ship to be merciful to him, and not send him back to exile. He sobbed, in his earnestness, as he begged that any punishment might be awarded to him rather than this. If again transported, he should be sent to Norfolk Island or Goat Island, places which he would not pollute his lordship's ears by pretending to describe. When on board the hulks, he would be chained to cross-trees all the time, and would not be allowed the privilege of another convict; and it would be the same on board the ship. He would be thankful for even the scaffold in preference.

Here his lordship interrupted the young man, by observing that if he hoped to prevent his again passing the sentence of transportation on him, he was mistaken; for the law compelled him to do it.

"Then," said the young man, with great emotion, “ God help me! I'll not describe what I shall suffer. I would not wish to offend your lordship's ears by telling you about Norfolk Island. Oh! if you would only pass sentence of death upon me, I would summon courage to die, for then I should die like a man; but, if you send me back, I will spend a few miserable years in chains; and, after all, I shall not die like a man, no, not even like a dog. I beg, my lord, from my heart, that you will rather consign me to death than again to transportation. If it be in your power to show kindness to a miserable man like me, do, my lord. I never knew what it was to receive parental instruction-indeed, my lord, I did not; and I have been fearfully punished for my crime. I never was taught what was right till I learned it from experience: I shame to say it, but I never had any instruction but what I received from the schoolmaster of the ship. Do be as merciful as you can, my lord. (His lordship shook his head, as if intimating that he had no will in the matter.) I have done, my lord. You may consign me to misery, but it shan't be long. Do doom me to death, my lord, if you have the power: all I want is a few hours' preparation. I have done, my lord."

Anything more deeply affecting, it has never been our lot to read. The pleadings, and entreaties, and descriptions of the unhappy youth, were the untaught eloquence of earnestness. His address made a deep impression on the Judge and all present, and is more calculated to impress the mind with a sense of the horrors of transportation, and consequently more calculated to prevent crime, than anything perhaps that was ever before spoken or printed.

To a thinking mind, a reverie in a churchyard is attended with much of what I may term, solemn pleasure; -to mark the mounds of earth resting on those who once breathed, thought, and acted, as ourselves;-but now are wasting in the chilly tomb; and then to think, the time will surely come, when we ourselves must make the earth our pillow," and be "food for worms;" such thoughts as these, have a salutary influence, and we are led to contemplate on the eternity hereafter, till the mind, cramped and lost in the unfathomable expanse, returns once more, weary, to this low "earthy sphere."

Some evenings since, I bent my steps to a churchyard, and dwelt upon those things that have hold upon the heart; the departed friends I had loved, flitted before my

How calm and still is nature now,

E'en scarce a zephyr's breath Is heaved across this silent spot,

The resting place of death.

The stillness gives to thought a zest,
As wandering alone,

I bend my way from grave to grave,
And pause at every stone.

Oh! man is born, and hov'ring fate,
Misfortune for him weaves;

He sinks, as from the winter's blast
Fall autumn's withered leaves.
And he in midst of joy and pride,
In secret doth decay;

A vapour in the morn-ere noon
It vanishes away.

Yet still he builds his hopes in air,

Though certain they will fall;

A trembling anxiousness for nought,
Are features of them all.

Is it man's dire and cheerless doom
To end his care-worn years,
By sinking 'neath the silent tomb,
From out this vale of tears?
Without one gleam of nerving hope
Cast on his sinking soul?
Ah! no, he sees, though dimly now,
A bright and blissful goal-
Where free from misery or care,

A never ending rest

Is treasured for his spirit, there
To dwell amid the blest.
Behold this grave-no stone is here,
The new-laid clodded earth
Presses, perchance on one, a light,
Gay votary of mirth.

Or one, perhaps, that loved too well,
Who trusting was betrayed,
Whose lover spurned her, and she died,
With heart and hopes decayed.
How many a mother fond lies here,
And mother's joy and pride,
How many a couple here are laid,
Now mouldering side by side!
How many graves are trampled down,
And those beneath forgot,
Whose memories have passed away,
Alas! the "common lot."

