figuring to myself the philosopher of the laws, digging away in his full nightcap and variegated dressing gown, she put the money into the hands of her companion, begging that she would give it to the servants. The other looked at her with a smile which might have been translated half a dozen ways. It might have been, "I am a servant myself"-it might have been, "I see your embarrassment." But, however, she said that she would give it to them, and bidding her adieu, we proceeded to the carriage. We had scarcely all got in, when she came tripping over the drawbridge, with a bouquet of flowers in her hand. She gave them with one of those same bright smiles, saying, that perhaps we might like to have "Quelques fleurs du jardin de Montesquieu." We took them thankfully, and she re-entered the house, leaving us more than ever in doubt.

THE CHATEAU DE BLANCFORD.

Quant'è bella giovenezza
Che si fugge tutta via
Che vuol esser lieto, sia

Di doman non c'è certezza.

Triomfo de Bacco.

THERE is scarcely any character in the range of history, which I am so much led to admire as that of Edward the Black Prince. Combining all the brightest qualities of a hero and a man, his glorious actions and his early death, all give him a title to our interest and admiration. One of the last excursions which we made with the friends I have just mentioned was to a little town called Blancford. It lies, as it were, behind Bordeaux, upon an eminence which commands all the country round, with a far view over the plains of Medoc, and the bend of the Garonne lying at your feet. In a valley, at a short distance, stand the walls of an old castle, in which the Black Prince is said to have passed some of the last hours of his existence; and this was the real object of our pilgrimage.

Having ordered dinner, and left the carriage at Blancford, we wandered down, through some beautiful lanes, all breaking forth into the first blossoms of spring, to the ruins of the old château, which affords a sad picture of the decay of human works. The walls, built to resist armies, had crumbled to nothing before the power of Time. We nevertheless amused ourselves for more than an hour, climbing among the old ivy-grown remains, and fancying the various beings that, from time to time, had tenanted that spot now so desolate. It was all imagination, it is true, but 'tis one of the greatest arts in life, thus to give food to fancy and to supply her with materials from the past. It is less dangerous than borrowing from the future. I forget whether it is Lord Kaimes, or Allison, or who, that accounts for the pleasure we feel in the sublime and beautiful, principally from the exercise of the mind in new combinations. I feel that there is some truth in it; for when I can let my ima

gination soar without restraint, I try to separate myself, as it were, from her, and view her as I would a lark, rising and singing in the sky, and enjoy her very wanderings.

So much amusement did we derive from our speculations that we lingered there long. A variety of shrubs and foliage had decorated the old ruin in a fantastic manner; and as we descended into one of the dungeons, where probably many a captive had told his solitary hours, a free, wild bird started out, at our approach, and took its flight into the unconfined air. On the highest pinnacles of the walls, where the hand of man could never reach, Nature has sown little groups of wild pinks, that hung bending in the wind, as if to tempt one to take them. I endeavoured in vain to obtain some of them for one of the ladies of the party, between whom and my friend B feelings were growing up which ended in much happiness at an after period. To punish my awkwardness, they called upon me to write a ballad on the subject. I did my best to comply, for we all strove to bring our little share of amusement into the common stock, and I felt myself more peculiarly bound to contribute, as I believed in my heart that many of these amusements, and especially that of whiling away the evening with little tales and sketches, had been devised for the purpose of turning my mind from every painful thought. These contributions gradually accumulated into a short miscellany, which, as it comes decidedly into the recollections of this year, I will give, as far as my memory serves, and call it "Scraps.'

We left the old castle with a feeling of regret. We had had time to establish a kind of friendship with it, and did not like to quit it. After dinner we wandered on to the brow of the hill, and sitting down, watched the landscape as the closing evening varied all its hues. It had been a fine clear day: no pain had reached us ourselves, and no storm had come across the sky-all had been bright and unshadowed. The last moments of such a day are precious-for who can say what tomorrow will bring forth ?-and all feeling it alike, we lingered on till the edge of the sun touched the horizon, and then returned to the busy haunts of man.

SCRAPS.-N O. I.

THE LADY AND THE FLOWER.

THERE be of British arms and deeds

Who sing in noble strain,

Of Poitiers' field, and Agincourt,
And Cressy's bloody plain.

High tales of merry England,
Full often have been told,
For never wanted bard to sing
The actions of the bold.

But now I tune another string,
To try my minstrel power,
My story of a gallant knight,
A lady, and a flower.

The noble sun that shines on all,

The little or the great,

As bright on cottage doorway small,
As on the castle gate,

Came pouring over fair Guienne

From the far eastern sea;

And glisten'd on the broad Garonne,
And slept on Blancford lea.

The morn was up, the morn was bright,

In southern summer's rays,

And nature caroll'd in the light,

And sung her Maker's praise.

Fair Blancford! thou art always fair,

With many a shady dell,

And bland variety and change

Of forest and of fell.

But Blancford on that morn was gay

With many a pennant bright,

And glittering arms and panoply

Shone in the morning light.

For good Prince Edward, England's pride, Now lay in Blancford's towers,

And weary sickness had consumed

The hero's winter hours

But now that brighter beams had come
With Summer's brighter ray,
He called his gallant knights around
To spend a festal day.

With tournament and revelry,
To pass away the hours,
And win fair Mary from her sire
The lord of Blancford's towers.

But why fair Mary's brow was sad
None in the castle knew,

Nor why she watch'd one garden bed,
Where none but wild pinks grew.

Some said that seven nights before
A page had sped away,

To where Lord Clifford, with his power,
On Touraine's frontier lay.

To Blancford no Lord Clifford came,

And many a tale was told,

For well 'twas known that he had sought Fair Mary's love of old.

And some there said, Lord Clifford's love
Had cool'd at Mary's pride,

And some there said, that other vows
His heart inconstant tied.

Foul slander, ready still to soil

All that is bright and fair,

With more than Time's destructiveness,

Who never learn'd to spare!

The morn was bright, but posts had come

Bringing no tidings fair,

For knit was Edward's royal brow,

And full of thoughtful care.

The lists were set; the parted sun

Shone equal on the plain,

And many a knight there manfully

Strove fresh applause to gain.

Good Lord James Talbot, and Sir Guy

Of Brackenbury, he

Who slew the giant Iron Arm

On Cressy's famous lea,

Were counted best; and pray'd the prince

To give the sign that they

Might run a course, and one receive

The honours of the day.