But Heaven forgetteth not. Soul, look above for what earth cannot give. What matter earth-forgot, If Heaven-remembered? In that hope we live. A. D. THE OLD HOUSE OF WYCHCOMBE. IN one of our fair southern English counties, somewhere between the days of Robin Hood and Dick Turpin, when acorns had ceased to be the national dish, and the Normans had introduced beef and mutton, and had given their sanction to Saxon ale-somewhere in those times there lived in pomp and dignity the proud family of the Wychcombes in the beautiful manor-house of Wychcombe Hall. It was in the days when the priesthood held sway, and when their word was law. mother, though scarcely able to speak for fright, to sanction her union with the man to whom she had given her heart. But she never ventured to name his name again! The few words her stern parent returned in answer crushed her hopes and her heart for ever. She left her presence, feeling she must have done a deadly wrong in even thinking that such a marriage could be possible for her. She never saw the squire of low degree again; and dark suspicions were afloat as to the cause of his sudden and entire disappearance from his native place. This event broke one sister's heart, and was such a lesson to the others that they hardly dared to utter a word or move a finger without first endeavouring to read on their mother's face whether they had her permission to do so. They had had a brother, but they had known little of him, and now knew not whether he were alive or dead. Both sisters had a clear recollection of waking up one night in a long-bygone winter and hearing words of fierce altercation in voices they knew, one their mother's, the other their brother's, and now and then another, which they did not know,-a gentle voice pleading, as it seemed, with both, and ending with a wild shriek. Then a door banged loudly, and all was still. The eldest sister stood shivering and trembling at her bed-room door for an hour or more, till she heard her mother come upstairs with a slow and heavy tread, muttering to herself, and the only words that could be distinguished were, "A girl like that my daughter-in-law ! The family consisted of Dame Wychcombe, Never. Now- No one heard—not even the as she was styled, a tall, gaunt old lady of splash-though he tried-but I am strong past seventy; her husband, a weak old man, too-ha! ha!" Shaking with terror and who had evidently been ruled through life by frightened to death, the listening girl reher stronger will, and was little capable, if treated into her bed-room, the darkness conindeed he had desired it, of raising a standard cealing the fact of her door being ajar. The of domestic rebellion now, in his seventy-two sisters never dared to ask an explanation sixth year. For the dame was the dread of of what had passed that night; but they never her household; her daughters, unmarried old saw their brother more! maids of at least fifty years, cowered before her, and obeyed her like children. Indeed she had never ceased to consider them as such, so much so, that they themselves had no will of their own and were accustomed to be ruled and guided by her in the most trivial as well as the most important things. And, alas for them! but one important thing had happened to them in their lives, and that was when the youngest and fairest had, at the age of twenty, fallen in love with a young squire of low degree, had dared to listen to his whispered words of love under the shade of the kitchengarden wall, and when taxed with having stayed out beyond the hour fixed for her return, had fallen on her knees and implored her Neither was Dame Wychcombe in good repute amongst her neighbours, for there were dark stories of her early life; and her tyranny to her husband and daughters, remarkable even in those stern days, was well known abroad. But none dared remonstrate, and the power and wealth of the family placed her in such a position as to be above feeling the dislike of her neighbours. A distant respect was all she sought, and that much they were obliged, as far as appearances went, to concede to her. But in the hearts of all she was hated, and few, if any, knew how deeply that hatred was deserved. For seventy years she had faced the world with unflinching indifference; for seventy years she had borne the insinuations that she heard faintly murmured around her without changing a muscle of her hard countenance; for seventy years she had stood there shrinking from nothing, rejecting no investigation, repelling no question, fearing no discovery. For who would question a rock? Who would seek to undermine a rock to see what lay beneath? Would not the rock crush them first? Who would venture such a risk? And, indeed, it was nobody's interest to examine into the private affairs of that proud family. Exclusive and cold, common curiosity shrank from their very name ! And so it was till the threescore years and ten had passed, and the tall, gaunt frame began to stoop, and the cold grey eyes lost some of their fire, and the thin cheeks grew yellow and wrinkled, and all could see that age was doing its quiet but inevitable work. At last her iron constitution gave way under the weight of years, and then, indeed, the sins of her past life crowded into agony on her soul. Indomitable as she had ever been, there was one who in her strongest days had had some slight influence over her; and now this man, the village priest, was the only one who had any power at all over her still despotic will. She declared she would see no