'Maidens, like moths, are ever caught by glare, And Mammon wins his way where seraphs might despair.'

I wish, friend Peter, that we could stay a fortnight to enjoy the opening of spring, but as we must wend our way eastward day after tomorrow, we will resign ourselves to fate, and make the best of it. Look down into the valley where Green Brook comes singing and bubbling out from the deep shade of the hemlocks into the open meadows! The snow has melted away from its margin, and the brown sward is smiling in the cheerful afternoon sun. There, on that tall stump, on the other side, sits a sentinel crow, while his companions are strolling about catching up dainties which the frost and snow have hid from their vision the winter long. Hurra! hurra! see over the edge of Pine Hill come the first pigeons of the season from the warm south! Look how they rise and fall again in their easy flight, as they pass up the valley and go whirring in among the dense evergreens. I told you we should see pigeons soon, but you thought it too early. We will have sport to-morrow, if it is warm. For the present, let us see whether Hans' old fowling-piece is still safe from rust. Here it stands behind his bed-room door, dressed up like an old maid for a sailing party, all in flannels. There, Peter, is a true 'stubb-and-twist,' and the locks, although rather out of fashion, are still as elastic as ever. This Hans himself will use to-morrow; for it is an old friend and might feel hurt to be entrusted to the care of a stranger. Here, Jim, run down to Colonel Hyde's and borrow his long double-barrel; but don't tell him that pigeons have been seen, or he will want to use it himself. Get a cannister of Dupont, and half a dozen pounds of No. 4 shot. None of the fine mustard-seed or robin, but the heavy duck-shot, that will enter at twenty rods. That is the kind for pigeons, their feathers are so compact; for if you fire at them flying, you might as well toss turnip-seed at them as to shoot fine shot that will glance from their sleek feathers like drops of rain.

Here comes Jim, with the colonel's gun. Is it not a grand one? Now for cleaning the pieces, and filling the flasks and shot-belts. Look out, or you will scald your fingers with the hot water. A little more soap, and the barrels are as clean as a silver thimble. Snap! These are fine caps: put this box into your pocket, or we shall forget it. Let us look out at the sunset before tea, and then go to bed early, that we may be up in season for to-morrow's sport.

How broadly and slowly the sun sinks behind the forest! The glowing points of his diadem reach to the zenith, and the purple clouds that float around the west, dazzle the eye as they lie in contrast with the soft blue sky. How bland the air is, like that of summer! We can almost drink it.

Well, mother, I am glad to be at home again at the tea-table. Here, Peter, don't look sad now because you are not at your own home. We will go up in the summer and view Lake Erie in its beauty and vastness, and stroll along the beach, beneath the overhanging cedars and larches, and the broad-leafed chestnuts. Whose voice is that in the entry? Why, Kate, how do you do! Never mind, if you are married, you needn't start so. I'm an old friend, you know, and your lips are as tempting as ever! Ah! I forgot there were strangers by. Madam Von Rosenbacker: Herr von Geist, a man after my own heart. Well, Kate, you haven't altered much from what you were when we used to pick blackberries together. Indeed, I have lost the bottle of wine; you only escaped though by three days over the six months that I limited your marriage to. You shall have the champaigne, and I will come up in the summer to bring it, and will buy an indulgence from the tee-total society long enough to drink it with you. Now that she is gone, Peter, let me ask if you don't think her a glorious woman? Her large blue eyes, her soft flaxen hair and rosy cheeks, and tall graceful figure, make her 'splendid.' Peter, she was the first girl that I ever 'set my face against,' as poor POWER used to say; and now, old bachelor as I am, I envy her husband.

To bed we go, and Somnus touches our eyes with his wand of poppies. Ye gods! how sweet and soft a bed at home is, after travelling till one's bones ache with jolting stages and jarring rail-cars!

* * * * *

Up! up! friend Peter; here we are abed, while daylight is glimmering through the blinds. Just put your head out here at this window and snuff the fresh spring air. Hear the roaring of Fish Creek as it comes up over the wooded hills. By no means! Don't suppose for the sixtieth part of a minute that I intend to hurry you away without breakfast; but you must step down into the kitchen, where the girl has prepared us a strong cup of coffee; as good, no doubt, as Mother Bee used to provide for our matin meal on College Hill. Here, Dancer, you must have some breakfast too.

Well, are we all ready? Powder, shot, and caps enough, and every thing in order? Eh! Peter, what are you twisting your mouth about? Ah, yes, indeed, I forgot. Here's a dozen Principes to use as occasion may offer, and especially after dinner; which is to be sent up with the rest into the sugar-bush, where we will rendezvous about one o'clock, and in the afternoon help 'sugar off.' See the sunlight on the barns yonder; how warm it looks! Look off on that hill-side, where the snow lies so deep! How like a speck of gold it shimmers to the eye! and there goes Dancer on the crust, as if he enjoyed the freshness of the air, and the warm sunlight. Let us try the crust too, and if it will bear us, we shall save time by going across lots. Here we go, with our heels crunching the glittering pavement, leaving scarcely a vestige of our tread, the frost of last night has so effectually congealed it. Yonder across this valley which the hills prevent our seeing from the house, is the sugar-bush, sloping to the south. The canal we first crossed leads to the old mills down to the right yonder, where you see that grove of black-cherry trees, and the little house on the knoll. The mist that you see to the left, rises from the mill-dam, the monotonous hum of whose falling waters you have heard for some time. This is Furnace Creek, whose swift current harbors the most beautiful trout. That crow yonder on the dry hemlock is calling to his mate, and the speckled wood-pecker is tapping away at that old beech, that the nice insects within its decayed interior may come out to make him a breakfast. Hark! do you not hear the drum of that partridge? He is up there in that thicket of young beeches and hemlocks, on the other side of the road. As you hear the slow, measured drum which he gives at first, and which he hastens into a whirr like distant thunder, does not 'The old Man's Counsel' come fresh to your memory, and almost ringing in your ear? Ah! this is the glory of true poetry, that it clothes the commonest things with a new interest, and forever after they become objects of love, at least of meditation. Who that has read the same author's 'Lines to a Waterfowl,' does not gaze with other than a sportsman's pleasure upon even a wild duck, if it flies past him after sunset. But there goes a flock of pigeons, and here over our heads; one! two! three! more than a hundred in each! What a rushing sound their wings make! They fly too high for us just now: but wait till we get on the cleared hill yonder to the right of the sugar-bush, and we shall have rare sport as they emerge from the trees and skim along the edge of the 'clearing.'

Here we are in the sugar-bush. Are these not noble trees? For how many years have they stood thus interlocking their strong boughs like brethren! While Columbus was asking a supper for his boy at the convent door, three centuries and a half ago, these same trees were here, scarcely younger than now. Yonder is the hill we saw from the rude bridge below the mill-dam. Let us clamber over the log-fence and get into the clearing.

Well, Peter, this hill that we are on is just one mile from home, though it looks not half the distance. Is this not a glorious view? Hill and valley spread out like a map before us! The snow lies in patches upon the fields, and the sun is lighting up the tinned spire of the village church, which, as the stage passed it yesterday, you thought looked like a superannuated old man with a martin-cage upon his crooked back. There is the old homestead looking at us through the locusts that surround it, and there are the orchards off to the right, which in a few weeks will be white with blossoms. Now, steady, my boys! Do you see that flock of pigeons? Wait till they pass us, that our shot may take effect on their backs. Whang! hack!! bang!!! What! three barrels off and only a handful of tail-feathers! How they opened as we fired, as if to let the shot go through. Hist! don't stir! Look up softly into the dry top of this hemlock, right over our heads: four, five, six! all in a huddle. I'll fetch some of them with my last barrel. Snap! fiz! confound the cap! Hold still, they see us. I've got a fresh cap on: bang! Here comes one, tumbling through the limbs on to the snow. Is he not a handsome bird; with his glossy purple breast and slender blue neck! Load quickly, and let us be ready for the next flock.

Hear them scream and coo in the wood to the right. Hear the leaves crackle down on that slope where the snow is off under those tall beeches. The ground is fairly blue with them. Softly there over the dry brush! See them turning up the leaves for beech-nuts: they are all moving this way. Down, behind this log: they are not twenty yards off. Cock both barrels; and now fire! What a stunning sound they make, like the roaring of a tornado! Look, they have settled down again on the other side of the ravine. Well, here, Peter, what do you think of the fun now?—fourteen cock pigeons and one hen, to be divided between us. This is what I call sport: none of your reed-birds and meadow-larks, such as cockney sportsmen frighten away from the fields of Jersey or Long-Island. Here they come again by scores. Now let us see how good a shot you are. Two cocks on the topmost branch of that old maple, full forty yards to the trunk. No, no! don't get any nearer, for they see you. Well done! Hear him thump on the leaves; and here comes the other, fluttering round and round like a shuttlecock. Ten to one that you shot him through the head. There! I told you so! His wings are not hurt, but a shot has cut away his bill. Here, Dancer, don't bite him so, but bring him here! Chick, chick, churr! Mister Red-squirrel, we'll 'give you a few,' as Jared used to say. On that knot in the green hemlock, he sits with his tail spread out over his head, for all the world like a young miss in a high-backed, old-fashined easy-chair. Well, we wont harm him, for the sake of the associations his comical appearance awakens.

Dancer is barking down in the ravine. There he comes! as if he were crazy; he is on the track of a hare! Do you see that pair of slender ears pricked up behind the roots of that fallen tree? Let me try my skill at a long shot. I've hit them, that's poz! No, I haven't either; for the nimble-footed thing is scudding away round the hill as safe as if I had not wasted my loading on her.