The orphan oft her footsteps bend
To where her parents sleep,
She knows their souls are happy now,

(Sweet balm to those who weep.)

To joy, to bliss, to light and life,
To boundless realms afar,
Sweet Fancy wafts her fluttering soul,
Where the Eternal are.

And light her little heart then feels,
Free from the chilling cloy

Of saddening earth, and in her soul
There throbs a secret joy.

As the good people of the valley had always paid every attention to the stranger lady, she had long wished for an opportunity of showing them some kindness in return. Having, by means of good management, laid up a plentiful store of eggs, she sent Martha one morning to invite the grown-up villagers to pay her a visit on the following day they did not fail to arrive in due time, dressed in their holiday clothes. Bertram had spread a rustic table in the garden, and they seated themselves on benches round about. Martha then brought a basket of eggs, and the guests expressed their surprise at seeing so great a number.

“ Yes," said their kind hostess, “we have now abundance; but I must endeavour to show you the use of which they can be made in housekeeping."

A fire had been made of some dry sticks in a corner of the garden, and a large saucepan full of water placed over it. Before the eggs were thrown into it, the lady opened one of them to show her guests the inside; and she directed their attention to the beautiful crystalline liquor, in which there appeared to float a little yellow ball. She then boiled as many eggs as she had guests. Salt was served with them, and small rolls of white bread. The lady showed them how to open their eggs; and they were much gratified with the delicious repast which they afforded. They wondered at the ease and expedition with which an egg might be boiled; "and surely," they said, "for a sick person, a cheaper or more nourishing food could scarcely be found."

Some more eggs were then taken, and broken into boiling water. "This," said the lady, "is called poaching them;" and these being laid upon spinage, were no less commended than the others.

She then proceeded to cook the rest of the eggs in several other ways, and thus taught the charcoal burners, that they were not only an excellent food in themselves, but a useful ingredient in the preparation of various dishes. At last a fine bowl of salad was placed before them. The good-natured Bertram brought some eggs which had been boiled hard, and set aside till they were cold. By way of affording some amusement, he let them fall suddenly, as if by accident, and roll along the ground. The guests startled at the noise, expecting them all to be broken and lost; but they were agreeably disappointed at seeing the lady pick them up, take off the shells and cut them in slices. This was curious enough; but the process of dressing a salad they thought more so, and a very agreeable curiosity into the bargain.

When they had finished their dinner of eggs, the lady distributed among them several young cocks and pullets; observing that a single hen will lay upwards of one hundred and fifty eggs in the course of a year.

"A hundred and fifty eggs!" they exclaimed, "what a comfort for a poor family!"

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The good lady's generosity spread joy through the whole village, and every family returned thanks to God, for the blessing which they had received at her hands.

For a long time the poultry was the subject of all their conversation, and every day they discovered something more extraordinary and more useful about them. The morning crow of the cock was the source of more than ordinary delight. "It proclaims the day," they said, "and calls forth man to his labour. It has been quite another sort of life in the valley since the cocks began to crow; and every one goes to his task with a light heart and a cheerful countenance."

The good folks did not fail to observe that the hen always gave notice by her cackling of the present which she had made to them, and the sound was always welcomed with delight. No sooner was it heard than they went at once to take the new-laid egg and stow it away carefully. "These birds," the parents would frequently say to the children, "are formed by nature to live with man. God has evidently made them for domestic purposes. They remain constantly about the house; come for their food when called, and go to roost of their own accord. They are of great utility in a poor household, for they are kept at little cost: a few crumbs, a little barley, the refuse of vegetables, being all that they require. Indeed they are chiefly employed, from morning till night, in seeking food for themselves; so that thousands of grains, which would be lost in harvest-time, are preserved to the use of man. The poorest widow has thus wherewithal to support a hen; and the eggs which she receives come like an alms-gift to her.

Neither did the lady suffer her own children to be ignorant of the value of an egg, which they had been used to regard with indifference, when they lived in the midst of wealth and abundance. How contented were they now, with an egg beaten in milk for their breakfast! how grateful were they to God for all the mercies which he still poured upon them!