one. He quietly entered her room; she bid him fiercely be gone. He calmly sat down by her bedside, and watched her without speaking, while she raved at him. But her power was slipping out of her hands: his was as strong as ever, for it lay in his eyes, with which he seemed to mesmerise her and coerce her into passiveness before he spoke, in the quiet but firm tone habitual to him. "You are dying," he said. "You had need to make one more confession ere you die, or the blessing of absolution will not be yours." "I have confessed and confessed," she cried, "and I have no more peace than if I had never spoken. I will confess no more." "Once more," he continued, in the same tone; once more. Recollect the darkest page in all your life. All your other sins I know, and may the Holy Virgin forgive you, for they are many." "Absolution, father," she cried imploringly; you promised me absolution after I had told you All," he added, for she hesitated; "and you have not told me all." "And all you shall never know," she said, passionately; "for I will die without telling you, and the grave will keep my secret." listen; hold your head down-lower, lower, that none may hear. Ha! what was that? I heard a scream! Ha! he is coming! Oh! Heaven have mercy on my soul!" cried the raving woman. "You have but little time on earth-but little time for repentance," said the priest, in his cold measured voice, glancing at the sun, which was sinking low in the crimson sky. "Give me time!-only give me a little time. When the sun sets I will tell you." They both watched it-the priest with eager impatience, the dying woman grudging every second that fled by of her last day on earth, and it was with an effort, as the last ray vanished beneath the dark purple horizon, that she turned to the priest and said, almost gasping "Now, father, I will tell you all. Stoop down and hear me." He listened, and his face grew white as she whispered her last confession into his earwhite as that of the wretched woman who had bartered her very soul for pride. What she told him was worse, far worse, than what he had thought. "Woman!" he cried, as she ceased and sank back on her pillow, "you are lost-lost beyond redemption. Absolution is not for such as you. There is no time for penance— no time for forgiveness for such black deeds as yours. You are lost!" "Lost!" she cried in frantic despair; "lost! never! Surely the fire that has burnt in my heart till it was seared in agony must count for something? Father, set me what penance you will. I have life in me to do it yet. Speak, and quickly; what more can I do ?-what more can I suffer?" "An The priest hastened to speak. "Lands to the Church," he said. ample gift might purchase prayers that would release a soul even such as yours from purgatory, and save it from eternal destruction. But what riches are yours-what lands could you bestow? "Give me but hope, father. I will provide the means. My husband-where is he? and fetch a notary; and, father, be yourself a witness." "It shall be done," answered the priest, as he rose to fetch the old man, who, awed by the nearness of death, entered the room with a look of solemnity which the mere prospect of parting with his wife could hardly have called up. "My husband," said the weak and gasping voice, " you see me dying. Grant me one last boon-the very last." "What have I ever denied you, that you should ask like this?" he answered. "Truly," thought the old man, "there is need of proof ere I believe in your humility; but aloud he only said, "What is your wish? I will grant you whatever you desire." "I only ask this," she said, "only this. You see how weak I am. My voice is failing, my strength is gone. I pray you to let me rise, and promise me faithfully that so much of land as I can walk over may be given from henceforth and for ever to the Church." "I promise you that, and welcome," said the husband, with a covert smile, for he felt certain that her first step from her bed would be her last in life. She caught the smile, though, and her spirit rose within her; for, with the "ruling passion strong in death," the desire of disappointing her husband gave her even more strength than the fear of the flames of purgatory. She rose, supported by the priest, and staggered to the door. Though scarcely breathing, yet, as the door was opened the fresh air of the evening blew down upon her and revived her wonderfully. With unexpected energy she crawled a few yards, then, to the growing alarm of her husband, she raised herself upright, and absolutely walked; but walked so far and so steadily that he, old and lame, could scarcely keep up with her, and struggled behind, invoking a thousand curses on her head, as, step by step, he saw the best part of his property passing away into the hands of the Church. On she went, and more than one gate was opened by the eager priest, and more than one obstacle cleared out of her path, ere she gave up the race with death, and sank at last on the bare earth. Her husband came up just in time to hear her last words-to hear her calling down Heaven's bitterest judgments on any member of the family, however distant, who should alienate these lands, which her dying energies had gained, from the Church-to hear her invoking a special curse on his head, should he attempt to forego his promise and to hear her last words of all, "And when these broad lands have passed away from the Church may the family have a male heir never more!" And so she died, out in the night air, with a curse on her lips. The confessor