This sunken cask down here where the water wells up through the white sand, used to be the father of the cool spring water for the uses of the Homestead, and was conveyed the whole distance in 'pump-logs.' You can see the end of one, with an iron band sunk into it, sticking out of the earth. This spring, however, has been long exchanged for one on higher ground, and the wooden logs for lead pipe, half as expensive, and not half so healthy. Just pop over that chip-munk, whose head is peeping out of the ground at the foot of the maple sapling. Too cruel! Well done! you are growing compassionate all at once. Look out for your head! I declare, you escaped narrowly! That dead limb would have dispersed all your theology, had it struck your head. Well, Dancer, what are you staring at? Do you think the old tree dropped one of its limbs on purpose? Ah, ha! I see! Peter, do you see that tuft of dark moss in the crotch of that largest maple: well, I am going to shoot at it for sport, so here goes! I thought it was a black squirrel; how he leaps from the top boughs. Hurrah! here we go over logs and through bushes; the squirrel still ahead of us, springing from tree top to tree top. How he rattles down the dry splinters as he scratches up that dead hemlock. Now we've got him! Go round on the other side of the tree and he will dodge back this way, and I shall get a crack at him. But he don't though! He must have a hole up there. Sure enough, there is one! Let me get this old bough broken in two, and I will start him. Now be ready, and shoot him as he comes out. The old tree is hollow all the way up; it sounds as I strike like an old bass-drum. There! he's out! blaze away! Not that time did you hit him. That's better! see him hang by one leg! here he comes! 'dead as a door nail!' Thump! how he struck the ground. What a tail he has!

* * * * *

And now we are at the 'boiling place.' Two strong beech crotches are driven into the ground, about twelve feet apart, and a strong pole is laid over them, some five feet from the ground. The huge back-log was the butt of that tremendous beech you see lying just at the top of the knoll. The cauldron you see is filled with the fresh sap two or three times a day, and before filling each time, the boiling liquid is dipped out into the largest kettle alongside of it, and that in turn is emptied into a smaller one, that no time may be lost in boiling it away. Taste the syrup in this smaller kettle; it is almost molasses. Try on that 'neck-yoke' and come, let us help carry sap before dinner. The spiles you see sticking from augur-holes in every maple are made of young sumacs, which are sawed off the right length, and then the pith is punched out with a wire. The clean white-pine buckets, without bails, into which the sap drips from the spiles, are made expressly for this use, and so is that enormous hogshead where the sap is poured before it is strained for the cauldron. For the present let us to dinner. Well, Herr Peter, although our dinner was laid on a beech log, and our table-cloth nothing but a piece of coarse linen, and our knives and forks such as Adam and Eve used before us! was it not excellent! Wie schmackt es! How smacked it! as it passed through our devouring jaws; and how sweet was the pure spring water from the bright tin dipper! Now for a quiet smoke on the plank settle in the bough-house, while Joe and Hiram are getting ready to 'sugar off.' Here, if there comes up a storm, they sit and watch the kettles; and sometimes when the weather is clear they sit up all night. So at last you do love a cigar better than a meerschaum? I confess it is the same with me! How old DEIDRICH would frown, if he heard such an admission from those who boast as we do the pure Deutchen-blut, the true Dutch blood!

What! two o'clock so soon! They have hung the ten-pail kettle that contains the thick syrup upon a pole between two slender crotches, and have already kindled a fire. How it bubbles and 'blubbers' up, like thick hasty-pudding, with a dignified slowness that is inimitable. Now it rises to the top of the kettle and will boil over! O, you needn't turn up your nose at the slice of clean fat pork that Joe has just thrown in, for that has saved our sugar. See, it gradually subsides till it rests a third way down. You have heard that oil will still the surface of the sea; and the oily part of the pork answers the same purpose with the boiling syrup. Now it begins to granulate, swing it off. Here, drop some of it into this bucket of cold water, and then poke it out with that pine stick, while I run up on the side-hill yonder and get a pail of snow, which will cool it faster. Ha, ha, ha! you do look handsome; suppose Meeta could see you with your jaws stuck fast together with the candy, and your face looking like the head of Medusa. While you are getting over the lock-jaw, I will trail some on this snow to take home to little Sue, who begged me to bring her back some maple candy. Now let us ride down home on the ox-sled, with the huge tin pails full of the hot syrup, which wont get half cold before it is safe in the farm-house pantry, in a half dozen well-buttered milk-pans to harden for future use.

Once more in bed after a hearty supper; and once more out of it, too, for the stage horn is blown. We must hurry or we are left; for it stops only fifteen or twenty minutes to change the mail.

* * * * *

Yes, Peter, this Brookline is a little cleaner than Broadway.



RELIGIOUS CONTROVERSY.

BY FLACCUS.

'Tantae ne animis coelestibus irae?' VIRGIL.

When the full-throated people of the air, Harmonious preachers of the sweets of love, That midway range, as half at home with heaven, Are quiring, with a heartiness of joy That the high tide of song o'erbrims the grove, And far adown the meadow runs to waste; How would the soul, there floating, loathe to mark Sudden contention; sharp, discordant screams, From throats whose single duty is a song!

Not with less sure revolting—ah! far more! Curdles the blood when Christian brothers strive, And prostitute to wordy war the lips Commissioned to dispense 'good will to man;' And soothe the world with spoken kindness, soft, And full of melody as song of birds. O, sad betrayal of the highest trust! Heralds of peace—to blow the trump of strife: Envoys of charity—to sow the tares Of hatred in a soil prepared for love.

Is this a time for soldiers of the cross To point their weapons, each at other's breast, When the great Enemy, the common Foe, Though baffled, unsubdued, lays ever wait For some unguarded pass, to cheat the walls Not all his dread artillery could breach? How is each lunge, and ward, of tart reproof, And bitter repartee—painful to friends— By th' Adversary hailed with general yell Of triumph, or derision! O, my friends! Believe me, lines of loving charity Dishearten enemies, encourage friends, And woo enlistment to your ranks, more sure Than the best weapon of the readiest wit, Whose point is venomed with the gall of scorn.

How wiser then, forbearing bitterness At points of polity, or shades of faith That different show to different-seeing eyes, To shun perplexing doctrines which th' Allwise Has willed obscure, and imitate HIS life; HIS, the meek Founder of our faith, who sowed HIS earthly way with blessings as with seed: Bearing, forbearing, ever rendering good; The Counsellor, the Comforter, the Friend: How ope soe'er HIS word to various sense, HIS life is plain; and all that life was love: Be this our guide, we cannot widely stray.

March, 1844.



THE ENGLISH STATE TRIALS.

DURING THE POPISH PLOT.

The recent Irish State Trials seem to have been conducted on the part of the government with something of the same violence and partiality that dishonor the ancient records of Great Britain's criminal jurisprudence. The exclusion of Roman Catholics from the jury was an arbitrary and unwarrantable act; unjust in itself, disrespectful to the larger portion of the Irish people, and calculated to destroy the moral effect of the verdict, by producing the impression on the public mind that the prisoners did not have a fair trial. We would not be understood as complaining of the verdict. We do not see how, with a strict adherence to the law and to the evidence, the jury could well have decided otherwise. It is the eagerness to convict the prisoners manifested on the part of the law-officers of the crown that is the object of just reprehension.

Trials for offences against the State have happily been almost unknown in this country, and we therefore find it difficult to conceive of the dangers to which a prisoner is exposed, when the whole power of the government is arrayed against him. But to one familiar with the iniquitous manner in which they were conducted in Great Britain during the seventeenth, and the earlier part of the eighteenth century, the proceedings against O'Connell and his associates seem almost models of judicial fairness and impartiality. To one not thus familiar, it is difficult to convey an adequate idea of the extent to which legal tribunals prostituted their functions to purposes of oppression and revenge. The judges holding their offices by the slight tenure of royal favor, and generally owing their elevation to the zeal they had shown to defend the royal prerogatives, were, with a few honorable exceptions, willing instruments in the hands of power. The interpreters of the law, who, like the prophets of old, were bound to curse, or to bless, in obedience to higher impulses than their own wills, became the mere mouth-pieces of the government; the injustice of the decisions imperfectly concealed by the sanctity of the office. Justice, and the favor of the court were identical. The law and the royal pleasure were inseparably associated in the mind of the judge.

We would not be understood as meaning that the English judges were unjust, or partial in the trials between private citizens. In these cases it was not often that there was any obstacle interposed to the administration of even-handed justice. It was when the government came in as a party; when political offenders were to be tried, that they too often proved false to their trust. The temptations of office; the love of ease, wealth, and distinction; the fear of ministerial enmity, of royal disgrace, were too powerful for poor Honesty. The hour in which their aid was most needed by the friendless prisoner, was that in which it was withdrawn; for surely if men ever need an upright, able, and impartial administration of the law, it is when they contend single-handed against the influences of flattery, bribery, and intimidation, which those in authority are ever able to employ. The odds are fearful in such a contest. The prejudices of juries, the subservience of lawyers, the servility of judges, gave scarce a hope that justice would not be wrested to serve the purposes of the crown; that considerations of state policy would not prove stronger than any abstract belief of the prisoner's innocence or guilt. That we have not misrepresented the degraded condition of the English tribunals during the period we have mentioned, a reference to the state trials passim, will abundantly prove. Nor is it at all strange that such should have been the case. During the dynasty of the Tudors, and the reign of the first of the Stuarts, the duty alike of the courts, and of parliament was simply to register the royal edicts. If the formalities of law were observed, it was rather through the good-nature of the sovereign, than from any consciousness of his inability to break through their restraints. But after the rebellion, and especially after the revolution, when the limits of prerogative became marked out with some degree of precision, and monarchs could no longer effect their purposes by open violence, then more subtle means were resorted to, but scarcely less dangerous, to destroy those who were so unfortunate as to become the objects of royal or ministerial enmity. The king, if he could not make the law, could still appoint the judges of the law; and the right of interpretation was hardly less powerful than the power of legislation. Even when, after a lapse of time, the judges became in a great measure independent of the crown, still it was not until many years later, when the voice of an outraged people became more terrible to them than the frowns of kings or ministers, that those accused of political offence could hope for justice at their hands.