The delightful days of summer passed away, and the winter, which in that country is usually very severe, succeeded. The huts in the valley were almost buried in the snow, and the roads were scarcely passable. The mill was no longer at work; the cascades were suspended in silence over the rocks; and the inclemency of the season confined each family to its own fire-side; so that the honest charcoal burners were not a little pleased when the snow began to disappear before the mild approach of spring.

The children of the valley were now seen running to the cottage with bouquets of violets and primroses for Frederic and Blanche; and as the fields began to be covered with flowers, they gathered the most beautiful, and tied them into nosegays for their little favourites. Pleased with their attention, the lady determined to provide some pleasure for them in return. "When Easter comes," she said, "I should like to give them some little treat, for it is right that these holidays should be days of innocent enjoyment. At Christmas I could regale them with the apples and nuts which had been laid up in store; but how shall we manage in a season when there is nothing but eggs to be had? The earth has not yet produced its crop; trees are without their fruit; eggs are the first gift of a bountiful Providence."

"Yes," said Martha; "but it is a pity that eggs are all of the same colour. The white is very pretty, to be sure, but the various colours of fruits are much prettier."

"An excellent suggestion," said the lady, after a moment's reflection. “I will boil some eggs and paint them, and the variety of colour will afford amusement to the children."

Accordingly, being well acquainted with those plants

and roots which are used in dyeing, she stained a sufficient number of eggs with different colours; some blue, some yellow, some red, and some violet. Others were boiled with green leaves, which produced tints of various shades; and some she marked with written mottos.

"These coloured eggs," said the miller, who had walked in one day while the treat was in preparation, "remind us of the goodness of God. The fruits which he gives us are at the same time delicious to the taste and agreeable to the sight. Cherries are red, plums are purple, and pears are yellow; and these eggs, painted in imitation of those colours, are calculated to call up the remembrance of the many bounties of our merciful Creator."

Early on the morning of Easter-day, the lady and old. Bertram set out for the church of the neighbouring village, which was situated at the foot of a mountain, at some distance from the cottage, and all the inhabitants of the valley, old and young, who were able to walk so far, followed her example. The proposed entertainment was fixed for the following day. It arrived at length. The rising sun sent forth his genial rays; the sky was fine and serene; the fields were covered with flowers; the birds twittered and hopped from spray to spray, and all nature seemed to speak of health and enjoyment.

All the children about the same age as Frederic and Blanche had been invited, and repaired to the cottage at the appointed hour. Bertram took them into the garden, and seated them on benches round a rustic table. Frederic and Blanche sat in the midst of them, and you might read in their looks the impatience with which they anticipated the treat prepared for them. It was truly an enchanting sight to see their little faces beaming with pleasure, and their eyes sparkling with delight.

First of all, the lady explained to them, in a clear and impressive manner, the origin and design of the feast of Easter. "It was instituted," she told them, "to commemorate the resurrection of Jesus Christ from the dead, and to assure mankind of the resurrection of their own bodies at the day of judgment; when the good will be rewarded, and the wicked punished, according to their works. Such a reflection ought to make them good children and good Christians. For," she continued, "if the expectation of the little festival I have made for you, because you were good boys and girls, has had its effect, the pleasure of going to heaven will be much greater, and ought, therefore, to make you love and obey your Saviour." A tureen of eggs beaten in milk was then placed on the table, of which they all had a small basin full. They were then allowed to ramble into a neighbouring wood, and the lady told each of them to gather sufficient moss to make a little nest. This task was soon finished, and the nests were deposited upon a bank of turf, each child carefully marking its own. On their return to the garden, they were agreeably surprised to see on the table a large cake, made light with eggs, and covered with white sugar and sweetmeats. The cake was cut into slices, and while they were eating it, Martha slipped unobserved into the wood, with a basket of coloured eggs, which she distributed among the nests; and the several colours, blue, red, and yellow, formed a pretty contrast with the soft green moss. When the children had finished their cake, the lady proposed that they should go and see what had become of the nests. Here was a new source of surprise and pleasure. There were in each nest five eggs of the same colour, and one inscribed with a motto.

