife, who's all but dead. A thousand swift feet dancing, Jewels, and silk, and flowers, Bright smiles of love and greeting, None there to count the hours; And, in the midst, the duchess Moves like a sceptred queen, With never a thought of coffin or shroud, Or the strips of the turf so green, Whirr-deedle-deedle-deedle, Or the strips of the turf so green. "I REMEMBER." I remember, I remember I remember, I remember I remember, I remember Where I was used to swing, And thought the air would rush as fresh To swallows on the wing; -My spirit flew on feathers then, That is so heavy now; And summer pool could hardly cool I remember, I remember I used to think their slender spires To know, I'm farther off from heaven, THOMAS HOOD. Yes, I saw You are a writer, an author. your last book at the railway-station, and bought it. Ah, I knew you would like me all the more for that. Why don't you reply that you had read my lucid and learned judgment in that remarkable forgery case? Never mind, sir; I am past that sort of thing. I suppose you are on the look-out for some bits of fresh character and wayside incidents of travel? No; you are only here for change and rest? You have been up to the cathedral, stood once more on the doorstep of Le Sage's house, and refreshed your old memories of the place? Ah, oui! UNCLE HARTLEBURY'S ROMANCE. A CHRISTMAS STORY TOLD BY THE SEA. [Joseph Hatton, born at Andover, 3d February, 1837. At Novelist, journalist, and miscellaneous writer. an early age he commenced his career as a journalist, and when only twenty-one was appointed editor of the Bristol Mirror. He subsequently conducted the Durham County Advertiser, and was for several years editor and proprietor of Berrow's Worcester Journal. Meanwhile he was a frequent contributor to the principal magazines. In 1868 he became editor of the Gentleman's Magazine, which under his direction rose from a small circulation to one of importance and profit. He started the Illustrated Midland News, and is editor of the (Lon-well enough. I can only tell you this, my don) School Board Chronicle. His chief novels are: Bitter Sweets: The Tallants of Barton: Life and Adventures of tracted); and With a Show in the North. He is also the Hatton does not describe; he does not relate; he impersonates. We see Summerdale-in-the-Water,' its peaceful valley, its mossy fountains, its quiet, simple people; we hear its three bells, now jubilant, now mournful, now chiming gentle, tender music to the soul."] Yes, sir, we have met before; and I am delighted to see you again. No, you have made no mistake. I am the Recorder of Miningtown, and the portly lady whom you see yonder in the midst of that assembly of romping children, about to bathe after the fashion of this Boulogne, are my wife and family. Yes, sir, that is Mrs. Hartlebury. Speak louder, mon ami, I am slightly deaf. Yes, I do bathe; but the exertion of dressing and undressing in this hot weather is too much for one who, like Falstaff, grows fat and hath gray hairs. Have a cigar? That's right. I know nothing more agreeable than to sit here and watch the sea come rolling in upon those bathers yonder, and especially when you can observe the gambols of your own children, and at the same time let your mind wander out to that wide reach of sea, with sails in the distance. Old memories! You would hardly credit me, I suppose, with being afflicted by some strange old memories of personal adventure in this place, or any other, for that matter. You would not take an old gentleman with gray hairs, sitting on the beach at Boulogne whilst his wife and family are bathing, as a fitting There are subject for the hero of a romance. peculiar anomalies in life, you say? That is evasion, sir. I know what you are thinking friend, that the story of my first appearance here twenty years ago is far more romantic than half the tales told in your magazines, and thought worthy of wonderful illustrations. I am too old to be vain, and I know something of the lights and shadows of life, something of its untold romances, something of its terrible tragedies. Ah, my friend, twenty years ago I was as slim and dapper and lady-killing as yourself. killer? Don't tell me, sir; all young fellows You do not aspire to the character of a lady. like to make a favourable impression on the other sex. Why are you so carefully shaved to-day? Why is that bit of showy neckerchief so daintily tied? Why those well-fitting gray trowsers, and that smart little cane? Simply because you are accustomed to dress well, and aspire to be regarded as a gentleman. Very good; and you are anxious to bid at the same time for those feminine glances which are so flattering to youth. There, don't think I imagine you are a fop; and for Heaven's sake don't be annoyed. My criticism is only the result of my own feelings, my own ambition, when I was a young fellow like you. Tell you my story? Yes, if you think it may interest you. It may do for a Christmas paper? Ah, ah! on the look-out for copy, eh?