The reign of Charles the Second, in every respect the most disgraceful in English history, is that period to which we wish now particularly to ask the reader's attention. During the latter part of it, the chief justice's seat was filled first by Scroggs, and afterwards by Jeffries; the former came to the bench a little before the disclosures that took place respecting the Popish Plot, and presided at the trials that took place in consequence of that event. It is to these trials that we shall now confine ourselves; only premising certain facts necessary to the perfect understanding of the extracts which we are about to make.

It is unnecessary to go minutely into the details of the Popish Plot. A general outline will answer our present purpose. The first who pretended any knowledge of it, or made any disclosure respecting it, was Titus Oates. He, when examined before the council in October, 1678, stated that at a consult held by the Jesuits on the 24th of April preceding, at the White Horse Tavern in London, resolutions had been adopted to kill the king, overthrow the established church, and restore popery. Upon this many arrests were made, and among others was Coleman, who had been secretary to the late Duchess of York. His papers were seized, and there was found a correspondence he had carried on several years before with the confessor of Louis XIV., having reference mainly to the restoration of the Catholic religion in England. These letters, although in no way confirmatory of the alleged Plot, except so far as they indicated an anxious desire on the part of the members of that church to regain their lost ascendency in Great Britain, and their intention to use every effort for that purpose, things already well known, yet produced great excitement, and were regarded by many as conclusive proof of the truth of Oates' statements. Another event, which happened about the same time, raised the excitement to its highest pitch. Sir Edmundbury Godfrey, a London magistrate, before whom Oates had made his depositions, was found murdered, and under such circumstances as precluded the idea of suicide. Suspicion now deepened into certainty. No one longer dared to doubt the reality of the plot. To doubt, was to confess one's self an accomplice. Nothing was talked of but the Plot. The wildest rumors were caught up and repeated, and soon grew into well-authenticated facts. The name Papist, or Roman Catholic, became synonymous with assassin. Many, not content with carrying arms, clothed themselves in armor. At the funeral of Sir Edmondbury Godfrey, says North, in his Examen, 'the crowd was prodigious, both at the procession, and in and about the church, and so heated, that any thing called Papist, were it a cat or a dog, had probably gone to pieces in a moment. The Catholics all kept close in their houses and lodgings, thinking it a good compensation to be safe there, so far were they from acting violently at that time. But there was all that which upheld among the common people an artificial fright, so that every one almost fancied a popish knife just at his throat; and at the sermon, beside the preacher, two thumping divines stood upright in the pulpit, to guard him from being killed while he was preaching, by the Papists.'

Oates immediately became a man of great consequence. He was called the saviour of the nation, had lodgings given him at Whitehall, and a pension from parliament of L1200 a year. But the more cool and circumspect could not forget the notorious infamy of his character, or implicitly rely on the word of a man who openly confessed that he had gone among the Jesuits, and declared himself a convert to their faith merely to betray them. But with the populace his credit was unbounded. The more incredible his fictions, the better they suited the vulgar appetite. In this sort of narrative, as Hume truly remarks, a fool was more likely to succeed than a wise man. Accompanied by his guards, for being supposed to be a special object of popish enmity, guards had been assigned him, he walked about in great dignity, attired as a priest, and 'whoever he pointed at was taken up and committed; so that many people got out of his way as from a blast, and glad they could prove their two last years' conversation. The very breath of him was pestilential, and if it brought not imprisonment or death over such on whom it fell, it surely poisoned reputation, and left good Protestants arrant papists, and something worse than that, in danger of being put in the plot as traitors.'[1]

[1] North's 'Examen.'

Parliament was opened three days after Godfrey's murder, and immediately voted that it was of opinion that there had been, and was 'a damnable and hellish plot;' and every day, both forenoon and afternoon, a session was held at which the whole matter was discussed. The arrests were numerous, and among others were several papist lords, and Sir George Wakeman, the physician to the queen. Even the Duke of York and the Queen herself were accused by Oates as traitors and accomplices. These stories meeting such general credence, and rewards being heaped upon the author, others, as might have been expected, soon followed his example. The most notorious of these minor perjurers was one Bedlow, who pretended to know the secret of Godfrey's murder. When first examined he knew nothing of the Plot, but told a ridiculous story about forty thousand men who were coming over to England from Spain. The next day, however, his knowledge was greatly increased, and he pretended to be as fully informed of all the particulars of the Plot as Oates himself. As we shall see by and by, whatever the bolder villain swore to, his subordinate confirmed.

Such was the state of things when the first victim of this extraordinary popular delusion were brought to trial. The earliest trial, although the accused was not charged with being concerned in the plot, was that of Stayley, a goldsmith or broker, on the 21st of November, 1678. The charge against him was that he had called the king a heretic, and threatened to kill him. The chief witness against him was one Castars. Bishop Burnet, who was well acquainted with him, says, that when he heard who the witnesses were, he thought he was bound to do what he could to stop it: 'so I sent both to the lord chancellor and the attorney general to let them know what profligate wretches these witnesses were. Jones, the attorney general, took it ill of me that I should disparage the king's evidence. Duke Lauderdale, having heard how I had moved in this matter, railed at me with open mouth. He said I had studied to save Stayley for the liking I had to any one that would murder the king.' The trial proceeded, and one of the witnesses testified to the following words as spoken by the prisoner: 'The King of England is the greatest heretic, and the greatest rogue in the world; here's the heart and here's the hand that would kill him; I myself.'

PRISONER. 'Here's the hand, and here's the heart that would kill myself; not would kill him myself.'

L. C. J. 'What Jesuit taught you this trick? It is like one of them. It is the art and interest of a Jesuit so to do.'

In this, as in all the subsequent trials, the existence of the Plot was taken for granted as an incontestable fact. Another fact was also assumed, most improperly indeed, but not without some show of reason, that it was an admitted doctrine of the Romish church, that however sinful an act might be in itself, it lost its sinfulness if the interests of the church demanded its performance. Therefore it was argued, to kill a heretic-king, to swear falsely, to deceive an enemy, is to do nothing wrong in the eyes of a Papist, if the pope or the bishops command it. Such a man it is proper for us to regard as an enemy, for his principles would lead him to employ any means for the destruction of those whom he was taught to regard as the enemies of his church.

It is unnecessary for us to stop to point out the fallacy of this mode of reasoning. Our business at present is only to show the effect it had upon the minds both of the court and the jury. Thus the Chief Justice reasoned in his charge at the trial: 'You, and we all, are sensible of the great difficulties and hazards that is now both against the king's person, and against all Protestants, and our religion too; which will hardly maintain itself, when they have destroyed the men; but let 'em know that many thousands will lose their religion with their lives, for we will not be Papists, let the Jesuits press what they will, (who are the foundations of all this mischief,) in making proselytes by telling them, Do what wickedness you will, it's no sin, but we can save you; and if you omit what we command, we can damn you. Excuse if I am a little warm, when perils are so many, their murders so secret, that we cannot discover the murder of that gentleman whom we all knew so well, when things are transacted so closely, and our king in so great danger, and our religion at stake. 'Tis better to be warm here than in Smithfield. When a Papist once hath made a man a heretic, there is no scruple to murder him. Whoever is not of their persuasion are heretics, and whoever are heretics may be murdered if the pope commands it; for which they may become saints in heaven; this is that they have practised. If there had been nothing of this in this kingdom, or other parts of the world, it would be a hard thing to impose it upon them; but they ought not to complain when so many instances are against them. Therefore discharge your consciences as you ought to do; if guilty, let him take the reward of his crime, and you shall do well to begin with this man, for perchance it may be a terror to the rest. Unless they think they can be saved by dying in the Roman faith, though with such pernicious and traitorous words and designs as these are, let such go to Heaven by themselves. I hope I shall never go to that Heaven, where men are made saints for killing kings.'

The flimsy logic and cool-blooded cruelty of this charge are too obvious to require mention. According to the chief justice, no Papist could complain that he was hanged for treason because some members of his church had massacred the Protestants on Bartholomew's day. The recommendation 'to begin with this man, that it may be a terror to the rest,' marks well the character of the judge, and the temper of the jury that could advance or approve such a detestable doctrine.

Stayley was convicted and thus sentenced: 'You shall return to prison, from thence shall be drawn to the place of execution, where you shall be hanged by the neck, cut down alive, your quarters shall be severed, and be disposed of as the king shall think fit, and your bowels burnt, and so the Lord have mercy on your soul.'

This sentence was executed five days after.

The next victim was Coleman. The evidence against him was of a twofold nature; his own letters, and the testimony of Oates and Bedlow. As to the first, they disclose clearly enough the existence of a Plot, but a Plot in which Charles himself was the chief conspirator; a Plot not only to restore popery, but to destroy English liberty. This Plot was of an early date, and began indeed almost at the restoration of the king. The monarch of France and the Duke of York were his accomplices. Coleman's part in it seems to have been merely that of an ambitious, intriguing, bigotted partizan, pleased with being entrusted with the secrets of the great; and much disposed to magnify the importance and value of his services. His letters, that were produced on his trial, related to the years 1674 and '5. If there was any correspondence of a later date, it was never discovered. In fine, we may say of these letters that if there was enough in them to convict Coleman of high treason, the king, the duke, and several of the most prominent statesmen of that period were equally guilty.

The testimony of Oates was so strange and improbable, that it never could have obtained credence for a moment, except at a time when men had 'lost their reason.' The basis of his whole narration, was his statement relating to the consult of the Jesuits in April, which we give in his own words. 'They were ordered to meet by virtue of a brief from Rome, sent by the father general of the society. They went on to these resolves: That Pickering and Grove should go on, and continue in attempting to assassinate the king's person by shooting, or other means. Grove was to have fifteen hundred pounds. Pickering being a religious man, was to have thirty thousand masses, which at twelvepence a mass amounted to much that money. This resolve of the Jesuits was communicated to Mr. Coleman in my hearing at Wild House. My lord, this was not only so, but in several letters he did mention it, and in one letter, (I think I was gone a few miles out of London,) he sent to me by a messenger, and did desire the duke might be trepaned into this Plot to murder the king.'

