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and heifers that run in the orchard and adjoining meadow, whilst the vacant rooms are tenanted by a widow in humble circumstances and her young family.

The house is beautifully situated; deep, as I have said, in a narrow woody lane, which winds between high banks, now feathered with hazel, now quickly studded with pollards and forest trees, until opposite Kibe's Farm it widens sufficiently to admit a large clear pond, round which the hedge, closely and regularly set with a row of tall elms, sweeps in a graceful curve, forming for that bright mirror, a rich leafy frame. A little way farther on the lane again widens, and makes an abrupter winding, as it is crossed by a broad shallow stream, a branch of the Loddon, which comes meandering along from a chain of beautiful meadows, then turns in a narrower channel by the side of the road, and finally spreads itself into a large piece of water, almost a lakelet, amid the rushes and willows of Hartly Moor. A foot-bridge is flung over the stream, where it crosses the lane, which, with a giant oak growing on the bank, and throwing its broad branches far on the opposite side, forms in every season a pretty rural picture.

Kibe's Farm is as picturesque as its situation; very old, very irregular, with gable ends, clustered chimneys, casement windows, a large porch, and a sort of square wing jutting out even with the porch, and covered with a luxuriant vine, which has quite the effect, especially when seen by moonlight, of an ivy-mantled tower. On one side extend the ample but disused farm buildings; on the other the old orchard, whose trees are so wild, so hoary, and so huge, as to convey the idea of a fruit-forest. Behind the house is an ample kitchen garden, and before a neat flower court, the exclusive demesne of Mrs. Lucas and her family, to whom indeed the labourer, John Miles, and his good wife Dinah, serve in some sort as domestics.

Mrs. Lucas had known far better days. Her husband had been an officer, and died fighting bravely in one of the last battles of the Peninsular war, leaving her with three children, one lovely boy and two delicate girls, to struggle through the world as best she might. She was an accomplished woman, and at first settled in a great town, and endeavoured to improve her small income by teaching music and languages. But she was country bred; her children too had been born in the country, amidst the sweetest recesses of the New Forest, and pining herself for liberty, and solitude, and green fields, and fresh air, she soon began to fancy that

her children were visibly deteriorating in health and appearance, and pining for them also; and finding that her old servant Dinah Miles was settled with her husband in this deserted farm-house, she applied to his master to rent for a few months the untenanted apartments, came to Aberleigh, and fixed there apparently for life.

We lived in different parishes, and she declined company, so that I seldom met Mrs. Lucas, and had lost sight of her for some years, retaining merely a general recollection of the mild, placid, elegant mother, surrounded by three rosy, romping, bright-eyed children, when the arrival of an intimate friend at Aberleigh rectory caused ine frequently to pass the lonely farm-house, and threw this interesting family again under my observation.

The first time that I saw them was on a bright summer evening, when the nightingale was yet in the coppice, the briarrose blossoming in the hedge, and the sweet scent of the bean fields perfuming the air. Mrs. Lucas, still lovely and ele gant, though somewhat faded and careworn, was walking pensively up and down the grass path of the pretty flower court; her eldest daughter, a rosy bright brunette, with her dark hair floating in all directions, was darting about like a bird; now tying up the pinks, now watering the geraniums, now collecting the fallen rose leaves into the straw bonnet which dangled from her arm, and now feeding a brood of bantams from a little barley measure, which that sagacious and active colony seemed to recognise as if by in stinct, coming long before she called them at their swiftest pace, between a run and a fly, to await with their usual noisy and bustling impatience the showers of grain which she flung to them across the paling. It was a beautiful picture of youth, health, and happiness; and her clear gay voice, and brilliant smile, accorded well with a shape and motion as light as a butterfly, and as wild as the wind. A beautiful picture was that rosy lass of fifteen in her unconscious loveliness, and I might have continued gazing on her longer, had I not been attracted by an object no less charming, although in a very different way.

It was a slight elegant girl, apparently about a year younger than the pretty romp of the flower garden, not unlike her in form and feature, but totally distinct in colouring and expression.