stood by her side triumphant; her husband raging, swearing, and stamping as only a deceived man can. Still he made over the broad lands to the Church. He was too much awed to cheat them of as much as a square inch of it. And when he had delivered over the parchment deed, duly signed and attested, the priest poured into his astonished ears the news that, though his son was dead, his grandson survived, and was heir to the place, impoverished as it was by the large piece taken from it. "And where is he?" asked the widower, who was beginning to find consolation for the loss of his lands in the fact that he had lost his wife also; and to whom this possession of a grandson opened a vista of comfort for his declining years. "That "Not far off," said the priest. youth who works in the monastery garden is your grandson." "But my son died childless, so it cannot be," continued the old man, returning to despondency. "He died abroad, just after his mother refused to consent to his marriage." "He was married already, and his child was born when their last interview took place," said the priest, cautiously. "He was!" he exclaimed, with surprise. "But speak out, man, speak out. You know more than I do. Why should not I know all? There is no one to prevent me now." And he laughed with some bitterness. "What I know," said the priest, "I learnt under the seal of confession, and may not tell." "You must prove to me that my son was married, that I may believe that that lad is my grandson." "Does not his likeness prove it ?" asked the priest. "It may, it may," said the old man, musingly. "But," he added, with his voice lowered to a hissing whisper, "my son, what of him ?" "Your son was murdered," said the priest, boldly, "and by the hands of his mother; and you will find his bones in the deep well behind the fir wood. If you find them you will believe me, and may believe me, too, when I say that the boy is your grandson. And I can give you written proofs, besides." The old man's eyes were glazed, and he stared transfixed at the priest. "Horrible! horrible!" were his only words. They sought and found the bones. The boy was indeed and in truth the grandson. His gentle though low-born mother was for the first time acknowledged as the daughter-inlaw of the house, and cordially welcomed by the grey-haired but still warm-hearted old sisters. The rest of the story is soon told. So long as the lands over which the resolute old woman had walked were left in the peaceable possession of the Church, an heir male was If ever ye would hear fond marriage vows, Your walls still standing on their ancient stones. All hail, ye votaries! no more your lute In holy silence, silent as the sea, When minstrels celebrate his lyre; and bow When Io! Pæan falls upon their ear; That marble utterance of woman's woe, Cry Io! Io! it is ill to strive With the blest gods: who wars with them holds war Against my king, against Apollo; he Will honour all the choir which gives him joy, Phoebus is ever young and ever fair, On his soft cheek no doubtful down is seen, And on whatever town that dew may fall Is sorrow all forgotten like a dream. Io Carneian, much adored, whose fane Io! Carneian Phoebus, Io! Paan, Pale Envy whisper'd in Apollo's ear, "Great is the flow of great Assyria's stream, Yet from much washing of its wave-worn banks It bears polluted offerings to the main ; KISHING A JURY. "AH," said the sub-sheriff, " the times have changed since I first knew this place. It is just thirty-five years ago since I stopped here with a kished jury." I was returning wet and weary after a day's rather unsuccessful trout fishing, when I met my friend the sheriff; a seat on his car was quickly accepted, and our passage through the little village of Foulkes' Mills, in the county of Wexford, caused the observation. "A kished jury!" I exclaimed. on earth is that ? " "What "the "Well, you see,” replied my friend, old law was that in case a jury would not agree, the assistant barrister at sessions, or judge at assizes could order the jury to be taken to the next town in which the sessions were held, or to the confines of the county and there discharge them. The practice here was -I'm not sure whether it was quite legal or not-to put the jurors into turf kishes or creels, and discharge them by simply tilting the car up." But you don't mean to say such a thing was ever done in your time? Egad, I do. As I told you, it was the first year I filled the office of sheriff, thirty-five years ago. There was a trial for a riot at the Ross sessions, and as it all arose out of an election squabble, party feeling ran very high. As might be expected, the jury disagreed, and old Moore, the assistant barrister, who thought the evidence quite strong enough against the prisoner, was almost beside himself with rage at the idea of his getting off. He went over the strong points in the evidence; he bullied them; but it was no use-they would not agree. He then locked them up all night; but in the morning they were no nearer a verdict. He then declared he would take them to Wexford that day, and ordered me to provide jaunting cars, and to produce the jury and prisoner before him that evening in Wexford. But here the jury made a row; they said they did not mind going to Wexford, but they did mind the forms of the law, and that as the old and legal way was to go in turf kishes on farmer's carts, they would go by no other conveyance. The foreman told the magistrates that if he was sent in any other thing than a kish he would bring an action |