But one consult of fifty Jesuits, all eager to carry their diabolical plans of assassination and murder into execution, was not enough for Dr. Oates, and he went on to relate the proceedings that took place at another, held at the Savoy in the month of August, when the Benedictine monks were present with the Jesuits. 'In this letter,' (one written by Archbishop Talbot, the titular archbishop of Dublin,) 'there were four Jesuits had contrived to despatch the Duke of Ormond. (These were his words.) To find the most expedient way for his death Fogarthy was to be sent to do it by poison, if these four good fathers did not hit of their design. My lord, Fogarthy was present. And when the consult was almost at a period, Mr. Coleman came to the Savoy to the consult, and was mighty forward to have father Fogarthy sent to Ireland to despatch the duke by poison. This letter did specify they were then ready to rise in rebellion against the king for the pope.'

ATT. GEN. 'Do you know any thing of arms?'

'There were forty thousand black bills; I am not so skilful in arms to know what they meant, (military men know what they are,) that were provided to be sent into Ireland for the use of the Catholic party.'

In addition to the forty thousand black bills, Oates stated that there had been L200,000 contributed by the Catholics, and that he heard Coleman say 'that he had found a way to transmit it for the carrying on of the rebellion in Ireland.'

Here certainly was treason enough concocted, if one could believe the witnesses, to have hung a hundred men. No less than seven men had engaged to kill the king; all of whom, through some strange infelicity, did not find an opportunity even to make the attempt. Not satisfied with this number of assassins, Coleman would have had the Duke of York brought into the Plot, and made the murderer of his brother. Could human folly frame a set of lies more gross and palpable?

Beside Coleman's general knowledge of the Plot, Oates mentioned several circumstances showing the special interest that he had taken in it; that he had written letters which the witness had carried to St. Omers, in which were these 'expressions of the king, calling him tyrant, and that the marriage between the Prince of Orange and the Lady Mary, the Duke of York's eldest daughter, would prove the traitor's and tyrant's ruin;' that 'this letter was written in plain English words at length;' that he had sent another letter in which he promised 'that the ten thousand pounds' (sent by the Jesuits,) 'should be employed for no other intent or purpose but to cut off the King of England;' and that he had given money that 'the four Irish ruffians,' who were to kill the king at Windsor, might be speedy in their business.

In all these trials there is nothing that more strikingly shows the infamous manner in which these witnesses were allowed to testify, than the withholding of such parts of their evidence as they pretended it was improper at that time to bring forward. Thus they protected themselves; for no one durst accuse them lest he himself should be charged as a party to the conspiracy. At this trial Oates said, without a word of dissent from the Chief Justice, 'I could give other evidence but will not, because of other things which are not fit to be known yet.'

It is impossible that the Chief Justice, or the other judges, should have believed such a story as this even for a moment. We make all necessary allowance for the influence of great popular excitement. We know that judges are but men, and are not exempt more than other men from the contagion of those occasional outbursts of frenzy, which seem to destroy all individual independence, and all sense of individual responsibility; and which for a time makes a nation like a herd of maddened buffaloes, ignorant whither it is going, but unable to stop in its furious career. Yet by their position judges are, of all classes of men, the farthest removed from popular influences of this nature. Their habits of legal investigation, fit them in an eminent degree to weigh with scrupulous accuracy the characters of witnesses; to detect improbabilities and contradictions. Stories that may deceive even intelligent men unacquainted with the laws of evidence, and the bearings of testimony, stand revealed at first glance to the practised eye of the judge as a tissue of falsehoods. Here the judges could not have been deceived. Who could believe that the Jesuits, a body of men not less celebrated for their profound knowledge of the politics of every kingdom in Christendom, than for the wisdom with which they adapted their plans of proselytism to the changing circumstances of the times, should have formed a plan to restore popery in England by massacre and conquest? The thing is too preposterous to merit a moment's attention.

Still more ridiculous are the details of the Plot as disclosed by Oates. Would the Jesuits, even if they had formed such plans, confide them to a penniless, friendless vagabond; a man of notoriously bad character, who was, while at St. Omers, the butt and laughing stock of the whole college? Such secrets are not usually revealed to any but tried men, and the Jesuits were the last of all conspirators to bestow their confidence rashly. Yet here was a conspiracy whose disclosure would have brought a certain and speedy death to every one engaged in it, known we know not to how many hundreds, and many of these too found in the lowest ranks of the populace. The manner of its execution is of a piece with all the rest. First, two men were employed to kill the king. For two years they could find no opportunity to do it. Then four Irish ruffians were employed. Who they were, or what became of them, no one knew. Then the physician of the queen was hired to poison him. To this horrible plan of assassination, were consenting not only the highest dignitaries of the Romish church, but some of the noblest peers of England and of France. But we have neither time nor patience to proceed farther with such miserable fabrications. We say then that the judges never could have believed in the existence of such a Plot, and that the prisoners tried before them were immolated upon the altar of their own personal popularity. Rather than resist the current of popular feeling, and dare to award justice and uphold the supremacy of impartial law, they chose to swim with the tide, and sacrifice men whom they knew in their hearts to be innocent. It is this that adds tenfold guilt to the brutality of their conduct. We cannot forget that they were dishonest in their very cruelty; that they insulted their victims, browbeat the witnesses, trampled on judicial forms to gain the favor of an infuriated mob, whose madness they laughed at and derided.

At the commencement of the trial, Coleman thus alluded to the law of England, forbidding counsel to prisoners accused of criminal offences, and to the prejudice that then prevailed against those of his religion: 'I hope, my lord, if there be any point of law that I am not skilled in, that your lordships will be pleased not to take the advantage over me. Another thing seems most dreadful, that is, the violent prejudice that seems to be against every man in England that is confessed to be a Roman Catholic. It is possible that a Roman Catholic may be very innocent of these crimes. If one of those innocent Roman Catholics should come to this bar, he lies under such disadvantages already, and his prejudices so greatly biasseth human nature, that unless your lordships will lean extremely much on the other side, justice will hardly stand upright and lie upon a level.'

L. C. J. 'You need not make any preparations for us in this matter; you shall have a fair, just and legal trial; if condemned it will be apparent you ought to be so; and without a fair proof there shall be no condemnation. Therefore you shall find we will not do to you as you do to us, blow up at adventure, kill people because they are not of your persuasion: our religion teacheth us another doctrine, and you shall find it clearly to your advantage.'

This was fairness and impartiality in the eyes of the Chief Justice!

Coleman did not conduct his defence with so much ability as his reputation might lead us to expect. He seems to have been dismayed at the dangers that threatened him, and hopeless of a fair trial, bowed before the storm. An attempted alibi was feebly supported, although Oates was so indefinite in regard to time that to attempt to convict him of falsehood was of little avail. The chief points of his defence were the improbability of the whole story, and the fact that Oates on his examination before the council had said that he did not know him. Oates thus excused himself: 'My lord, when Mr. Coleman was upon his examination before the council board, he saith I said that I never saw him before in my life; I then said that I would not swear that I had seen him before in my life, because my sight was bad by candle-light, and candle-light alters the sight much; but when I heard him speak, I could have sworn it was he, but it was not then my business. I cannot see a great way by candle-light.'

Being asked why he had not accused Coleman at the same time when he accused Wakeman and the Jesuits, he pretended that it was 'for want of memory. Being disturbed and wearied in sitting up two nights, I could not give that good account of Mr. Coleman, which I did afterwards when I consulted my papers;' as if in giving the names of many meaner persons, he should from forgetfulness overlook one so considerable as Coleman. The testimony of Oates was confirmed by Bedlow, who did not hesitate to swear to any thing that the more inventive genius of his fellow-witness had devised.

In summing up, the Chief Justice animadverted with considerable force upon the nature of the letters that had been read as proof of a design to restore popery in England; this he most unjustifiably argued, could not be effected by peaceable means: 'Therefore,' he says, 'there must be more in it, for he that was so earnest in that religion would not have stuck at any violence to bring it in; he would not have stuck at blood. For we know their doctrines and their practises, and we know well with what zeal the priests push them forward to venture their own lives, and take away other men's that differ from them, to bring in their religion and to set up themselves.'

After speaking of the general ignorance of the Papists, and the general diffusion of knowledge among the Protestants, 'insomuch that scarce a cobbler but is able to baffle any Roman priest that ever I saw or met with,' he goes on; 'and after this I wonder that a man who hath been bred up in the Protestant religion, (as I have reason to believe that you, Mr. Coleman, have been, for if I am not misinformed your father was a minister in Suffolk,) for such a one to depart from it, is an evidence against you to prove the indictment. I must make a difference between us and those who have been always educated that way. No man of understanding, but for by-ends, would have left his religion to be a Papist. And for you, Mr. Coleman, who are a man of reason and subtilty, I must tell you, (to bring this to yourself,) upon this account, that it could not be conscience; I cannot think it to be conscience. Your pension was your conscience, and your secretary's place your bait. I do acknowledge many of the popish priests formerly were learned men, and may be so still beyond the seas; but I could never yet meet with any here, that had any other learning or ability but artificial, only to delude weak women and weaker men.

'They have indeed ways of conversion and conviction by enlightening our understandings with a faggot, and by the powerful and irresistible arguments of a dagger. But these are such wicked solecisms in their religion, that they seem to have left them neither natural sense nor natural conscience. Not natural sense, by their absurdity in so unreasonable a belief as of the wine turned into blood: not natural conscience, by their cruelty, who make the Protestant's blood as wine, and these priests thirst after it. Tantum religio potuit suadere malorum.

