mistress's remaining longer exposed to the chill night air, and the driz zling rain which now began to fall, she raised her voice, and called aloud for assistance.

It was at the dead of night, and Margaret was sitting alone by the couch of the unfortunate lady, where she had been hastily laid without changing her dress, when she awoke from her long trance.

"Where am I? what hath befallen me?" were the first words she uttered, as she gazed with a bewildered look on the well-known furniture of her room, and a confused sense of that night's sad adventures flashed on her brain. But Margaret only pressed her hand, and beseeched her to be still. "How can I be still, when he is waiting for me on the hill-side ?" she replied impatiently, and then pressing her hands on her forehead, as if to still the agitation of her brain, she added, "Alas! alas! I now remember all. Tell me, for mercy sake, whither they have taken him? tell me if he yet lives?" But Margaret's tears were again her only reply.

"Nay, cruel woman, if you will not answer me," cried the distracted girl, half springing from her bed, "I will hasten myself to the spot. How dared you bring me again to the house of his assassin? But no power shall detain me! I am strong now, and he will defend me against the whole host of my enemies."

"Never, lady, in this world," said Margaret solemnly, and judging it better to risk the sad disclosure than prolong the agony of suspense, she added, "He will protect you no more; he sleeps; and none can waken him."

The wretched Ellen uttered a faint scream as she heard the sad announcement of her lover's fate, and throwing herself on her companion's bosom, she lay there, in convulsive agitation, for some minutes. But not

66

a tear came to her relief, and when she again raised her head, the serving-woman was astonished at the deathlike composure of her countenance. Margaret," she said, "I must see him. Where have they taken his body?". "It is laid out, my dear lady," she replied, "in the same chamber where his father's curse was breathed upon him who has pursued the innocent to destruction."

"And no one watches the bier?" inquired the broken-hearted girl. "No one.

"Then let us thither without delay! Kind, good Margaret, you cannot refuse me, for I would fain look upon him once again."

The young woman in vain endeavoured to dissuade her mistress from her sad purpose by every argument in her power, till at length, unable longer to deny her melancholy request, she forbore all further opposition. Ellen's strength of purpose rapidly obliterated the traces of bodily weakness, and as she advanced towards the chamber of death, she experienced none of that dread which one who had never before beheld a corpse might be supposed to feel. Her companion warned her, that he might be black and ghastly; but her heart quailed not; that perchance he was already withered, changed, and sinking to dust; but none of that horror of death, which nature has implanted like an instinct in our souls, shook her nerves at the recital. She felt only that she was about once more to behold the form of him she had adored through life, and to gaze again in reality on those features which imagination had delighted to contemplate. It was a hope she had long ceased to indulge, for to her he had been dead for months. Sorrow, therefore, made no part of her delirious feelings, but joy alone, that indescribable felicity which is rarely known on earth, expanded her exulting soul. The unquenchable thirst with which she had longed for months to feel herself again in Reginald's presence was about

to be satisfied; the tedium, the monotony, the weary suffrance of existence, were all forgotten in the ecstatic assurance, and she felt as if her spirit was about to enter the gates of Paradise, and dwell with him for eternity.

She eagerly followed her conductress into the chill, dark, and solemn chamber, but she was insensible to its desolation. She saw nothing around her, until, when Margaret undrew the curtains, and held her feeble taper within the couch, she pressed breathlessly forward, and beheld upon his father's bier, not her lover's corpse, but the bloody and lifeless form of Gilfred Crosby. Words are inadequate to describe her sensations as an instant's glance assured her that her mortal enemy lay dead before her, and whilst her eyes wandered over the livid features with eager curiosity, wild hopes of Reginald's safety instantaneously thronged on her brain. "In the name of heaven, Margaret, what means this spectacle ?” were the first words she uttered to her attendant, who stood by her side in an attitude of unutterable amazement. "Was Gilfred likewise slain ?"

"I saw but one borne hither from the hills," she replied, “but one conveyed to the chamber of death! My heart misgave me, lady, and I questioned not the mourners."

“Thanks, thanks, for this great mercy," exclaimed Ellen. "Doubtless thou wert mistaken, and Reginald survives, whilst Gilfred has perished by his own machinations. But, hark!" she added. after listening for an instant to a confused clamour in the court and lower part of the mansion, "there are many astir besides ourselves, and that is the voice of rejoicing, not of mourning, which breaks the stillness of night. Why should we tarry here, when my beloved is perchance returning in freedom and safety to his home? Follow me, Margaret, follow me, for my heart assures me there is joy at hand."