A shout of joy burst at once from all the children. It would be impossible to describe their transports. "Red eggs! red eggs! oh, how beautiful!" cried one. "Blue, blue; mine are blue!" shouted another; "as blue as the sky." And mine are as yellow," said a third, "as that

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butterfly yonder." "Oh, do but look at mine!" said a little fellow: "what beautiful hens they must be to lay such pretty eggs! how I should like to see one!"

"No, no, no," said Martha's little sister Mary, "it cannot be the hens that have done this; I should rather think it was that hare, that I saw running out of the hedge, and scampering away as fast as it could, while I was gathering the moss for my nest."

At this speech all the children burst at once into a loud laugh; and the hare that laid red eggs became a standing joke in the valley.

How little it requires, thought the lady, to make children happy! and who would not willingly contribute to their amusement? Who does not envy their innocent simplicity? The joy that sparkles in their eyes, and beams in all their features, falls to the lot of those only who have pure and guileless hearts; and thus, through life, virtue is the only source of real pleasure.

Although the children seemed perfectly satisfied and happy, yet the good lady suggested a new pastime. She proposed that those whose eggs were all yellow, should make an exchange with the red and the blue, and so with the rest, that by this means the eggs of each might vary in colour, without bartering those on which the motto was inscribed.

"It is thus, you see, my dear children," she observed, "that you must always be ready to oblige each other; and what you have now done you will frequently have occasion to repeat in the course of your lives. The Almighty pours his blessings on all mankind, and makes them dependent on each other, in order that they may live in harmony and peace and love. May God grant that all your bargains may resemble that which you have just made, in which all are gainers and none losers."

Little Frederic was now desired by his mamma to read his motto. One of his visitors was much surprised to hear him: for there were then but few schools for poor children, and many grown-up persons could neither read nor write. As soon as he was made to understand that Frederic had expressed in words what was marked upon the shell, his curiosity was excited to know what was written upon his

own egg.

of the "Romaunt of the Rose," the most famous poetical work of the middle ages, is addressed to his mistress; and it is remarkable that a very elaborate and cynical satire on women, which occurs in the original French, is entirely omitted by Chaucer in his version, perhaps because it would have been a profanation to her who then ruled his heart. In the year 1369 Chaucer lost his amiable patroness, the Duchess Blanche; she died in her thirty-fifth year, and he lamented her death in a long poem, intitled the "Booke of the Duchesse." In the same year with the duchess died the good queen of Edward III.; and Philippa Picard, being thus sadly released from her attendance on her royal mistress, her devotion to whom under her long declining health had procrastinated the reward of her faithful lover's constancy, a few months afterwards married Chaucer, to whom she was a good and tender wife, and long years of wedded life did not weaken her husband's attachment to her. The precise date of Philippa's death is not known, but it took place some years before that of her husband. Their residence at the time of their marriage was a small stone building, near the entrance of Woodstock Park; it had been given to Chaucer by Edward III.: afterwards they resided principally at Donnington Castle, that fine and striking ruin, which must be remembered by all who have travelled the Newbury road. In the domain belonging to this castle were three oaks of remarkable size and beauty, to which Chaucer gave the names of the Queen's Oak, the King's Oak, and Chaucer's Oak; these venerable trees were felled in Evelyn's time, and are commemorated in his Sylva.

She was

Philippa's eldest son, Thomas Chaucer, had a daughter, Alice, who became the wife of William de la Pole, Duke of Suffolk, the famous favourite of Margaret of Anjou. The grandson of Alice Chaucer, John Earl of Lincoln, was declared heir to the crown by Richard III.;* and had the issue of the battle of Bosworth been different, would undoubtedly have ascended the throne of England; as it was, the lineage of Chaucer was extinguished on a scaffold. The fate of Catharine Picard de Rouat, the sister of Chaucer's wife, was still more remarkable. destined to be the mother of a line of kings. She had been domicella or maid of honour to the Duchess Blanche, and after her death the children of that princess were committed to her care. In this situation she won the heart of their father, John Duke of Lancaster, who, on the death of his second wife, Constance of Castile, married Catharine, and his children by her were solemnly legitimatised. The conduct of Catharine, except in one instance, was irreproachable; her humility, her prudence, and her various accomplishments, not only reconciled the royal family and the people to her marriage, but added lustre to her rank; and when Richard II. married Isabella of France, the young queen, then only nine years old, was placed under the special care and tuition of the Duchess of Lancaster. One of the grand-daughters of Catherine, Lady Jane Beaufort, had the singular fortune of becoming at once the inspiration and the love of a great poet, the queen of an accomplished monarch, and the common ancestress of all the sovereigns of England since the days of Elizabeth.†

In right of his mother, Elizabeth Plantagenet, eldest

sister of Edward IV.