'Mr. Coleman, in one of his letters, speaks of rooting out our religion and our party; and he is in the right, for they can never root out the Protestant religion but they must kill the Protestants. But let him and them know, if ever they shall endeavor to bring popery in by destroying of the king, they shall find that the Papists will thereby bring destruction upon themselves, so that not a man of them would escape.

'Ne catulus quidem relinquendus.'

'Our execution shall be as quick as their gunpowder, but more effectual. And so, gentlemen, I shall leave it to you to consider what his letters prove him guilty of directly, and what by consequence what he plainly would have done, and then how he would have done it, and whether you think his fiery zeal had so much cold blood in it as to spare any others.

'For the other part of the evidence, which is by the testimony of the present witnesses, you have heard them: I will not detain you longer now; the day is going out.'

MR. JUSTICE JONES. 'You must find the prisoner guilty, or bring in two persons perjured.'

The verdict was what might have been anticipated from such a charge. Coleman was found guilty, and the next day sentenced. After sentence had been pronounced, he protested his innocence, but was brutally interrupted by the Chief Justice: 'I am sorry, Mr. Coleman, that I have not charity enough to believe the words of a dying man.'

In answer to Coleman's request that his wife might visit him in prison, he at first seemed disposed to deny it, and said: 'You say well, and it is a hard case to deny it; but I tell you what hardens my heart: the insolencies of your party, (the Roman Catholics I mean,) that they every day offer, which is indeed a proof of their Plot, that they are so bold and impudent, and such secret murders committed by them as would harden any man's heart to do the common favors of justice and charity that to mankind are usually done. They are so bold and insolent that I think it is not to be endured in a Protestant kingdom.'

His request however was granted. He was executed the third of December following.

We have dwelt with some particularity upon this trial, not because it is by any means the most flagrant for the contemptuous disregard shown by the judges, not only to the legal rights, but to the feelings of the prisoner, but because it came first in the order of time, and serves in a good measure to explain all the trials that follow it. Comment upon it is needless. Such a mockery of justice would disgrace the tribunals of savages. Whatever seems unfavorable to the prisoner is pressed home by the Chief Justice, most strongly against him. Whatever makes for him is kept out of sight. To have been born a Roman Catholic is a crime; to have deliberately adopted that faith, is a damnable sin; one for which there is no expiation. The absurd fictions of Oates and Bedlow are commended to the jury as worthy of implicit credence. The whole weight of judicial authority and influence is thrown into the scale of condemnation.

On the seventeenth of the same December, Whitebread, Fenwick, Ireland, Pickering and Grove, were brought to trial. The chief witnesses against them were Oates and Bedlow. The counsel for the crown thus opened the case: 'May it please your lordships, and you gentlemen of the jury, the persons here before you stand indicted of high treason; they are five in number; three of them are Jesuits, one is a priest, the fifth is a layman; persons fitly prepared for the work in hand.' After a few other observations, he proceeds to institute a comparison between this Plot and the famous Gunpowder Plot. The second and third points of resemblance in the two, he thus states: 'Secondly, the great actors in the design were priests and Jesuits, that came from Valladolid in Spain, and other places beyond the seas. And the great actors in this Plot are priests and Jesuits that are come from St. Omers and other places beyond the seas, nearer home than Spain.

'Thirdly, that Plot was chiefly guided and managed by Henry Garnet, superior and provincial of the Jesuits then in England; and the great actor in this design is Mr. Whitebread, superior and provincial of the Jesuits now in England.'

The evidence of Oates was the same in substance that he gave at Coleman's trial, but with such additional particulars as he judged necessary to keep the popular excitement alive. Thus, in answering the question, what he knew of any attempts to kill the king at St. James' park, he said: 'I saw Pickering and Grove several times walking in the park together, with their secured pistols, which were longer than ordinary pistols, and shorter than some carbines. They had silver bullets to shoot with, and Grove would have had the bullets to be champt for fear that if he should shoot, if the bullets were round, the wound that might be given might be cured.'

ATT. GEN. 'Do you know any thing of Pickering's doing penance, and for what?'

'Yes, my lord. In the month of March last, (for these persons have followed the king several years;) but he at that time had not looked to the flint of his pistol, but it was loose, and he durst not venture to give fire. He had a fair opportunity, as Whitebread said; and because he missed it through his own negligence he underwent penance, and had twenty or thirty strokes of discipline, and Grove was chidden for his carelessness.'

Of the 'four Irish ruffians' that went to Windsor to kill the king, Oates could give no account. How he could reconcile it with his duty to His Majesty to let these assassins lie in wait from August to October, without notifying any one of their murderous intentions, he did not see fit to explain, and of course the attorney general and the judges forgot to ask him.

Not the least wonderful part of his evidence is that which he speaks of the ill usage he received from Whitebread in September, who charged him with having betrayed them: 'So, my lord, I did profess a great deal of innocency, because I had not then been with the king, but he gave me very ill language, and abused me, and I was afraid of a worse mischief from them. And though, my lord, they could not prove that I had discovered it, yet upon the bare suspicion, I was beaten and affronted, and reviled, and commanded to go beyond sea again; nay, my lord, I had my lodgings assaulted to have murdered me if they could.'

This is certainly the strangest way to conciliate a disaffected conspirator, that we ever heard of! Most men would have preferred to use bribes and caresses; but the Jesuits, it seems, knew their man, and chose to beat him into secrecy and submission!

Bedlow's evidence, as usual, was mainly confirmatory of the statements of Oates, embellished by such new incidents as his feebler powers of invention could frame. He was, however, not quite satisfied with this subordinate part; and therefore at the close of his evidence pretends to recollect that he had omitted one thing very material: 'At the same time that there was a discourse about these three gentleman being to destroy the king at New-Market, there was a discourse of a design to kill several noble persons, and the several parts assigned to every one. Knight was to kill the Earl of Shaftsbury, Pritchard, the Duke of Buckingham, Oniel, the Earl of Ossory, Obrian, the Duke of Ormond,' An assassination of noblemen on a truly magnificent scale!

Nothing appearing in Bedlow's evidence to implicate Fenwick and Whitebread, and two witnesses being necessary to prove the charge, they were sent back to prison. When they were subsequently brought up for trial for the same offence, and pleaded that they could not a second time be tried, their plea was overruled, although founded on one of the commonest principles of law, and sanctioned by a thousand precedents. The reasoning of Scroggs and North, the Chief Justice of the Common Pleas, is so curious that it is worth quoting. Whitebread, after objecting that he is informed that no man can be put in jeopardy of his life the second time for the same cause: 'I speak it not for my sake only, but for the sake of the whole nation; no man should be tried twice for the same cause; by the same reason a man may be tried twenty or one hundred times.'

SCROGGS. 'You say well, it is observed, Mr. Whitebread; but you must know that you were not put in jeopardy of your life for the same thing, for first the jury were discharged of you; it is true, it was supposed when you were indicted that there would be two witnesses against you, but that fell out otherwise, and the law of the land requiring two witnesses to prove you guilty of treason, it was thought reasonable that you should not be put upon the jury at all, but you were discharged, and then you were in no jeopardy of your life.'

'Under favor, my lord, I was in jeopardy, for I was given in charge to the jury; and 'tis the case in Seyer, 31 Eliz., he was indicted for a burglary committed the 31st of August, and pleaded to it, and afterward another indictment was preferred, and all the judges did declare that he could not be indicted the second time for the same fact, because he was in jeopardy of his life again.'

C. J. NORTH. 'The oath the jury take is, that they shall well and truly try, and true deliverance make of such prisoners as they shall have in charge; the charge of the jury is not full 'till the court give them a a charge at last, after evidence had; and because there was a mistake in your case, that the evidence was not so full as might be, the jury before they ever considered concerning you at all they were discharged, and so you were not in jeopardy; and, I in my experience, know it to be often done, and 'tis the course of law.'

In this opinion all the judges coincided. Sad indeed was the condition of things in poor England when all her judges could resort to such miserable quibbles; or worse than this, could deliberately falsify the law, to condemn to an ignominious death two defenceless prisoners!

To return from this digression. The three remaining prisoners were found guilty. The Chief Justice in charging the jury was even more violent against the Papists than in his charge at Coleman's trial: 'Some hold that the pope in council is infallible; and ask any Popish Jesuit of them all and he will say the pope is himself infallible in council or he is no true Jesuit; and if so, whatever they command is to be justified by their authority; so that if they give a dispensation to kill a king, that king is well killed. They indulge all sorts of sins, and no human bonds can hold them.

'They have some parts of the foundation 'tis true, but they are adulterated and mixed with horrid principles and impious practises. They eat their God, they kill their king, and saint the murderer. This is a religion that quite unhinges all piety, all morality, all conversation, and to be abominated by all mankind.

'I return now to the fact which is proved by two witnesses, and by the concurrent evidence of the letter and the maid; and the matter is as plain and notorious as can be, that there was an intention of bringing in popery by a cruel and bloody way; for I believe they never could have prayed us into their religion. I leave it therefore for you to consider whether you have not as much evidence from these two men as can be expected in a case of this nature; and whether Mr. Oates be not rather justified by the testimony offered against him, than discredited. Let prudence and conscience direct your verdict, and you will be too hard for their art and cunning.

'Gentlemen, if you think you shall be in long we will adjourn the court till the afternoon and take your verdict then.'

JURY. 'No, my lord, we shall not be long.'

After a very short recess the jury returned with a verdict of guilty against all.

C. J. 'You have done, gentlemen, like very good subjects and very good Christians; that is to say, like very good Protestants. And now, much good may their thirty thousand masses do them!'

Before the court pronounced sentence Ireland loudly complained that he had had no time to call his witnesses: 'So that we could have none but only those that came in by chance, and those things they have declared, though true, were not believed.' His objection was overruled, and the Recorder, Sir George Jeffries, proceeded to pass sentence. The spirit that pervaded his speech may be seen in this extract: 'I am sure this was so horrid a design, that nothing but a conclave of devils in hell, or a college of such Jesuits as yours on earth, could have thought upon.'