-gathering honey all the day from every opening flower. Well, I feel something of the Ancient Mariner's sensations this morning; it will be a relief to tell the story of that extraordinary creature UNCLE HARTLEBURY'S ROMANCE. whose face has haunted me ever since I came here two days ago. You will readily consent to play the wedding-guest to my mariner? Very well, sir; light another cigar and listen: if I bore you stop me, and we will in to the Établissement and read the papers. It is all bound up in this bit of faded ribbon, my story: this little scrap, you see, which is set in that petit rim of gold appended to my watch-seals. I have never worn the trifle since my marriage until this week. My wife has some pardonable womanly notion that I ought not to wear it, and I have humoured her; for, though I say it, she is one of the best women in the world. Above all others, you think, it is I who should say so? You say well, you say well, my young friend. When we were leaving London last week, it seemed to me that I could not come even here without this little souvenir of that romance twenty years ago. Twenty years ago! How the time flies! 135 and not ill-looking-no, sir, not ill-looking. You can readily understand that? Even though I might play the fat knight with as little padding as Mark Lemon! It is true, sir, quite true. I can see myself now, airing my swell clothes and London manners on the beach here; but there is a sad face rises up beside me, and a figure floating out with the tide yonder which sobers the picture, and makes a shadow upon that sunny water. a notion that rather You think there is Neither do I, sir, or Bathing en famille was tickled me in those days. nothing improper in it? Mrs. Hartlebury and her daughters would not be enjoying themselves as you see them yonder. The "girl of the period" at ball and opera is much more undressed than the ladies in their pretty bathing costumes? I quite agree with you; but my very proper English notions were a little excited at the prospect of a company of lovely mermaidens in a sea-bath. I little thought when I went into the water that I was This is the story. I was engaged to Mrs. destined to come out with a pretty girl in my Hartlebury; she was a Miss Longford. We arms. Ah, now I see you are interested. had been in the habit of seeing each other What a subject for a modern magazine picture! from the earliest days of our childhood. I That is what you are thinking, I know. Don't ought to have appreciated her kindly loving keep you in suspense? Is that what you said? disposition all the more on this account; but II told you I was slightly deaf. Did I come did not. It had always been understood that out of the water with a young lady in my arms we should be married, and in due course this really? family understanding bore fruit. We were engaged, Julia Longford and I, but on this understanding, that if either one or the other saw any other person whom he or she, the said contracting parties, preferred to the before-mentioned parties to this agreement, then either he or she, the said Thomas Hartlebury and Julia Longford, might terminate the previously recited engagement at one day's notice given by post or orally in the presence of witnesses. Yes, I am getting a little involved, I fear, in this semi-legal phraseology? But you understand the character of that agreement? Yes, and you think it a very convenient engagement? And I thought so too, sir, in a very short time after it was made. That very summer twenty years ago, with the consent and indeed by the advice of my dear old father, I started on a continental tour, which was to be inaugurated by a visit to Paris vid Boulogne, and which terminated somewhat suddenly in the French capital. I was quite as much a buck in those days as you are now, not quite so slim as Falstaff boasted himself to be. I was something more than an eagle's talon in the waist, and I could not creep through an alderman's thumb-ring, for I was a strong, well-built young fellow, Yes, it was in this way. I was swimming about, and watching the movements of a most graceful person, floating half-sideways, half on her back, with her arms extended, and her head resting on the water; she was drifting out in the sunshine, the water quite placid but swelling like her own bosom beneath a thin blue robe; she was drifting, I say, in the sunshine, like a blessed martyr going out to some better land. I see her now, poor pretty tender-hearted thing, with the sea rocking her in its great arms, and yet trying all the while to steal away her life. I watched her at a respectful distance and swam quietly after her; for somehow it occurred to me that she was not quite conscious of the power of that