+ Catherine, Duchess of Lancaster, had three sons; the second was the famous Cardinal Beaufort; the eldest (created Earl of Somerset) was grandfather to Henry VII., and consequently ancestor to the whole race of Tudor: thus, from the sister of Chaucer's wife, are descended all the English sovereigns from the fifteenth century, and likewise the present family of Somerset, Dukes of Beaufort.

COMPARISON BETWEEN CHAUCER, PETRARCH, AND DANTE. Chaucer so far resembled Petrarch, that like him he was at once poet, scholar, courtier, statesman, philosopher, and man of the world; but considered merely as poets, they were the antipodes of each other. The genius of Dante has been compared to a Gothic cathedral, vast and lofty, and dark and irregular. In the same spirit Petrarch may be likened to a classical and elegant Greek temple, rising aloft in its fair and faultless proportions, and compacted of the purest Parian marble; while Chaucer is like the far-spreading and picturesque palace of the Alhambra, with its hundred chambers, all curiously decorated, and rich with barbaric pomp and gold. He is famed rather as the animated painter of character and manners, and external nature, than the poet of love and sentiment; and yet no writer, Shakspeare alone excepted (and perhaps Spenser), contains so many beautiful and tender passages relating to, or inspired by, women.

LADY JANE BEAUFORT AND JAMES I. OF SCOTLAND.

poetic temperament more beautifully illustrated than in Never, perhaps, was the influence of woman on the the story of James I. of Scotland, and Lady Jane Beaufort. James, while a prisoner, was confined in Windsor Castle, and immediately under his window there was a fair garden, in which the Lady Jane was accustomed to walk with her attendants. The young monarch beheld her accidentally; his imagination was fired, his heart captivated, and from that moment his prison was no longer a dungeon, but a palace of light and love. As he was the best poet and musician of his time, he composed songs in her praise, set them to music, and sang them to his lute. He also wrote a history of his love in a long poem,* still extant. His description of the fair apparition peculiar, that it must have been drawn from the life; the who came to bless his solitary hours, is so minute and the chain of fine-wrought gold about her neck; the heartnet of pearls, in which her light tresses were gathered up; shaped ruby suspended from it, which glowed on her snowy bosom like a spark of fire; her white vest looped up to facilitate her movements; her graceful damsels, who bolling round her, with its collar of silver bells;-these, followed at a respectful distance; and her little dog gam and other picturesque circumstances, were all noted in the lover's memory, and have been recorded in the poet's verse.

The account of his own feelings as she disappears from his charmed gaze-his lingering at the window of flower"-then resting his head pensively on the cold his tower till Phoebus "had bid farewell to every leaf and half-dreaming fancy, and shadows forth the happy issue stone, and the vision which steals upon his half-waking, of their love, are all conceived in the most lively manner. have been finished after his marriage, since he intimates It is judged from internal evidence, that this poem must that he is blessed in the possession of her he loved, and that the fair vision of his solitary dungeon is realized.

When the king of Scots was released, he wooed and won openly the woman he had adored in secret. The Jane to Scotland, where she was crowned soon after his marriage was solemnized in 1423, and he carried Lady bride and queen. How well she merited, and how deeply she repaid the love of her all-accomplished husband, is told in history. When James was surprised and murdered by some of his factious barons, his queen threw herself between him and the daggers of his assassins, received many of the wounds aimed at his heart, nor could they complete their purpose till they had dragged her by force from his arms. She deserved to be a poet's queen and love.

"The King's Quhair," i. e. cahier, or book.