She sat in the old porch, wreathed with jessamine and honeysuckle, with the western sun floating around her like a glory, and displaying the singular beauty of her chesnut hair brown with a golden

light, and the exceeding delicacy of her smooth and finely grained complexion, so pale, and yet so healthful. Her whole face and form had a bending and statuelike grace, increased by the adjustment of her splendid hair, which was parted on her white forehead, and gathered up behind in a large knot—a natural coronet. Her eyebrows and long eyelashes were a few shades darker than her hair, and singularly rich and beautiful. She was plaiting straw rapidly and skilfully, and bent over her work with a mild and placid attention, a sedate pensiveness that did not belong to her age, and which contrasted strangely and sadly with the gaiety of her laughing and brilliant sister, who at this moment darted up to her with a handful of pinks and some groundsel. Jessy received them with a smile-such a smile! -spoke a few sweet words in a sweet sighing voice; put the flowers in her bosom, and the groundsel in the cage of a linnet that hung near her; and then resumed her seat and her work, imitating, better than I have ever heard them imitated, the various notes of a nightingale who was singing in the opposite hedge; whilst I, ashamed of loitering longer, passed on.

flowers, which she had begun before her misfortune. Oh, it was almost worth while to be blind to be the subject of such verse, and the object of such affection! Her dear mamma was very good to her, and so was Emma! but William-oh she wished that I knew William! No one could be so kind as he! It was impossible! He read to her; he talked to her; he walked with her; he taught her to feel confidence in walking alone; he had made for her use the wooden steps up the high bank which led into Kibe's Meadow; he had put the hand-rail on the old bridge, so that now she could get across without danger, even when the brook was flooded. He had tamed her linnet; he had constructed the wooden frame, by the aid of which she could write so comfortably and evenly; could write letters to him, and say her ownself all that she felt of love and gratitude. And that," she continued with a deep sigh, "was her chief comfort now; for William was gone, and they should never meet again—never alive

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-that she was sure of-she knew it." "But why, Jessy?" "Oh, because William was so much too good for this world, there was nobody like William! And he was gone for a soldier. General Lucas, her father's uncle, had sent for him abroad-had given him a commission in his regiment-and he would never come home, at least they should never meet again-of that she was sure

The next time I saw her, my interest in this lovely creature was increased tenfold -for I then knew that Jessy was blinda misfortune always so touching, especially in early youth, and in her case rendered peculiarly affecting by the personal cha--she knew it." racter of the individual. We soon became acquainted, and even intimate under the benign auspices of the kind mistress of the rectory; and every interview served to increase the interest excited by the whole family, and most of all by the sweet blind girl.

Never was any human being more gentle, generous, and grateful, or more unfeignedly resigned to her great calamity. The pensiveness that marked her charater arose as I soon perceived from a different source. Her blindness had been of recent occurrence, arising from inflammation unskilfully treated, and was pronounced incurable; but from coming on so lately, it admitted of several alleviations, of which she was accustomed to speak with a devout and tender gratitude. "She could work," she said, "as well as ever; and cut out, and write, and dress herself, and keep the keys, and run errands in the house she knew so well without making any mistake or confusion. Reading, to be sure, she had been forced to give up, and drawing; and some day or other she would shew me, only that it seemed so vain, some verses which her dear brother William had written upon a group of wild

This persuasion was evidently the master-grief of poor Jessy's life, the cause that far more than her blindness faded her cheek, and saddened her spirit. How it had arisen no one knew; partly, perhaps, from some lurking superstition, some idle word, or idler omen which had taken root in her mind, nourished by the calamity which in other respects she bore so calmly, but which left her so often in darkness and loneliness to brood over her own gloomy forebodings; partly from the trembling sensibility, and partly from the delicacy of frame and of habit which had always characterised the object of her love-a slender youth, whose ardent spirit was but too apt to overtask his body.

However it found admittance, there the presentiment was, hanging like a dark cloud over the sunshine of Jessy's young life. Reasoning was useless. They know little of the passions who seek to argue with that most intractable of them allthe fear that is born of love; so Mrs. Lucas and Emma tried to amuse away these sad thoughts, trusting to time, to William's letters, and, above all, to William's return to eradicate the evil.

These letters came punctually and gaily,

letters that might have quieted the heart of any sister in England, except the fluttering heart of Jessy Lucas. William spoke of improved health, of increased strength, of actual promotion, and expected recal. At last he even announced his return under auspices the most gratifying to his mother, and the most beneficial to her family. The regiment was ordered home, and the old and wealthy relation, under whose protection he had already risen so rapidly, had expressed his intention to accompany him to Kibe's Farm, to be introduced to his nephew's widow and daughters, especially Jessy, for whom he expressed himself greatly interested. A letter from General Lucas himself, which arrived by the same post, was still more explicit: it adduced the son's admirable character and exemplary conduct as reasons for befriending the mother, and avowed his design of providing for each of his young relatives, and of making William his heir.

