waited for Idalie to rise and kneel before the altar, that the ceremony might continue. They waited, but there was no movement. She lay even as she had fallen. A cry of terror burst from the aged priest, and at the same instant, heedless of the personal danger inseparable from discovery, bareheaded and unshrowded, heedless of all save one agonizing fear, Gabriel de Lorges rushed forwards, and knelt beside her. "Idalie! loveliest! dearest! speak to me, answer me, say that I have not murdered thee! Answer me, in mercy, but one word!" He spoke in vain. Louis de Montemar, priests, and many others crowded round him. They sought to withdraw her from Montgomeri's convulsive hold, to wake her from the seeming trance. But all was useless: she had passed to Heaven in that music swell. The broken heart was at rest.* LINES, (On the question being asked, "When would you Oh! I would die when the beautiful Spring And I would die when the Summer bright Paints the sky with effulgent beams of glory, And I would die when the Autumn wind And 'mid emblems of death to a thoughtful mind But I would die when the Winter drear Hung with its frosty apparel each spray, While the bell is tolling the knell of the year, Oh, then I would pass from the earth away. And I would die at the break of the day, When sunbeams are chasing the mists of night, When castle and cottage are lit by the ray, And nature doth laugh in the rich sunlight. But I would die when the sun had set, Bathing the mountains with amber hue, Ere the night had put on its wreath of jet, And the spirit of darkness the earth would strew. And I would die in the calm sabbath hour, When village bells ring out their chime, TO AUGUSTA. "Nessum maggior dolore, Che ricordarsi del tempo felice, Nella miseria."-La Divina Commedia. Thou need'st not thus have mock'd me When I thought to make thee mine: Could'st thou but know how beats my heart I know thou hast forgiven me, A tranquil smile upon that cheek, We never to each other Can be what we have been I wander forth alone, Then do not mock me, dear one, ELAM. TO A FAIR FRIEND WITH SOME VIOLETS. Borne from its wild, its grass and moss-grown bank, The after fate of the unfortunate but guiltless If not, forsake, and let them blighted be! regicide belongs to history. MARY. THE BRIDAL FEAST OF LORD RONALD. | It was not in joke Lord Ronald spoke, All shrunk with fear from the goblet's cheer, "None here need start but the guilty heart," "What vassal bold, with his beads untold, For ruthless in heart was he; But th' unearthly shout of a voice without Caused other thoughts to flee. INTEGRITY. (A Story of the Reign of Queen Elizabeth.) BY CAMILLA TOULMIN. PART I. It was on one of the first warm days in the spring of 1571, that the Queen, as was often her wont, proceeded with no small degree of regal state from London to Greenwich. In the days of Elizabeth the Thames was a far more frequented "highway," between the metropolis and such of the suburbs as were washed by the "time-honoured river," than we, who are accustomed to safe streets and level roads can very easily imagine; unless, indeed, the imagination is aided by the present reality of steam-boat agency, which revives, while it contrasts, one of the river's most primitive and natural uses. Still it is pleasant and profitable, sometimes, to conjure to view, by the mind's magic, the scenes of bygone years. How strong are the contrasts between the past and present afforded in such day-dreams! thoughts that come up like wave upon wave on the sea-shore, till the mind, in seeking for the chain of cause and effect, is lost in a maze of speculation, which, though bewildering, has yet its fascination. The English, however, in the days of Queen Bess, were as much sight-seekers as they are at the present time, and thronged as eagerly as they would today, to behold the pageantry of royalty. Consequently, not only was the stream dotted with boats, but its banks, and the one bridge, which then alone connected the opposite shores, were crowded with persons of all classes and of all ages; and as the royal barge-as if conscious of its noble freight-swept majestically beneath the widest of the many arches, a loud and hearty cheer burst from the populace. Among the loiterers, however, was one young man whose voice was silent; neither was it certain that the companion on whose arm he leaned, although in the immediate service of the Queen, joined in the loyal demonstration. Had there appeared to Sir Ralph Morton any chance that her Majesty would have distinguished his person, as he stood in a dense crowd nearly at the top of the steps which led from the side of the bridge to the river, lustily would he have shouted, and high in the air would his cap have been thrown: but the young knight was one who never did anything