WRITTEN FOR THE LITTLE PILGRIM. But all our satisfaction is gone, our dear little REVERIES OF A STUDENT.-No. 3. ripples have lost the charm that a few moments BY TICK. ago they had, for discord has taken the place of "No. I will confess that a pair of epaulettes, a plume, a sword at my side, seem very tempting." "You would like to be the general of an army ?" "Precisely." "But have you the talent necessary for such a post?" "I feel something here." Hector touched his forehead. In the twinkling of an eye the scene changes. Behold a battlefield: Hector is standing on the summit of a hill surrounded by his staff; anxiety may be read on every brow. Men in trappings of war are hovering around him. "Orders!" say they; “give us orders !" Hector does not reply. His glance rests on the That pleasant old river! I seem to hear its roar, or its murmur falling upon my ear as I write. How it does roar, as it dashes with such a foaming and rushing, over the mill dam upon the rocks below! What a contrast it presents to the quiet sheet it appears just above, so like a mirror in its brilliant surface, and giving so little idea of the strength and fury that lie in its bosom, and needing only the obstacle of a pile of wood and stone to induce it to throw off its mask of peacefulness, and appear in all its real nature. But then again, a half a mile or so below the crumbling old mill, it sinks back again into all its former sweetness of temper, and, as if ashamed of its Then, Little Pilgrim, try and be as good a Pil-field of battle. The combat is in all its horror. late outburst, it murmurs so softly as it glides by grim as old John Bunyan was, and beg all the the foot of that little hill, that it seems as though ripples, that is, all the children (great as well as the very old trees themselves bent their great tops small) never to forget that, although the black to listen to the strain, while the sweet little flow-stain of a wicked passion may not appear to eyes ers on its banks stoop down and kiss the old singer in pay for his pains, and then raise their faces all blushing and tearful to the sun, as if to ask his approval. And he does not refuse it; he casts a great warm smile upon the little flowers that dries the tear-drops, and upon the old river that glistens and sparkles more brilliantly than ever, and brings forth a host of little ripples and eddies, whose gambols shall do honor to the old sun's condescension. of men, yet it is still visible to the great, good THE LAST FAIRY. TRANSLATED FROM THE FRENCH, BY ANNA T. WILBUR. This is the place where the pond-lilies grow; just see what a splendid cluster there is half-way across the stream! You might wade out and get A young student of fifteen, whom we will call them, for the water is not above your waist when Hector, had been walking for a long time in the you stand among the lily-pads; but you must be fields, and, as the sun was descending towards the careful if you go, for just beyond this spot is a horizon, the traveller, overwhelmed with fatigue, great hole in the bed of the river, and the water is sat down beside a fountain, beneath an old oak ever so deep there. It is the place where that which cast its shadow afar. He began to weep; little boy was drowned last summer, while gath- his tears fell sadly into the laughing waters of the ering lilies to sell to the passengers over the rail-spring, mingling with its dancing ripples, which way, (you can see the bridge in the distance where trains cross.) That spot has always been known as a dangerous one, but the boys like to brave the danger when they come down to swim, for here is the village bathing-place-the "Old Rock" they call it. Now, remember when you come here after lilies or to bathe, to keep away from the hole unless you can swim well, and even then you had better avoid it, for you have no right to expose rashly to peril the life which God gave you to spend in doing Him honor. But all this time we have forgotten those little ripples that I spoke of just now. I always love to watch them, and see them play with the chip I toss in among them. Now it spins like a top, now it stops, now it dashes onward headlong, now it is lost from sight in a little whirlpool, and at last it is hurled into the great steady current far away from me. The comical ripples! they always seem to me like little boys, so full of their fun and overrunning with noise. They make sport of every thing; when a fresh ray of sunshine darts in between the thick bushes as the wind waves them apart, how delighted they are! They jump and dance and sparkle, and utter such funny little sounds that one can't resist laughing and rejoicing with them, for their happiness is contagious. But alas! a little chip or pebble sets them all in commotion; they strive and dash and foam madly about, while those pleasant little voices that fell so soothingly on the ear, are now changed to a miniature roar; the clear, transparent current is now turbid, and filled with the mud and sand of the bottom, and the object of contention may now slip away from among the brawlers, or become the prey of some keen looker-on beyond the scene of tumult. Hector lost themselves among the grass and flowers. it "What a pity," exclaimed he, "that we do not live in the times of fairies: how convenient would be to have a fairy at one's service, if it were only to write one's themes and exercises. Is there a fairy left? Where does she