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For half an hour after the first hearing of these letters, Jessy was happy-till the peril of a winter voyage (for it was deep January) crossed her imagination, and checked her joy. At length, long before they were expected, another epistle arrived, dated Portsmouth. They had sailed by the next vessel to that which conveyed their previous despatches, and might be expected hourly at Kibe's Farm. The voyage was past, safely past, and the weight seemed now really taken from Jessy's heart. She raised her sweet face and smiled yet still it was a fearful and a trembling joy, and somewhat of fear was mingled even with the very intensity of her hope. It had been a time of rain and wind; and the Loddon, the beautiful Loddon, always so affluent of water, had overflowed its boundaries, and swelled the smaller streams which it fed into torrents. The brook which crossed Kibe's Lane had washed away part of the foot-bridge, destroying poor William's railing, and was still foaming and dashing like a cataract. Now that was the nearest way; and if William should insist on coming that way! To be sure, the carriage road was round by Grazely Green, but to cross the brook would save half a mile; and William, dear William, would never think of danger to get to those whom he loved. These were Jessy's thoughts: the fear seemed impossible, for no postillion would think of breasting that roaring stream; but the fond sister's heart was fluttering like a new caught bird, and she feared she knew not what.

All day she paced the little court, and stopped and listened, and listened and stopped. About sunset, with the nice sense of sound which seemed to come with

her fearful calamity, and that fine sense quickened by anxiety, expectation, and love, she heard, she thought she heard, she was sure she heard the sound of a carriage rapidly advancing on the other side of the stream. "It is only the noise of the rushing waters," cried Emma. "I hear a carriage, the horses, the wheels!" replied Jessy; and darted off at once, with the double purpose of meeting William, and of warning the postillion against crossEmma and her mother ing the stream. followed fast! fast! But what speed could vie with Jessy's, when the object was William! They called, but she neither heard nor answered. Before they had won to the bend in the lane she had reached the brook; and, long before either of her pursuers had gained the bridge, her foot had slipt from the wet and tottering plank, and she was borne resistlessly down the stream. diately procured; men, and ropes, and boats; for the sweet blind girl was beloved of all, and many a poor man perilled his life in a fruitless endeavour to save Jessy Lucas; and William, too, was there, for Jessy's quickened sense had not deceived her-William was there, struggling with all the strength of love and agony to rescue that dear and helpless creature; but every effort-although he persevered until he too was taken out senseless-every effort was vain. fair corse was recovered, but life was extinct. Poor Jessy's prediction was verified to the letter; and the brother and his favourite sister never met again.-From the Bijou.

Assistance was imme

A SUNSET IN THE EGEAN.

The

AFTER a passage of eight days, we arrived at Hydra from Candia. We had been creeping through the Archipelago at the rate of ten or twelve miles in twentyfour hours, and this chiefly when carried by the currents. Nothing that I know of can possibly compare with the tedium of such a voyage; day after day to be lagging under a burning sun, the sails clinging to the mast, and the ropes and rigging accurately reflected in the glassy sea; not an undulation to break the line formed on the glowing timbers by the motionless waters; not a swirl at the rudder, not a ripple at the prow; with no variety of prospect, save a few sun-scorched Islands, and not a curl to warp the mirror of the ocean, nor a feather of a cloud to break the blue sameness of the sky. There were, however, charms in the scene around us, which not even the anxiety of the delay could render unattractive. The risings

and settings of the sun were most superb; in the morning, his crimson beams bursting through purple mists that wrapped the Egian and its islands, and beaming down upon the still blue azure, till his rays deeply refracted in its bosom, made the whole seem one mass of azure pearl; and when at eve he again descended to the ocean, through the cloudless heaven, and his departing glories tipped with gold the lonely Cyclades, he appeared not to sink, but to melt away from the sky; whilst his fading brightness, gently spreading over the heavens, seemed a drop of molten gold, blending in a lake of liquid purple. But it is only the loveliness of the ocean and the sky that seem fadeless in the clime of the East. I was much disappointed in the beauty of the Cyclades; whether my expectations had been too highly raised, or that the earth seemed to shrink from a comparison with the peerless splendour of this sky and ocean, the Islands, though in general productive and fruitful, are sadly deficient in picturesque beauties. They contain very few trees, and low lentiscas and mastics are all that seem to spring above the beds of thyme that cover the parched soil. There are no rich tints and no glowing colours in the landscape; and a few neat white villages, a monastery perched on a towering cliff, or the solitary ruins of a desolate temple, are all that they contain, externally, of interest or romance, independent of their classical association.-Emerson's Greece in 1825.

Ellustrations of History.

ORIGIN OF THE WHITE HART AS A SIGN.