without a motive; so that, not having one particle of enthusiasm by which to be carried away, it would have been a sheer waste of thought and exertion to assume it, without any probable return for the exhibition. In person Sir Ralph was about the middle height, of a muscular and thick-set frame; and as his cap was in his hand (though not thrown up), his forehead might have been observed to be wide, but low, and the head rather suddenly flattened than the brow receding. The expression of his dark eyes, though intelligent, was cold and unchanging; and the narrow nostrils and thin lips seemed to complete the imperturbable character of his face. His acquaintance-for they could not justly be called friends-was a few years his junior, though both seemed under thirty. Walter Wrangham formed a striking contrast to his associate, being a head taller than Sir Ralph, and of a slighter, though more symmetrical figure. His full grey eyes, which varied their shade according to the passing emotion, conveyed an impression of earnestness and truth which was involuntarily acknowledged; and his mouth, which was neither very small, nor what is called finely-chiselled, was of the kind to which physiognomists are apt to attribute the mingling of benevolence and firmness. Add to this a lofty brow, shaded by soft chesnut hair, and the reader will have some idea of his person; and as we wish him to make further acquaintance with Walter Wrangham, we will tell him at once that our hero was an English gentleman of independent fortune, connected by birth, on his mother's side, with several noble Scottish families. Had he not been affluent, had he not refused an introduction at court, he might have been called a protegé of the Duke of Norfolk; as it was, he might with more propriety be considered his friend, notwithstanding the difference in their years. It was at the house of that nobleman he had met Sir Ralph Morton, and an acquaintance had ensued, though chiefly of the latter's seeking. On the morning in question, they had met in a jeweller's shop on London Bridge, and had sauntered thence to the stairs, intending to take a boat to Westminster. Amused by the gay scene they witnessed, and having entered into conversation on some passing topic of the day, they lingered longer than they intended, without calling a boat; in fact, the crowd drawn thither by the royal barge had dispersed, and they had no companions on the stairs save two youths, who, like themselves, appeared waiting for a disengaged waterman. From their appearance it was difficult to determine to what class they belonged: they might be apprentices, out on a day's holiday, and bearing no outward sign of their calling; or the sons of small tradesmen, or perhaps even ser vants out of place. Sir Ralph having failed to catch the eye of a waterman whom he recognized at a little distance, ran down the stairs, and knowing the man was deaf, scrambled over two or three boats which were moored near the bridge, till he touched old Tom's shoulder. This, with the exertions of the old man to bring his boat round for the accommodation of his patrons, occupied a few minutes, during which time an incident occurred which influenced the future fortunes of all concerned in it. A few moments after Sir Ralph had left his side, Walter Wrangham observed on the ground a small, soiled, common-looking leathern purse. By that quick, involuntary reasoning, which passes through the mind so much more rapidly than words can describe it, young Wrangham felt sure that it could not belong to his companion; first, because it was of too homely and plebeian a fabric for there to be any probability that its owner was a fine court gallant; and secondly, he remembered, that in the jeweller's shop Sir Ralph, after searching for his purse, declared he must have left it at home. While almost in the act of raising it from the ground, the two youths we have mentioned turned round; and, addressing himself to the one who was a little in advance, Walter inquired if the purse were his property. "No, sir, it is not mine," exclaimed the young man, quickly and decidedly; while the other one, coming forward with a bland air, and doffing his cap, respectfully said "Thank you, sir, the purse is mine; I must have dropped it a few minutes ago." But just as this brief dialogue took place, and while Walter was in the act of dropping the purse into the youth's hand, Sir Ralph returned in time to witness enough of the transaction to understand pretty clearly how matters stood. "It is fortunate you have found the owner," he exclaimed; then turning to the youth he continued "Was there much in it? would it have been a heavy loss?" The youth coloured; but very opposite causes may flush the cheek; and he answered without hesitation-" I don't