lodge? Will she deign to appear to me?" "Hector, what wilt thou?" replied a little silvery voice, like the tones of a bell in the depths of a forest." Hector was silent. The fairy had just emerged from the surface of the water, as the bubbles of air disengaged themselves from the mossy beds of fountains. The liquid crystal scarcely trembled. She was fair and charming. Hector gazed admiringly on the white satin slippers, the gauze petticoat spangled with silver, and the jeweled star of the gentle Undine. "Fear nothing," she smilingly articulated, "I am the fairy of truants, the patroness of dreamy and idle scholars. You ought to love me without knowing me." Hector made a slight grimace. But he swallowed the compliment, and said, in a resolute tone, "I acknowledge, Miss, that it is hard to pass "You would like then to be a man?" "And is that your only ambition?" Clouds of smoke envelop four or five leagues of ground. Thousands of men, infantry and cavalry, cover this vast space. There is a frightful carnage; sabres cast bloody gleams; the ground and the plumes of the grenadiers tremble at the roar of the cannon. It would seem as if the soldiers saluted the passing bullets. Piles of corpses, like the heaps of dry leaves left by a whirlwind, strew the plain; the earth drinks up pools of blood; human flesh is trampled in the dust. Men and animals seem alike infuriated. The dying summon their last remnants of strength to kill their conquerors; horses, with fiery eyes, bristling manes and red foam on their lips, rush upon the enemy's ranks. A chorus of groans and mournful cries mingles with the thunder of the artillery. Adieu country! adieu family! green orchards, smiling groves, home, firesides where the gray hairs of the grandfather fall one by one, they will see you no more. Fly! the last hour has struck. Notwithstanding the approaching darkness, the eye perceives in the black sky a cloud of birds of prey losing itself in the horizon. The wind howls in the forests, less loudly than the hungry wolf, to whom the evening breeze bears the scent of the carnage. On the edge of the battle-field a solitary horse is feeding on the grass wet with sanguinary dew. A large spot of blood reddens his empty saddle. Where is the rider? His scattered limbs strew the plain. All this Hector sees; and near him supplicating and angry voices repeat, "Orders, general! in the name of Heaven and the country in danger, speak!” His anguish is inexpressible. His orders must give life or death. O terrible responsibility! Broken words escape his lips. "Forward! forward! to the last man!" The two armies meet in a final combat. Night covers the battle-field; a heart-rending cry is heard: "Flee! we are betrayed!” By the light of the still roaring cannon, the remnant of the army gives way and disbands. Terror and its train of spectres hover above the dispersed battalions. They flee on every side in frightful confusion. The stronger tread on the weaker; the wounded are trampled under foot. There is no more distinction of rank, no more respect, no more pity; a single sentiment survives all the rest, it is terror! "Stop! stop!" exclaims Hector, tearing his hair. They reply by imprecations. Then, like Bonaparte at Waterloo, but without even preserving the better consolation of genius, which yields only to destiny, he felt large tears roll down his cheeks. "Nothing remains for me but death!" said he. And he urged his horse into the enemy's ranks. Re-assure yourself; he is not dead. "I must confess," said he to the fairy," that you have played a severe joke upon me. In con ferring the title of general-in-chief, you should also have conferred the talent necessary for such an office. My plan of battle was bad." tumult; the dark waves of the crowd rolled on with a terrific noise; they threw themselves against the doors of the palace. Hector turned "That proves, my dear," replied the fairy, pale. The doors yielded; the multitude enter, "that ambition is not in proportion to talent." with shouts. Hector hears them; he attempts to "Nevertheless," said Hector, touching his fore-fly; there is no longer a way of escape. He is head again, "I feel something here. I was mis- seized; a cord is passed around his neck, he is taken on my aptitude and my destiny. I thank hung. you a thousand times for having rescued me from the horrors of war." "Are you sure," said he, passing his hand beneath his cravat, "that I am not entirely hung? "And you consent to return to college and to It seems as if I could still feel the cord around quit the career of greatness?" "On the contrary," replied Hector," when I see a prince or statesman pass, in his equipage drawn by four horses, surrounded by his courtiers and his attendants, I feel awake in me the desire of governing. I often say to myself, if I governed I would make my people happy." "Govern then," said the fairy. May you never, my children, find yourself in the situation of Hector. Entangled in the thousand meshes of a perpetual surveillance, an object for the treason of the great, the murmurs of the little, the complaints of the multitude, the railleries of the sceptical, he regretted the peaceful hours when he fell asleep over a lexicon, and again experienced the sufferings of a man who has undertaken duties he is insufficient to perform. He trembled at his own shadow; the razor of his barber made him shudder; suspecting his cook, he almost denied himself food. His