So saying, she snatched the lamp from her bewildered companion, and rushed along the tenantless passages with breathless haste towards the great entrance of the building. It was in truth as Ellen had imagined. Gilfred having discovered the secret of his brother's residence in the neighbourhood, procured a warrant to be issued for his arrest, and though he did not actually take a part in his capture, he lingered on the hills to witness it. But the curse of his father was upon him, and the night which produced the consummation of his wickedness came likewise fraught with his punishment. In his eagerness to ascertain the success of his diabolical plans he approached too near the scene of the struggle, and the bullet aimed by one of his myrmidons at his guiltless brother pierced his own heart, and by a just fatality arrested his career of crime.

Whilst the dead body of the squire, as Margaret had witnessed, was carried back to Broom Hill, the captured Reginald had been conducted to Whittingham; but there an unexpected reprieve awaited him. The labours of his friends in London had proved successful, and late the preceding evening intelligence of his pardon reached the village, annihilating every excuse for his detainder. The news spread like fire amidst the dry grass of the desert Pampas. The tenants and friends of his family, of every rank, thronged around him to welcome his return, and the first object which Ellen beheld, on her descent to the hall, was her long mourned Reginald borne back in triumph to the house of his fathers. There for many future years, with the tender appellation of wife, she shared and increased his felicity, and though the name of Gilfred thenceforth never passed their lips, their descendants have not yet forgotten the legend of The Northern Squires.

FRAGMENTS ON THE HOLY LAND.
PART II.

AGAIN there came a change upon the land:
The Crescent waned, the misbelieving band
Were scattered, like the ocean-foam, before
The valiant Brothers, who on Syria's shore
Unfurl'd the Christian Standard to the gale.
Europe pour'd forth her thousands,-hill and vale
Were delug'd by the living tide that roll'd
Its fiery torrent o'er the mountain old,
The sultry plain, the vineyard's fruitful field.
It was a sight right glorious to see

How bravely on the breeze of Galilee

The pennons wav'd,-how glitt'ring lance and shield
Flash'd, as the sunbeam o'er them broke, among
The dense, dark masses of the iron throng;
How snowy plumes were floating on the air,
How broider'd mantles flutter'd free and fair
O'er stalwart limb, and burnish'd coat-of-mail,—
Well had that need to be of proof! Like hail
The arrow-flight came down upon the host
Who sought for glory on Judea's coast,
And found its shadowy semblance!

The wild rock,

The mountain, the lone glen, gave back the shock,
The clash of deadliest battle as it rose
Throughout the length and breadth of Israel's land:
And fiercely round the Christian hosts did close
On Acre's plain, on Galilee's red strand,
The dusky legions of the Infidel.

'Twere long to tell how Paynim, Christian, fell,
Mingling in death in undistinguish'd slaughter,
In Hinmon's vale, or by the Jordan's water,-
And Syria's wave ran purple to the shore-

Blent with the gushing stream of Frank and Moslem gore.

*

*

*

*

Oh fruitless valour! O'er thy nameless grave
The deep, dark river rolls its sluggish wave;

Thou hast no trophies in the land, to tell

Where the Cross triumph'd-where the Crescent fell :A minstrel's dirge, a place in Hist'ry's page,

The guerdon of thy reckless pilgrimage!

Yet, Stranger! Tread thou lightly o'er this plain,— 'Twas water'd with the blood that flowed like rain

From hearts that with devotion, honour, faith,

Beat high amid the agonies of death.

Thou tread'st not now on the ignoble dust
Of common men-who fondly, vainly, trust
The record of their insignificance

To the safe-keeping of the graven stone;
Tread lightly here, with rev'rent step advance:
Struck down by Paynim scymitar-alone-

Or but surrounded by the ghastly dead,

Here, where the earth but echoes now thy tread,
The dying Warrior of the Cross hath striv'n

To raise his earth-stain'd thoughts to yon pure Heav'n ;
Or pour'd a pray'r for her to whose far home
No tidings of that field of blood would come.
No gentle eye might drop the pitying tear,
No friendly hand-no kindred voice, were near ;
No earthly solace that the heart may crave,
Unblam'd, to soothe the death-pang's agony,
Was his who bled, Jerusalem to save
From the foul stain of Moslem slavery.
No sacred rite-no holy word, was said
O'er the abandon'd ashes of the dead,
Yet not unhallow'd, Warrior, was thy bier,-
For faith, though erring-piety sincere,
Shed their rich light around the crimson'd earth,
Where death, to thee, was better than thy birth!