BLACKMOOR FOREST, at the spring of the Froome, was once called the forest of White Hart, and at that time the seat of royalty; it was much resorted to by our kings, on account of the great abundance of deer and other game. King Henry III. with a large retinue, having one day entered the chase to enjoy the sport of The hunting, roused a milk white hart. creature afforded his Majesty so much pastime, that, at the pulling down, it was the royal pleasure to save the beast, and place round his neck a collar of brass on which was engraved :—

"I am a Royal Hart, let no one harm me!"

But the King and his retinue having run over, and spoiled the lands of a gentleman of the county, named Thomas de la Linde, and refusing, upon remonstrance, to make good the injury, De la Linde impru

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dently resolved to spite King Henry; when joining with others, he hunted the White Hart, and having run it down, foolishly took the life of the King's favourite, and making merry over its haunches, was heard in his cups to utter many disrespectful things towards his sovereign, which were conveyed to Henry, who presently couvinced De la Linde of his presumption, and so highly resented the indignity, that he made every one concerned in the death of the noble animal to pay into his Exchequer an annual fine, called "White Hart Silver,' which was not remitted during the reign of that monarch. From this circumstance, we may date the origin of the White Hart for a sign at the various inns and houses of entertainment throughout England.

THE FIRST USE OF THE CROSIER.

THE Crosier or crozier, is a symbol of pastoral authority, consisting of a gold or silver staff, crooked at the top, carried occasionally before bishops and abbots, and held in the hand when they pronounce their solemn benedictions. The custom of bearing a pastoral staff is one of great antiquity, as appears from the life of St. Cæsaria of Arles, who lived about the year 500. Among the Greeks none but the patriarchs had a right to the crosier. Crosiers were at first no more than simple wooden staves, in form of a T, used to rest and lean upon. In course of time, they were made longer, and at length arrived to the form we now see them of. The regular abbots on the continent are allowed to officiate with a mitre and crosier.

Customs of Various Countries.

ANCIENT CEREMONY

OF MAKING AN OFFERING TO THE WHITE BULL OF ST. EDMOND'S BURY.

Among the obsolete customs of this country, the following is one that was practised, whenever a married woman was desirous of conceiving. This white bull, who enjoy ed full ease and plenty in the fields of Habyrdon, never basely yoked to the plough, nor permitted to be cruelly baited at the stake for the amusement of the peasantry, was led in procession through the principal streets of the town, viz. Church Street, Guildhall Street, and Cook Row; of which the last led to the principal entrance of the monastery, attended by ail the monkish frateruity, singing, and a shouting crowd, the woman walking by him, stroking his milk white side, and

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Frederick of Prussia, was wont to say, "No war was ever carried on without spies, and no administration without corruption;" and he certainly evinced his faith in this doctrine, by the measures he pursued His favourite, General Swieten, who used to take considerable liberties on the strength of his favouritism, was bold enough to observe to the King, one day, when the troops were in want of necessaries, and complaining,—that his Majesty spent more money in spies than he did in bread and clothing for his army. "You are a fool!" answered the King," a downright fool! One piece of information, of the worth of 500 rix dollars, has saved me a million of money, and 10,000 men! Don't talk to me of bread and clothing! -talk to me of advancing without bloodshed, and of saving my men. Their wants will be easily supplied when I know where the enemy's magazines are.

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MARSHAL LOUDON AND THE COBLER.

THE Marshal was a native of Scotland, and entered young, as a soldier of fortune, into the service of the Elector of Bavaria, wherein he held the rank of captain. Having had the misfortune to kill his colonel in a duel, he was obliged to quit Bavaria requested a commission from the King of very precipitately. He went to Berlin, and Prussia; but Frederick the Great received him very cavalierly, and said to him, have more the air of a monk than of a among other bad compliments-" You soldier; and, besides, I have no fancy for English officers."

It

Loudon now made way for Vienna, where he did his utmost to procure an appointment from the Minister of War; but unsuccessfully until at length, wearied of making applications, he left the capital, and took a lodging in one of the faubourgs, at the house of a shoemaker named Pancrace, where he remained some time in a state of great destitution, and supported by his landlord out of mere charity. happened, at this epoch, that Marshal Daun, who commanded the Austrian army in Silesia, against the King of Prussia, wrote to the Empress Maria-Theresa, and to the Prince de Lichtenstein, to obtain good officers, accustomed to a war of partisanship, having none such attached to his corps. On a conference following between the Empress and Prince, the latter bethought him of Loudon, who had been represented to him as skilful in this particular branch, but whom, he told the Empress, it would now be difficult to find." Is he in the Austrian dominions, think you?” inquired Maria-Theresa." There is no doubt of it," answered the Marshal. “Well then," rejoined her Majesty, "I think we may get at him. Give orders to post up a description of this same Loudon, and

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