heart suffered no less than his stomach. Instead of friends he had only flatterers. He became disgusted with the human species, and his conscience reproached him bitterly for occupying a post, so little suited to him. More solitary in his palace than a hermit in the depths of a wood, he passes long hours in a gloomy melancholy. Surrounded with satellites, barricaded in the most secret chamber of his palace, he sometimes casts, through his prison bars, a stealthy glance on the public square. The dull or threatening aspect of the populace drives him from the window. He conceals his face in his hands; he would neither see nor hear. From time to time distant clamors arouse him. my throat." "Preserve this illusion as long as possible, it will perhaps prevent you from committing other follies. You must now be cured. Adieu." "Already!" replied Hector with a sigh. The fairy turned, and looking at him with an air of raillery, said: "So, you are not satisfied yet?" Hector rubbed his forehead. "I feel something here," stammered he. "And if it would not be abusing your kindness to request one more trial, I should think myself the happiest of mortals. What I had taken for the talent for war and government is undoubtedly poetic genius. I have here a tragedy which I wrote last year; if you would cause it to be performed." "A tragedy!" interrupted the fairy. "It would be cruelty to refuse you this pleasure. But I warn you that it is the last experiment." "Be it so," said Hector, "that should suffice." The fairy raised her silvery wand. The orchestra commenced. Afterwards came the tragedy. A yawn was succeeded by a laugh. The tragedian put his hands in his pockets and seemed to say to the public "Laugh, yawn, hiss if you please, it is all the same to me. It is well known that the author is a simpleton; but that does not concern me." "Wretch !" exclaimed Hector, who perfectly understood this by-play; "he will ruin me." His voice expired on his lips, a cold perspira. tion bathed his forehead. The actor continued his part unmoved; he seemed as weary as the public. He yawned in his turn. They applauded "Good laws! give us good laws!" cry the him. The entrance of the heroine could alone multitude. "Let them cry on," say the courtiers, "and make no new laws; the old ones are good enough. Have we not fine clothes and excellent fare?" They were in the right as long as they were the strongest party. But the number of malcontents soon increased so greatly that Hector comprehended his situation. He summoned the fairy: she came not. "Why did I become a statesman when I was made only to plant cabbages?" exclaimed he, tearing his hair. "O wo! wo!" Meanwhile the storm howled. The waves of the multitude beat against the walls of the palace as the billows break upon the rocks. A few satellites only remained. Hector rang, no one came; he shouted, there was no reply; he traversed his apartments from cellar to garret, not a soul. Then he ascended alone to the top of his palace, like the wretch, who, fleeing from the deluge, takes refuge on the highest mountain, and sees the ocean incessantly mounting and bathing at last his trembling feet. Hector cast a glance afar. Beyond the walls and the steeples, the sun was setting in all its glory, bathing the peaceful plains with its red light; the laborers were returning from the fields; groups of peasant girls, crowned with poppies and violets, were passing through the already ripening corn. Shepherds, followed by their flocks, were descending the gentle slopes of the hills, playing the flageolet. In the city, on the contrary, reigned disorder and save the piece; she sprang forward, poignard in hand. She was saluted with baked apples. This act was accompanied by hisses. It is all over with the unfortunate Hector. The manager pursues him, exclaiming, "Traitor! you have ruined me! I have spent forty-three francs in the scenery and decorations. I shall fail!" Hector knew not how to escape this appeal: he sprang forward and、found himself on the stage. At sight of this gentleman, pale, dishevelled, his cravat awry, the curious audience were silent. "It is the author," said a pretty lady, who was no other than the fairy. At this word the storm burst forth; the pit threw itself on the orchestra, the orchestra on the stage. Hector, like a stag at bay, is tracked to the right, to the left, above, below, on all sides at once. Pursued by the public, the manager, the actors, the choristers, the candle-snuffers, the prompters, he jumps, runs, creeps, turns. less efforts. He rolls down a stairway and falls at last into the third story below, amid silence and cobwebs. Use He deserved to have been left there. The indulgent fairy nevertheless drew him out. "Well, Hector," said she, with a bird-like laugh, "do you feel anything in your forehead still?" "Always," replied he heroically. "Then, my dear, it is impossible that you should not become something. Adieu, return to college; wait the natural course of years; I predict that you will be something." The fairy immediately leaped into the fountain, and Hector saw only a little green frog swimming on the crystal of the water and disappearing under the moss. The fairy has kept her promise. Hector is something; he is a grocer, Rue Dauphine, 1 forget the number. A grocer! Why not? Hector is a grocer of talent, and what is better, an honest grocer. His dreams sometimes return. He then plans the government of