At the trial of Berry, Green and Hill, for the murder of Sir Edmondbury Godfrey, the improbabilities of the testimony and the contradictions of the witnesses were so glaring that it seems incredible that any man could believe them. As a specimen: Praunce, the chief witness, said that the body was taken to Hill's lodgings where it remained two days in a certain room he mentioned. In defence, it was shown by all the family, that that room was an open one; that scarcely an hour passed but some one went through it. But instead of receiving this testimony, the Chief Justice told the witnesses that it was very suspicious they had not seen the body, and that it was well for them they were not indicted. But we have not space to quote further. The extracts we have already made will be sufficient to show Scrogg's utter contempt for those duties which the law imposed upon him as the counsel for the prisoners; his abusive and threatening demeanor toward their witnesses; his appeals to the passions of the jury, their bigotry and their fears; and in a word, his total destitution of every quality that marks the honest, fair-minded, and impartial judge.

We intended to speak of the disgraceful and cowardly part which Charles the Second bore in these proceedings. Convinced that the Plot was a mere fiction, he saw day by day his innocent and faithful subjects led to the gallows without making an effort for their safety, or giving utterance to a word of disapprobation. It was not until the Queen was attacked, that the selfish monarch interfered. A word from him turned the abuse of Scroggs into an opposite channel, and Oates and Bedlow were now as bitterly reviled as the Jesuits had been before. We believe that Charles was a willing spectator if not an active promoter of these legal butcheries, hoping that thereby a vent would be given to the popular fury, and he himself, by such a sacrifice, regain the lost affections of his people.

We intended also to speak of the conduct of the leading English statesmen during this period; of Lauderdale, of Shaftsbury, of Danby, and of Buckingham; but our limits are already overpassed. We can only say that the character of the monarch was truly reflected in the character of his counsellors; that as England has never had so faithless and profligate a king, she has never been disgraced by such unscrupulous, despicable, and short-sighted ministers.



THE INFANT'S BURIAL.

BY THE SHEPHERD OF SHARONDALE, VALLEY OF VIRGINIA.

'Earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust.'

I.

'Dust unto dust!' Sweet child! Was that dark sentence ever meant for thee? For that bright form, that tablet undefiled, Creation's mystery? No no, it could not be, for GOD is just; That beauteous brow! oh, who could call that dust? And yet methought I heard Those words slow uttered o'er thy tiny grave, As though that Eden-calm had e'er been stirred By Passion's stormy wave. It should have been, 'Angels an Angel meet; Seraphs on high a sister-seraph greet!'

II.

'Earth unto earth;' 'tis well That sordid earth should pass to earth again: In those dark fanes where truth has ceased to dwell, Why should the shrine remain? Deep in the dust let all such pass away; Why should they not?—clay mingles but with clay: Such is dark Manhood's prime, From whose high nature all of Heaven has past, Whose once pure mould is deeply dyed with crime; Bound down with fetters fast: Gone, gone is all of holiness and worth, And what remains is naught indeed but earth.

III.

'Ashes to ashes?' Yes! Let it be thus with those whom age has chilled, Whose life is but the dying ember's glow— There let it be fulfilled! Say, 'When the altar-fires but dimly burn, 'Ashes to ashes, dust to dust' return!' And with that aged band, The blackened craters of whose hearts are charred By scathed hopes and Hate's undying brand; Let not this fate be marred: Ope wide thy portals, Grave! Death, pass them down! For these, and such as these, are all thine own.

IV.

But oh, my beauteous one! This gloomy path should not by thee be trod; The grave, the worm, should not by thee be known— Go thou direct to GOD! Thy passport white at Heaven's gate unroll, (No dark hand-writing e'er hath soiled that scroll.) 'Twas thus the Saviour spoke: 'Those little children; suffer them to come.' The mandate thou didst hear; the fetters broke Which kept thee from thy home: Awhile life's threshhold thou didst press with glee, Then turned away; this life was not for thee!



A PISCATORIAL ECLOGUE.

VEL ISAACUS WALTON IN NOVAM SCALAM REDIVIVUS.

BY PETER VON GEIST.

PISCATOR. You are happily met, my fair young lady!

DISCIPULA. A very good morrow to you, Mr. PISCATOR. You are early a-foot, with your rod and lines.

PISCATOR. A veteran of the angle will be stirring early; there is a brace of fish waiting for my hook on the other side of our lake. But you, my gentle maiden, have you come down to the beach to see the sun rise? and mayhap to pluck a rose with the dew on't? I think you have found it; for I think I can see the rose on your cheek, and the dew in your eye. It is sweet to be up betimes in the morning, when the air and the new sunlight are as clear and calm as your own thoughts.

DISCIPULA. It is even so, as you and I know right well. A pleasant sail to you; God send a dozen fish, and may you kill them merrily. But honest Mr. Piscator, do you go alone to-day?

PISCATOR. I think so to do; for you are to note, a companion of patience and sober demeanor, free from profane jests and scurrilous discourse, is worth gold, but is not so easy to be come at. And none other than such jumps with my humor.

DISCIPULA. And when, my good Mr. Piscator, will you give me another lesson in the art of angling? For you must know the last has only increased my desire to learn something more of it. Or do you think that we women can never attain skill in that noble and gentle art?

PISCATOR. That it is a noble and a gentle art I am ready to maintain; and that women have attained skill in it is not to be doubted; as you will read in books of old time, that ladies both hunted, and hawked, and fished.

DISCIPULA. But the lesson, my honest master? When shall I have another lesson?

PISCATOR. You shall even suit your own convenience. And some fine morning, when you are so disposed, we will take a walk down the river; when I will teach you to cast your line for trout; for indeed, it requires a sharp wit and much practice to throw your fly so that the trout will rise at it.

DISCIPULA. Not in the river, if it please you, good Mr. Piscator, not in the river! Teach me to fish in the lake.

PISCATOR. Without doubt, my fair young lady, it must be as you desire. And yet, it is not every woman that would have the courage to cross the pond in a skiff that rocks to every ripple.

DISCIPULA. Trust me for that. You should know that I am not wont to be frightened at trifles.

PISCATOR. Truly, it is so; and I do not question your courage. Then on any day that you will appoint, GOD willing, I will give you a sail; or indeed, this morning, if duty does not incline you in another direction, and you will step with me into my little boat yonder.

DISCIPULA. That shall I with right good will. But I shall have to make you wait while I get my fishing tackle.

PISCATOR. Of necessity you shall not do that; for I remember now, I can fit you with a spare harness of my own.

DISCIPULA. Then let us be going, say I. And is this the skiff? What a painted little cockle-shell of a boat, with its two masts! I suppose it will bear us both?

PISCATOR. It will bear twenty like you and me. Please let me help you to step in; and though you feel it to give under your feet, and as it were, slide away from beneath you, yet now when you are set down on the bench, you perceive it is perfectly steady.

DISCIPULA. Oh, I shall not be in the least afraid. What a tiny little schooner! But is it not bold to spread both sails? And see, now that we come round to the wind, how the skiff keels over.

PISCATOR. It is entirely safe, my fair scholar; for since you have chosen me to be your instructor and master in the science of the angle, you must be content to be called my scholar. It is entirely safe; and you must observe, that however much it may keel over, it cannot upset; for if struck by a sudden squall, or flaw of the wind, the masts will go by the board, and so it will right.

DISCIPULA. Excellently well contrived. But has not the breeze suddenly died away? Yet the sails are distended, and miniature waves are thrown off from either side of the bow.

PISCATOR. The breeze seems to have decreased, because we are moving in the same direction with it; and you will see, now when I bring the boat more toward the wind, that it blows as strong as before, and our motion is well nigh stopped.

DISCIPULA. That I can very well see; and I pray you, my master, not to bring the skiff so far into the wind to prove your proposition to me as to capsize it. The masts bend over toward the water more than it is pleasant to see.

PISCATOR. There is no danger; and after half an hour's experience you will become used to it, and lose all apprehension. I think I will alter our course a couple of points; so if you have a mind, since I cannot well leave the tiller, you may unloose the cord that fastens the forward sail to the side of the boat; wait a moment till we come round, and the sail hangs loose in the wind; now loose the rope, and let it out about a foot; so, wind it round as it was before. Neatly done! Next, let out the other sail in the same way and to the same length. It was well executed! Really, you are destined to become a sailor's wife after all.

DISCIPULA. Marry, I hope so. But why 'after all?'

PISCATOR. Nay, I meant nothing; except, that whereas I formerly thought you rather affected the land, now I find that you are courageous on the water; and therefore, I say you deserve a Commodore. Observe now, we are running more nearly with the wind, and move faster. It is a favorable breeze; for our fishing-ground is in the south-eastern corner of the lake, behind that highland which you see yonder; and this blows from the western quarter. We shall soon be there.

DISCIPULA. Be in no hurry; I am in none. Is it not a fine morning? Those white, high-flying clouds, rolled up into fleeces like wool, with ragged patches of the sky between them, above us, and the broad blue bosom of the lake, with the multitude of little waves leaping up and dancing all over its surface beneath us, and our boat, in the midst of both sky and water, gliding calmly along like a bird with his wings spread floating in the air! Is it not a lovely morning? Yes, yes; I must be a sailor's wife, and live on the ocean! Or perhaps, rather, a fisherman's wife, and sail on a lake like this. If I should happen to meet with one of the latter class, of approved character, somewhat mature in years and grave in demeanor, kind of disposition and manly of countenance, one who would let me go sailing with him every day, (of course I am not describing you, Mr. Piscator,) I think—yes, I am quite certain, that he would content me.

PISCATOR. Nay, nay, my fair young lady, you are pleased to mock! 'Mature in years and grave in demeanor,' said you? A gallant young sailor for you, say I! There are many who sigh for the favor which you have so freely granted me to-day. Ah, you should not jeer.