'Twas a fond dream, and yet it seem'd to him,
'Mid Superstition's haze, uncertain, dim,

A Hand Divine that led him forth to die
For Christ's dear love, 'neath Palestine's hot sky:
A Voice Supreme, that bade him seize the Cross,
And go-esteeming earthly gain as loss,
Might he but aid to rescue with his brand

The Holy, once, the guilt-polluted land!

*

*

Clime of bright dreams! How chang'd thine aspect now!
No mail-clad legions gleam above the brow

Of the bleak mount, or wind with cautious tread
Where forest-brakes their darkest foliage spread:
Chang'd is the scene since those old mountains rung
With shout and war-note that their echoes flung
Down to the vales, that lay in peace below.
Gone is the pomp of Chivalry's proud show.
There are no gath'rings where the mighty are-
Nor joyous City's hum is heard from far.
Perchance amid the dusky crags appears
A shatter'd tower, the wasted wreck of years,
All lone and desolate,-no wild flower's bloom
Sheds grace and beauty o'er that ruin's gloom;
The blacken'd stones seem scath'd, as though the stroke
Of the dread lightning-flash had o'er them broke,
And-save the wind, that sweeps, with fitful moan,
Around the broken arch, and mould'ring stone,
The tiger's howl, the vulture's scream-no sound
May break its stillness, horrible, profound.
That ruin'd tower no other guests receives,—
The falling fragments e'en the wild bird leaves.
Perchance, its shadow trembles o'er the breast
Of the Dead Sea's dark flood, that to the shore
Rolls heavily, unruffled by the oar:

In solitude for aye those sullen waters rest!

F. M. H.

NOCTES LEGALES.

NOX TERTIA.

In the preceding pages I have made mention of Mr Joseph Jehosaphat Jobson as being a member of the club, as constituting one of the legal dons of the old school, who had associated together to enjoy themselves regularly, and with becoming regularity and decorum, once a week during the legal year. It is true, in the two first acts of the drama our last named member has made his entrance and his exit, as if he were only one of the walking gentlemen of the scene; as if he were a mere devourer of viands and absorber of wines; one who could cut and carve a joint, and join in emptying a decanter, but who was well content to let others enjoy the pleasure (and it is no slight one) of giving the tone to conversation, of leading an argument and raising a laugh. And yet, Joseph Jehosaphat, quiet as he was in general, was something more than a mere heavy plodder of the law. He came from the same town in the most northern county, which, for upwards of two centuries, has had the honour of supplying this great metropolis with the means of procuring the article of fire, (and I grieve to say, such are the changes of the times, its reputation in this respect is far from being so high as it was wont to be,) and which, in more modern times, has had conferred upon it the singular honour of being the birth-place of two brothers who became perfect constellations in the legal skies. Whether our member in question were a descendant from Clerk Jobson, now of some celebrity or notoriety, (and there is a difference between the one and the other,) by means of the veritable history of Rob Roy, I will not pretend to say; certain it is, he did not claim to be of that branch of the family; and the only particular circumstance connected with himself, of which he did boast, (and that, too, on every possible occasion,) was his having actually had the honour of being fag at school to the Lord High Chancellor and the Judge of the Admiralty Court; nay, more, he used to show, with an high look of pride and exultation, a worn-out cane, with which the learned and severe old Dr M, the magister of the school, had warmed not only his (Mr Joseph Jehosaphat's) own back and shoulders, but also the backs and shoulders of those two great men ; and "only think," he would say, "of the embryo legal luminaries having smarted under this worn-out bit of bamboo." This bit of cane was to him as precious a relic as any in the Chapel of Loretto, or in St Peter's at Rome, is to the most devoted Romanist.

Mr Joseph Jehosaphat Jobson was a denizen and member of Gray's Inn. Here he indulged in the luxury of occupying two small sets of chambers; the lower set being devoted to the practice of his profession, and the upper set, to which there was a private communication, was set apart for his domestic domicile. And in these apartments, which consisted of a small dormitory, a well-stored library-serving also as his refectory-a cooking room, and a closet of a scullery, he enjoyed as many comforts as an old bachelor of moderate indulgence would wish to have. His enjoyments were chiefly intellectual, and he dipped into every branch of literature and science. He was a bit of an antiquarian, and he had specimens of ancient relics duly displayed; he was a bit of a book-worm and bibliomaniac, and his shelves displayed black-letter and rare editions of books; he was a bit of an amateur of paintings and engravings, and some

VOL. I. NO. VI.

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