his household, or like Moliere, reads his tragedies to his servant. Must one therefore become a grocer? Not so. There are in this story three or four conclusions which the children must draw for themselves. A COLUMN FOR THE LITTLE ONES. TAKE YOUR CHOICE. We give below two little poems by two little girls, which we trust will give as much pleasure to our readers as they have given to us. WRITTEN FOR THE LITTLE PILGRIM. A WISH. I wish I were a violet, To blossom in the field, I'd love my sister-violets, And sweetest fragrance yield. The little birds would be away, All through the winter long, But when bright summer came again, They'd cheer me with their song. My crest would be of yellow, My dress would be of blueI'd shun the haughty lilies That in the garden grew : I'd sleep through all the night time When the sun began to peep. The prettiest, dearest flower, That e'er was wove in maiden's hair, Or graced a lady's bower. Then, would I were a violet, With softest eyes of blue,- WRITTEN FOR THE LITTLE PILGRIM. SONG OF THE STREAM. I sat by the silvery water, And listened to what it said, As it gaily danced o'er the pebbles gray, In its low and stony bed. G. ADA. It said "On that high and rocky hill, "Then I ripple down that rocky hill, Through the arrowhead and moss, "Then go dashing along the valley, Through the meadow and the wood, Where the little birds warble all day long, And the ground with flowers is strewed. "Oh yes, I'm a happy little stream!" It said, as it went its way Through the arrowhead and moss and flowers, On that sultry summer's day. EMMA. PHILADELPHIA, JULY, 1854. When Fanny was a fortnight old baby, the least, puny, little, pink creature, wrapped in flannel, there came up a dreadful storm, and a small London packet was wrecked on the coast near her father's cottage. The passengers were all lost except a little boy, about three years of age, whom John Jenkins saved at the risk of his life. Two of the crew escaped, but they could tell nothing of the child more than that he came from Ireland, and was bound for London, with his nurse. The boy could give no clear account of himself, but he wore round his neck a gold locket, with arms engraved on it, and containing a lock of black hair, twined with small pearls. So the [No. 7. fishermen concluded that he must belong to some great family, and when they asked what was his name, they expected to hear some prodigious great title, such as Earl or Marquis, but when he proudly answered, "Brian O'Neill," they could make nothing of it-little knowing, simple folks as they were, that the O'Neills where once kings and princes in Ireland. But that was in the old, old time-great changes have taken place since, and there are a few O'Neills quite in common life ny days. John Jenkins did all that lay in his power to find the parents and home of the child-but he was poor and ignorant-the Lord of the Manor was a little boy, at school, and the steward could not or would not help him; so, his efforts all proving useless, he adopted Brian and brought him up as his son, giving him a tolerably good education, and training him for his own honest calling. O'Neill grew into a fine, hearty, brave lad, not at all conceited or haughty in his ways, though he was proud, he scarcely knew why, of his Irish name always treasured up his locket of gold, and often declared that he could remember the head from which that hair was cut-his mother's-and how he had seen it shut away under the coffin lid, the very day that his nurse set out with him for London. He said, too, that he could remember his home-a grand old castle, near a lake-and a great park-and a little cottage, where his fostermother lived-and his foster-father, a terrible man who used to get drunk and break things; and how once when running away from him, he fell and cut his head. Here Brian always lifted the hair off his forehead, and, sure enough, there was a scar quite plain to be seen. Fanny Jenkins grew up into a good and beautiful girl-and it seemed very natural that she and young O'Neill should love one another, and when they married and set up for themselves nobody objected. Indeed, so much were they beloved, that all who were able helped them, and those who had nothing to give wished them well and smiled on their courageous love, and so did them more good than they thought. The Lord of the Manor built them a beautiful cottage by the sea, with long narrow windows and turrets, almost like a castle-and the Lord of Lords blessed them and prospered them, and in due time gave them a little son, whom they called Brian Patrick Jenkins Jones O'Neill, and who was just the brightest, best and most beautiful baby ever beheld at least Fanny thought so, and surely mothers are the best judges of babies. They lived a very happy life, that humble little family. Every morning early the young fisherman went out in his pretty boat, the "Fanny Jenkins," for his day's toil and adventure, leaving his cheerful little wife at her work-spinning, sewing, or caring for the child; and every night, when he returned tired and hungry, as fishermen often are, and found a tidy home, a smiling wife, a crowing baby and a hearty meal awaiting him, he thought and said, that he was just the happiest O'Neill in all the world. In tempestuous weather Fanny suffered a great deal from anxiety for her brave husband, who would always put out to sea unless the storm was very serious indeed. At length, one