DISCIPULA. I tell you, Mr. Piscator, none but you for me this day! I am not going to think of any body but you; for I tell you plainly, I like you very much.

PISCATOR. Ah, yes, yes; certainly—without doubt, I hope so; surely, why should you not?

DISCIPULA. And what a beautiful island! The grass grows down almost to the water's edge, leaving a narrow belt of white sand; how it glistens in the sun-light! and those half-a-dozen tall trees in the centre, how do you suppose they came to grow there alone so?

PISCATOR. That is a question which I have often asked, but have never been able to satisfy myself, as to how they came there. They have stood for more generations than one, and will cast their shadows on the water when other boats than ours sail past them, and other eyes than ours wonder at them. Now we are nearly at our journey's end; when we pass through the opening between that island ahead of us, and the main land, we shall be on our fishing-ground.

DISCIPULA. Is it possible that we have reached here so quick? It is not half so far as I thought it was. And yet, on looking back, there is a wide waste lying between us and the cove from which we started. How diminutive the house on the high ground back of the landing-place looks; like a mole-hill, and the trees around it like shrubs! Well sped, little bark! A swift and an easy-paced courser are you; steadily now, through this narrow strait; steadily and gently, for your race is almost run.

PISCATOR. The channel begins to widen again; and lo! here we are in a lake by itself as it were; a sheet of water full a mile long and a quarter of a mile wide. And herein the fish mostly do congregate. I will hold on to near the middle, and then drop the anchor.

DISCIPULA. It is indeed a fine sheet; smooth as any mirror; clearer than glass. I suppose the fish assemble here when they get tired of the roughness and commotion of the lake without, because it is so calm and still. Is it not so?

PISCATOR. It may be so; it is a good reason, and I will believe that it is so, since you have supposed it. This is as good a place as any, and here we will cast our lines; and there is so little wind stirring, that we shall only need to furl our sails, and the boat will remain at rest. Now then, here is your rod, nicely put together, with a fly on the hook. A pike will rise as quick at an artificial fly as at a live one; a greedy fish is that pike; and if we should have occasion, I have other kinds of bait. Take it, and throw your line out as I taught you before. But what are you regarding so intently?

DISCIPULA. I am looking at the shadow of the trees in the water; an inverted forest in the lake. Fish a little while alone, and let me look.

PISCATOR. It has become so late in the day that I have not much hope of taking many now. However, I can but try. This same rod and line have done me good service in this same place, before to-day. Ah, I see a pike! I'll have him! Look! look how slowly and warily he comes up toward the bait! When he gets within a few feet of it, he will make a dash, and gorge it without stopping to think. Ah, there he goes with it; and here he comes back with it, straight up into the boat. Upon my word, a reasonable fish; he wont weigh short of three pounds.

DISCIPULA. Oh, Mr. Piscator! here's a new heaven and a new earth beneath us! Waving trees with birds flitting among their branches, and far down below, flying clouds and blue sky. A perfect hemisphere, and we are hanging over it, without any thing to support us! I shouldn't be surprised, to feel myself this minute tumbling down into it, down to the new heaven! I have been expecting to, for some time past; and what a fall would that be! Do you suppose we should stop when we got there?

PISCATOR. If we did not, where should we go to?

DISCIPULA. Ah, where!

PISCATOR. These fish do not seem inclined to bite this morning. Yet there is one larger than that I caught before. I must have him, too. Observe how wistfully he eyes the bait; let the fly skim slowly along the water, just over him; that is the way, Sir, to swallow a hook; and now come up, and slide into the basket, out of sight, and keep your brother company.

DISCIPULA. Mr. Piscator, when you make such a splashing in the water, you ruffle and wrinkle my submarine prospect. Please don't.

PISCATOR. I think it will be profitless trying to take any more this forenoon; toward night they will bite again. And what shall we do in the mean time? Usually, when I come out here alone, I go ashore, and rest myself during these hours, amid the fragrant shades of the thick trees, that screen me from the mid-day heat. Would you like to take such a ramble?—or are you inclined to stay here, and gaze into the water?

DISCIPULA. I suppose the picture will keep till we come back. Let us go ashore, and wander around in the woods, and find romantic grottoes, and weave flower-wreaths, and build castles in the air.

PISCATOR. And half a mile inland, you can see its summit from here, is a hill that commands a vast tract of lake and woodland.

DISCIPULA. Yes, yes; let us go!

PISCATOR. Well, scholar, here we are again, after our long tramp. You see I am a better land-pilot than you just now took me to be; for I have brought us out to the right spot; more by token, yonder is the boat, safe and sound. I am afraid you are fatigued with our long travels?

DISCIPULA. Not much; but I would like to sit down on the green carpet, under this shade, for a few minutes.

PISCATOR. It must be, at the least, four of the clock; and although your nature, my fair young lady, is probably too ethereal to think of such homely matters, I do not profess mine to be such, and am ready to acknowledge, that a little dinner would not be unacceptable.

DISCIPULA. Unacceptable? No; but where are we to get it?

PISCATOR. I always bring with me, on my excursions, a hand-basket, containing——

DISCIPULA. Why in the world!—why didn't you let me know that before? Let us have it as quick as possible!

PISCATOR. It is in the boat, and if you will remain a moment, I will bring it up here.

DISCIPULA. Oh yes, do! And be quick, my good master!—as quick as you can!

PISCATOR. Nimble as any page, that waits on lady bright. Here we have the provisions; and if we could manage to find something for a table-cover, we might dispense with knives and—— Right, scholar, put your hand into the basket and help yourself.

DISCIPULA. Ham sandwich! Oh, Mr. Piscator, this is good! Is there enough of it?

PISCATOR. Enough for us two; and therefore you need not fear to help yourself heartily, as I am glad to see that you are not. Never was sumptuous feast to an epicure on gala-day better than my simple fare to me on this beach, after a morning's sail and ramble.

DISCIPULA. Most excellent! I'll come out here every time I can get a chance, for the sake of dining with you under the old beech tree.

PISCATOR. It brings to my mind the story of the king, who, after the chase, took some bread and water at the hut of a woodsman; which, as it is no doubt well known, I shall not repeat unto you. But the bottom of the basket begins to appear. What! done already? Good despatch! And now, scholar, we will immediately to our sport, for we have no time to waste.

DISCIPULA. Yes, yes, immediately to work; I long to try my hand. Here's the boat; I should think it would have got tired waiting so long for us. But it looks very patient.

PISCATOR. You may get in, while I loose, and shove off. There appears to be a sharp breeze blowing on the lake without, yet our pond is as unruffled as when we left it. We will return to the same spot we were in before, and cast out our lines.

DISCIPULA. Is this my rod? Fix the bait for me skilfully, and I'll catch them.

PISCATOR. I cannot promise you great success at first, considering your inexperience——

DISCIPULA. Oh, I'm going to catch an hundred!

PISCATOR. I hope you may; certainly—I hope you will; and you can only try. There, your fly is fastened to the hook as well as my art is able. Come, and sit on this side, and I will give you some instructions how to use it. First, see that the line is clear of the rod; then give it one swing round your head; so—and cast it quickly but softly, as far from you as you can on the water. Neatly done! Now draw it slowly along the surface, and you shall presently see a fish rise at it. Be more moderate; you draw it too rapidly. Ha! there it goes under! Wait till you feel him pulling on the line; now give him a little jerk to the right; there you have him, fairly hooked! You must be careful, or you'll lose him yet. No; he's not very heavy, and you may raise him strait out of the water, and land him in the boat; so!

DISCIPULA. Ah, my master, will you tell me that I can't catch fish? Poor little fish! Oh, but he's a small one: take him off, master, and put him into the hold. I hunt for nobler game.

PISCATOR. Not a good thought, not a good thought for an angler. Hunt for nobler game, if you like; but a fisherwoman must not despise the smallest that comes to her net. Every thing counts.

DISCIPULA. Despise? No; oh no! I would like to catch fifty just such; that is, if there are no larger ones to angle for.

PISCATOR. Well, your bait is set again. Cast out as before, and I wish you better luck.

DISCIPULA. Now I am going to catch a large one—a foot long. But, Mr. Piscator, why do you not use your line?

PISCATOR. I will not interfere with your sport; and beside, I may want to give you advice how to manage yours. It is not, in general, a good plan to let the fish see you when you are angling; they are apt to be frightened away. However, in this case, I shall say nothing against it; because if they have an eye for beauty, as is commonly believed, your showing yourself should have a contrary effect. In truth, the influence of beauty is much to be marvelled at. I remember myself when I was young, and had not yet learned their vanity, how easy I was to be led away and bewitched by a fair face and a sparkling eye. That was some time ago; you draw your fly too fast; it was some years ago; and yet I am fain to confess, that even now, in nothing do I take more pleasure, than in looking on a ruddy cheek, a polished brow, the long lashes of a soft blue eye, and upon heavy folds of auburn hair; and it is for this reason that I have placed you opposite to me now.

DISCIPULA. Why, Mr. Piscator! Did you mean that for a compliment?

PISCATOR. Certainly no. I seldom speak but what I think, for flattery I like neither to give nor receive. Ah, yes; there are witches in the world yet. And their witchcraft consists not in magic filters, and potent herbs gathered at midnight under the full moon; far more subtle and powerful is it. Like the poisons of eastern countries, it is communicated by a touch, by a look, by the breath of a word. This is the witchcraft that they use; therewith lure they men to commit folly. It would seem to be their chief delight, their main occupation. But I am willing to believe that you are not so evil-minded; and that when you bewitch men, it is not because you love to do it, but that it is altogether involuntary.

DISCIPULA. Oh, of course, altogether involuntary. If I had my way, I never would cause a single flutter in any body's breast—not I. But you see how it is, I can't help it, and therefore it is not my fault. These fish do not bite well. There is one, he will weigh four pounds, that has been playing round and round the hook, but won't touch it. Haven't you got some kind of sweet smelling oil or perfume to scent the bait with?