insidious but certain current, which I could feel setting in towards the pier. I had judged aright; by-and-by she turned over, evidently with the intention of swimming home, but she could not accomplish her purpose. She struggled on for a little time, and then to all appearance lost her presence of mind, or was attacked with cramp. She disappeared at all events, and I rapidly quickened my pace towards her, putting my head well to the water and dashing on with that sharp side-stroke, which is so effective in the matter of speed. She "You could not love me," I said, sitting down and covering my face with my hands. "There was a time, monsieur, when what you have just said would have awakened a passion of pleasure and gratitude in my heart; but oh, sir, that time is past; adieu, mon très cher ami; you will always live in my dearest memory.' rose for the second time as I reached the spot. | sadly. She left me, and this only made me more fiercely in love with her. I did not seem to be master of my actions, and I was selfish enough to think that I had a special claim upon her. I rescued her from death, and that ought to make her mine. If she would have had me, I would have married her, sir, right off, and should have felt myself blessed. How long would that sentiment have lasted? Heaven knows. I followed her, found out her hotel, returned her call, and made her promise to see me in Paris. My next action was to discover by what train she travelled, and on the following day I was on the platform, and constituted myself the lady's compagnon de voyage. At first she seemed a little disconcerted at this, but as we journeyed onwards she brightened up, and became chatty and sparkling and lively. Every now and then all this was darkened, like a summer landscape with passing thunder-clouds. Once when the other stupid passengers were asleep I pressed her hand. She returned me a gentle pressure, and with the tears in her eyes she whispered in heartfelt accents that almost brought the tears to mine, "Oh, my dear, dear friend!" It seemed like a cry of despair from a breaking heart, and I felt as if a terrible grief was seizing upon me. If Mrs. Hartlebury and those girls would do the same it would be just as well. They have been in the water too long already. You don't think so? Mrs. Hartlebury is the best judge of that? I had better proceed with my story; you are getting interested? You want to know what the young lady was like? Like, sir, like no young lady in Boulogne at the present day, or anywhere else that I have seen, for beauty. She was like a poet's dream, sir, or an artist's fancy. Was she a blonde? Not exactly, no; she had brown wavy hair, and such eyes, such a figure! Arms as round and fair as the arms of those women by Rubens in the Louvre a neck and shoulders in which all the lines of beauty were described. I saw her on that next day after her narrow escape; she found me out, and came to the Hôtel des Bains to thank me. "I must excuse her," she said, "for calling unattended, she had no friends in Boulogne.' "One at least," I said, You really would not have given me credit taking her hand, and faltering in my speech. for so much romance? Of course not, it seems She looked up inquiringly at me for a moment ridiculous to you now, looking at the portly with her big dark eyes, and I felt myself recorder and his romping responsibilities yongradually becoming powerless in her presence, der. Ah, I am glad the girls are coming out anxious to say all sorts of gracious things, but of the water. It does not matter so much unable to do so. 66 'Good-bye, and believe me about Frank, and Tom, and Harry, they are I shall never forget your brave action." She strong fellows, and will have café noir and spoke with a pretty musical French accent. cigars afterwards to keep up the circulation. May I not see you again?" I asked, and You object to these interruptions? then bolder grown I answered my own question: changes from romance to reality, eh?—from "I must, indeed I must. "I am going to the sublime to the ridiculous. On our arrival Paris in the morning. I have been to London, at the Northern Station at Paris, Louise and and am on my way to Paris. I fear I must I you know, her name was Louise, I think I say good-bye now, monsieur." "Oh no," I said before; on our arrival, a placid, mysterious, said, feeling as if I were about to lose every-light-moustached old German came up to us. thing dear to me in the world. "I love you, He kissed the young lady on the cheek, and mademoiselle; I love you; I will make you my then looked scowlingly at me. Louise began wife." "Oh, monsieur, that can never be," therefore to talk German to him with many she replied. "Why not?" I exclaimed, be- gesticulations, explaining the small service I coming desperate. "Do not ask," she said, had rendered her. He smiled, I thought, a 66 " These |