know, exactly, sir. Grandmother gave it me yesterday, on my promise that I would not spend the money till after Easter; and I would not trust myself to look at the pretty pieces, for fear I should be tempted to make away with them." 66 By Jupiter!" cried the knight, who dealt in a heathen oath or two, and bursting into a fit of laughter as he spoke, "I meant to cudgel you soundly for your impudence; but really I quite admire your coolness and presence of mind: I can't find in my heart to chastise you, though, sirrah, the purse is mine!" The culprit was for a moment crest-fallen; but there is a sort of free-masonry between the unprincipled as much as among the highhearted and honourable; and, young as he was, Christopher Poole was sufficiently initiated to understand the character with which he had to deal. Accordingly, he did not act remorse, or plead poverty, as probably to Walter alone he would have done; but seeming to consider the affair as a capital joke, he carried it off with an air of flippant nonchalance. Wrangham looked grave, and apologised to the knight for not having inquired if it were his, before seeking an owner. Say nothing about it," rejoined Sir Ralph; "I have enjoyed it as much as I should a scene at the Globe, and but that the leathern coat is lined with more gold pieces than I could conveniently spare, the fellow should have it as a reward for his coolness. No wonder, from the fabric, you should think it could not be mine. The truth is," he continued in a whisper, "it was the gift-a sort of keepsake-of a pretty little waiting woman. Poor thing! I believe she doats upon me; and as I expect to see her to-day, I thought it would be an easy way of gratifying her, to show, as if by accident, that I used her gift: women, you know, are so very foolish in such matters-poor Lucy!" Walter Wrangham made no reply to this speech: he loved truth too dearly to utter one syllable of seeming acquiescence in any of the sentiments just delivered; but though his own quick, honest feelings prompted the expression of his real opinion, he remembered that Sir some few years older than himself, and in forRalph was but a new acquaintance-that he was tune and station something his superior, which accidents, weighed together, might excuse him from playing the mentor. But he had additional reasons for his silence. Circumstances of vital importance induced him, just at that time, to shun anything like notoriety, and taught him more than ever to avoid making an enemy: either event might have arisen from a warm discussion with Sir Ralph Morton. While these thoughts, however, were passing through Walter Wrangham's mind, his ear was struck by the voice of the young man, whom he had first addressed. 66 Good-bye, Kit," he exclaimed, in a grave, and even a sorrowful tone; "I shall walk to Chelsea, as I first intended doing." "Why, what's in the wind, now, Charley?" cried the other, with a loud laugh. "You must go, tired as you are; and though your pockets are empty, I can afford to pay; and I said I would treat you." "I would rather not be treated by you," returned the first speaker, who was moving away; but while ascending the stairs, he was accosted by Walter Wrangham: "If you like to take a seat in our wherry as far as Westminster, you are welcome to do so." Charley Rushwood gratefully accepted the offer, proposing to relieve old Tom by taking an oar. Thus the party proceeded; but before they landed, Walter Wrangham felt sufficiently interested in the youth to inquire of him his name, occupation, and place of abode. He found that Charley was the youngest and only remaining child of a widow: his father had been a respectable tradesman, whose sudden death had plunged them, while he was a mere child, into extreme poverty; that, by her industry, she had contrived to bring him up respectably, and had imparted to him the education she had been so fortunate as to receive, which consisted solely in the capacity of reading. It was, however, evident, that Charley had improved on this; for when Wrangham asked the place of his abode, he wrote it, instead of delivering it verbally. It would be difficult to analyze his reasons for doing so. Could it be that he was reluctant Sir Ralph Morton should also be apprised of it? Was it shame and regret that his own honest exertions had failed, now that his mother was on a bed of sickness, in procuring for her the comforts with which his heart yearned to surround her? Or, did he think it a good opportunity of giving a specimen of his writing-in those days a rare accomplishment-to one who had promised, if possible, to find employment for him? Perhaps each motive had some weight in producing a result which, from its consequences, was important. When they parted, Walter Wrangham, unseen by his companion, put a piece of