PISCATOR. I have some lavender-leaves, and if you will draw up the line, I will rub the fly over with them, for fish love the smell of lavender. Try him with that. Ah, I see him—a respectable fish. He is coming up toward the hook; I think he will take it.

DISCIPULA. He stops and eyes it, as though he half suspected that it would not be pleasant to the taste, for all its fair looks. But I'll have him, in spite of his wits. You scrutinize too closely, Sir Pike! You had better take it at once, without useless inspection. What a noble fellow! How gracefully he moves through the water! I will make it float carelessly away from him, dancing on the silver surface, as though it had just fallen fresh from Heaven; and beside, distance lends enchantment. Ha! see him make a dive at it! There you have it, Sir! and there I have you!

PISCATOR. Take care, or you'll be over! Hold hard, or he'll have you too! Upon my word, I was afraid you would go overboard! You should not, in your eagerness, lean out over the water so far. But you have got the better of him, and now pull him into the boat and let me take him off.

DISCIPULA. I came near losing my balance; I thought I was gone! Lucky escape!—but my heart beats yet.

PISCATOR. A fine fish. He has swallowed the bait whole; your large fish always do. O! I don't know as I can take it out, without hurting him.

DISCIPULA. Poor fish! He does not look quite so spruce and independent as he did a little while ago. Did your mouth water for that tempting fly. It will never water again! What deep sighs heave his little breast! but they will soon be over. Fix the bait, Mr. Piscator, and rub some more lavender on it. I'll catch another, in less than a minute.

PISCATOR. It is done already. And this time, do not lean over so far, or you will be in danger of being pulled in, by some fish of greater strength than usual. Really, I think you are a good angler; you seem to possess the skill by intuition. Is it not fine sport? I see by the increased flush and light of your countenance, that you are of the same opinion. It is truly a gentle, a feminine sport.

DISCIPULA. There is one with the beautifulest eyes, and covered all over with gold and silver. But he is exceedingly shy. Come, Sir, if you are so distant, I shall have to approach you myself. I desire a nearer acquaintance with your beautiful eyes, and your gold and silver scales. Oh! if you move off in that direction, I shall retire in this! Ah, you've thought better of it, and are coming back. I knew you would. Observe, Mr. Piscator, how he turns round and hesitates and doubts what to do. There is no use in his deliberating; it is inevitable; he has got to do it. Now he turns back. He seems to have made up his mind that he must have it at all hazards. And see him shut his eyes and make a dash. I am afraid he finds it unpalatable! Too rash! too rash! You should have considered better! Take him off, master; he is nothing very great, after all.

PISCATOR. I see a large one, lying here at the left, deep in the water; of the kind which we call sucker. It is his nature to lie perfectly still as though asleep, and not to move till he is touched. Reach here the hook, while I fasten some pieces of lead to it, enough to sink it; and then I will tell you how to hook him.

DISCIPULA. I see! I know! I can do it myself, I will let the bait sink gently down into the water, a little forward of him, thus. Ah, it fell right on his back! He must be asleep, for he doesn't stir, nor seem to notice it. Now then, a little forward of him; and so, slowly, softly, float up toward his nose. He appears to be inspecting the fly; he sleeps with his mouth wide open; as a natural history philosopher might examine a butterfly; and since it is so closely presented, suppose you try the sense of taste too, Sir! It is pleasant to the eye, you will find it also good for food, and to be desired to make one wise. Allow it to fall imperceptibly into your mouth; nay, you cannot judge of its merits from a half trial, like that; it must be taken entirely in. Don't exert yourself, in the least; another inspiration, and you are possessed. Ha! is it not good?—is it not sweet? He must be very fond of it, he holds on to it so hard! Astonished fish! he wakes up, and opens his eyes with wonder; there is more in it than he dreamed of! Strait up to the light here, and show your agitated countenance. Now please to open your lips, and disclose the cause of all your sorrows, while kind Mr. Piscator extracts it.

PISCATOR. Well hooked! Indeed, scholar, it was well done of you. But the heavens are becoming overcast; it threatens storm. Would it not be wise to set out on our return?

DISCIPULA. Oh no, no! I can't think of going yet? 'Wise!' It seems to me that it would be very foolish, while the lake contains so many more fish as good as any that we have already caught.

PISCATOR. You do not expect to take them all?

DISCIPULA. All in this place; what should hinder?

PISCATOR. They will not bite for ever in the same place. They are a cunning animal, and get frightened.

DISCIPULA. Then let us remove to another spot.

PISCATOR. That we might do, if there were time; but the sun is entirely hidden by clouds, and is near his going down. We shall presently have a thunder-storm. And then a stiff breeze from the south, which will waft us speedily toward our landing place; had we not better begin to think of leaving?

DISCIPULA. Wait till I catch one fish more; I had a nibble just then.

PISCATOR. You should handle your rod more gently. The wind blows up fresher and fresher; it will be dark as pitch too, when night fairly comes on. Shall we not spread our sails, and speed merrily homeward?

DISCIPULA. Well, as you will, master; though really I don't see any occasion for all this hurry. Look at that fish! He rose almost to the surface after my hook, and yet wouldn't take it. Oh, my poor fly! my poor bait! See it, master! All faded and worn and torn, no painting or patching can renew its comeliness! And there sticks out the hook, plain to view; a blind fish might see it! Oh, my poor fly, that couldn't conceal the hook any longer! Mr. Piscator, lend me your knife, while I cut the bait from the line, rags, paint, iron and all, and throw it back into the water, thus. Now then, little fish! silly fish! come all of you, and see what has befooled you! What some of your tribe have swallowed because they thought it was good, and some because they were careless, and others because they were hungry and must have something! What many of ye have taken in, and more have nibbled at, and all have gazed at, and admired and longed for! Oh, rare sport have ye made me, foolish things! And longer would I have played with you, but the evening comes on, and I must bid you a happy farewell. So we are under way again, are we?

PISCATOR. We are again under way; and I have hope of reaching home before yonder cloud comes over us. And trust me, when it does come, it will bring more wind with it.

DISCIPULA. Once more on the open bosom of the lake! How the little black angry waves dance up one after another, and roll past us toward the northern shore. And see that dim hill at the other extremity of the pond, how gigantic and broken it looks. Oh, Mr. Piscator, let's go and see it! let's go and see it! And those high perpendicular rocks, that stand out so boldly. Yes, yes, put up the helm! we'll go and see how they look in the twilight.

PISCATOR. But my dear child, it will take an hour and a half longer to go round by the rocks, and before that time, I fear the storm will increase.

DISCIPULA. Oh, never fear the storm. I'll risk it! And when we get up there, we can take a short cut across to our port; so put up the helm!—good Mr. Piscator, kind Mr. Piscator! do let us run up to the hill! I can assure you there is no danger.

PISCATOR. I cannot well deny any thing that you ask of me; but much I doubt, Mr. ——

DISCIPULA. Nay, nay, doubt nothing. We shall get home safe, trust me for that. And that cloud, that you are so fearful of, is not coming over us, at all; it is coming down on the other shore of the lake. Please, Mr. Pilot, to keep in a little nearer the land, or we shall pass the rocks so far out, that we shall not be able to see them with distinctness.

PISCATOR. A wilful woman must even have her own way. My child! you will catch your death with cold, to take off your bonnet so!

DISCIPULA. I'm not afraid of it; I want to feel the air.

PISCATOR. And where are you going now?

DISCIPULA. Going to sit down in the bow of the boat. This view is much finer! Oh, this is grand!

PISCATOR. But, good scholar! good scholar! you will certainly fall out there! I believe you are crazy, you look so wild!

DISCIPULA. How the boat pitches over the little waves! And, Mr. Piscator, direct the boat toward the shore, so as to make it rock more. The heavens are all grey, and the waters are all black, and the wind is high and wild in its sport like an imprisoned bird let loose. Oh master, spread the other sail, and see if we can't fly faster! Here are the rocks so grim; but it is growing dark, and I can only just make them out. Why, Mr. Piscator, you are not going near enough! Run close in under them!

PISCATOR. I shall say to you plainly, what you ask is impossible. It would be running an unwarrantable hazard; as indeed coming up here at all was unwarrantable.

DISCIPULA. At least then, good master, keep along up at this distance, if that pleases you best; for there is a bluff just ahead, which projects farther out than the others, and we shall pass close by it.

PISCATOR. It is high time that we commenced our return in good earnest. And therefore, scholar, for I must remind you that you are my scholar till I see you safe ashore; therefore, if you please, you may stand by the sail to tack.

DISCIPULA. But just look once, how boldly and sternly it lifts up its calm front out of the boiling waters!

PISCATOR. It is without doubt, very fine; but it is impossible to hold on a foot farther. So if you will stand by the sail——

DISCIPULA. I wish I had a boat of my own to sail out here alone in and go where I choose! Well, what shall I do? how shall I go to work? Oh, Mr. Piscator! honest Mr. Piscator! let me hold the helm while you take care of the sails.

PISCATOR. Willingly, if your hand is strong enough. Try it; shall you be able to hold it as it is?

DISCIPULA. With the greatest ease. Now then, are you ready? What are you letting down the sail for? That three-cornered rag from the bow-sprit wont be enough!

PISCATOR. It would be unsafe to set the main-sail, and I think with this breeze the fore-stay-sail will drive us sufficiently fast.

DISCIPULA. Well, suit yourself. Now are you ready?

PISCATOR. Ready, certainly, when I take the helm. But what are you doing? If you undertake to let the skiff fall off before the wind you will upset us, as sure as——

DISCIPULA. Just see if I do. Let me hold the helm. Oh yes, let me!

PISCATOR. But scholar! good scholar! dear scholar!

DISCIPULA. No, no, I wont give it up! you can't have it! Honest Mr. Piscator, let me steer the boat, only a little way! Oh, but I will; and there is no use in your trying to prevent me. See there now, haven't we come round to our course in good style?