money in the youth's hand; and Charley hastened to his humble home, with a grateful heart, and spirits lightened by the dawning hope that he, the poor and friendless boy, had found a patron. which, if there ever be the shadow of an excuse, it must be found in the crushing and withering influence of extreme penury. But, alas! such conduct is but a chain which drags the unfortunate deeper into the mire, while, sooner or later, truth and honesty are the wings which raise him to a brighter and happier state of existence. Did you hear anything of Rushwood's companion, the young rogue who claimed the purse ?" "But little; for it is evident they are but chance acquaintances. The widow has never seen him, and when I related the circumstance, she burst into tears with an exclamation of regret at her son's connection with such a character, and of astonishment that you had not considered Charley, from being his associate, as most probably equally unprincipled." "I had had proof that was not the case, or, according to the old saw, which in the long run is a very wise one, I dare say I should have judged that birds of a feather flocked together.' And yet," continued Walter, after a moment's pause, "I should have been sorry to have been taken for the boon companion of Sir Ralph Morton because I chanced to be walking arm-inarm with him. It is an easier thing to make acquaintances, than to drop them without creating an ill feeling of one kind or another. This is a lesson by which I shall strive to pro fit." They spoke however but little more of the Rushwoods, for there were many topics of con It was the evening following the day on which our story opens, that two young persons were standing in a balcony which overlooked the pleasant gardens of a stately mansion. It was the residence of the Duke of Norfolk, and the fair girl, whose waist was half-versation between them of nearer and dearer encircled by the arm of Walter Wrangham, was a Howard, a distant kinswoman of the Duke, and being an orphan, his ward. They had been recently affianced to each other, with her guardian's perfect sanction. Nineteen or twenty summers had ripened the beauty of Agnes Howard to rare perfection. Her complexion was pure as alabaster, but tinged with the warmth of life and health: now, however, her cheek was more than usually flushed, either from emotion, or that it caught some of the faint, but crimson rays of the setting sun. She was scarcely above the middle size, but her figure was exquisitely symmetrical; so that the Elizabethan costume, with its chevaux-de-frise ruff, was anything but unbecoming. Though the attitude was lover-like, and every glance they exchanged full of affection, it was not exactly of themselves the lovers were speaking. "And so, dear Agnes," said Walter, "you have already visited this Mistress Rushwood; I confess I am greatly prepossessed in favour of the son, and I cannot but believe that, however humble their station, there must be something superior about them." "Their poverty is extreme, and evident; and yet there is something which compels me to mingle a feeling of true respect with pity." "If they be what I suspect," returned Walter, it consists in the superiority of honesty and integrity over low trickery and cunning, for interest. Agnes Howard was well aware that her lover was a warm partisan of the unfortunate Mary of Scotland; but it was on that memorable evening that he indeed made her the sharer of his heart's inmost secrets, by confiding to her the fact that he was entrusted by the Queen of Scots with a mission to the court of France. Mary, was at that time in the very bloom of life; her beauty, which was thought sufficiently of historians, and has been a favourite theme of remarkable to be noted in the grave chronicles song and romance for nearly three centuries, was then undimmed by suffering, although the long series of cruel oppressions was indeed be gun. Her youth, her beauty, her misfortunes, and the fascination of manner which was never disputed, combined to blind her friends and followers to the real faults for which she paid so dearly, that there is little danger in recognizing Mary Stuart as a heroine of romance. Unfor of the vicious Catherine de Medicis, where a tunate in her education at the profligate court bigoted and narrow superstition usurped the place of religion, where the only political code when not loosened altogether, were attenuated was expediency, and where the ties of morality, to the last degree, there is little wonder that Mary was unequal to guide the helm in one of the most stormy periods of her country's his tory, when it needed, even more than the masculine intellect, the controlling spell of perfect integrity. Hers was the female character with all its malleability; and education had dis |