lowering day in September, when he was far out of sight of home, a sudden squall came up, which deepened into a tempest as the day wore on. With anxious heart and tearful eyes poor Fanny watched through the gloomy sunset for his coming, half longing, half fearing to see his frail vessel driven toward the land on such an angry sea. But the day and night passed, and he did not come. The next four or five days were dark and stormy-there were several wrecks upon the coast, and Brian was given up for lost by all but his wife. She still kept up a good heart and would not despair. At last the storm ceased-the sea grew smooth -the skies smiled, and all looked cheerful again, save where along the wild shore fragments of wrecks came drifting in, and the people were burying the drowned. At the close of a beautiful day, a week from the time that Brian O'Neill left his home, his wife sat in front of the cottage with her baby asleep upon her lap. Her brave heart was failing her now she grew tired of her sad, vain gazing out toward the west, and bowing her head on her hands, wept till the tears trickled through her fingers and dropped on the sleeping face before her. So she sat a long time, weeping and praying, and calling her babe a "poor fatherless boy," when suddenly, the child smiled out of sleep and started up, calling "Papa!" Fanny sprung to her feet, almost hoping that her Brian was by her side. No, he was not there-but, Oh, joy! a little way out to sea, between her and the sunset glory, came a dear familiar object-her aquatic namesake the boat! Swiftly it came o'er the bright waters, joyfully dancing toward its home! Soon a beloved form was seen waving a shining sailor's hat; soon a beloved voice was heard calling her name, and soon, though it seemed an age to her, Brian O'Neill, with his oars and nets over his shoulder as though he had only been absent for a day's fishing, sprang up the steps before the cottage and clasped his wife and child to his honest heart! Fanny laughed and wept and thanked God-the baby crowed and pulled his father's whiskers, and all were happier than I can tell. In the evening, when his parents and the neighbors were in to rejoice over his return, Brian told the story of his adventures. When that dreadful storm came up he would have been lost, had he not been near a large ves sel which took up both him and his boat. This ship was bound to a northern Irish port, and as the storm continued, he was obliged to make the whole voyage. At B, while he was waiting for fair weather, he looked about him a little, to see the country;—and now comes the wonderful, romantic part of his story. On visiting an old and somewhat dilapidated castle in the neighborhood of the town, he instantly recognized it as the COUNTRIES I HAVE SEEN. home of his infancy—and walking straight through the park, he found the cottage of his foster-mo-Travels, Descriptions, Tales and Historical ther and the dear old woman herself-who didn't believe in him at first, because he was a great weather-beaten sailor, instead of the fair baby she had nursed. But when Brian lifted his hair and showed the scar, she was convinced and rejoiced exceedingly. Then she told him how his father, Sir Patrick O'Neill, died when he was a mere baby, and left him to the guardianship of an uncle who proved to be a bad man. So when Lady O'Neill was dying, she made her nurse promise to take the child to her sister in London, to have him brought up away from that wicked man. When the news came of the wreck of the "Erin," and the loss of all on board, this uncle went into mourning for six months-but his tenants were always in mourning, for he proved a very hard landlord. Brian laid no claim then to his title and estate, but as soon as the sea was calm went home to ask his wife's advice, like a sensible man and a good husband. He and Fanny had often said that they did not envy the rich and great-but now considering that the false baronet was so bad a man, and his tenantry so oppressed, they really thought it their duty to make an effort for rank and fortune. Well, after a long time, Brian got his rights by the help of a great lawyer, who took half the property in payment for his services. So he became Sir Brian O'Neill, the master of a dreary old castle and no end of bogs and potatoe patchesand Fanny became "Her Leddyship, God bless her!" as the peasants used to say. For a long time they found it rather awkward and tiresome to be grand and idle like other great folks-so much so, that for several years they used to go over to Wales in the fishing season, and live in the cottage by the sea, and Sir Brian would go out fishing every day, and Lady Fanny would spin and sew and take care of the baby, just in the old way. Living thus, they were happiest-but they were always happy and good-they lived to be very old, and died on the same day, and were buried in the same grave. Their great-great-grandson, Sir Algernon O'Neill, is fond of the water, too-but he takes to it in a splendid yacht, called the "Fanny Ellsler," with his delicate wife, the Lady Ginevra, who abhors the sea and gets dreadfully sick always, but will take cruises, because the sea air is good for the little O'Neills, she says-because Queen Victoria has set the fashion, some people say. BY Sketches. GRACE GREENWOOD. THE TOWER OF LONDON. STORY OF LADY ARABELLA STUART. In the latter part of the reign of Queen Elizabeth, there appeared at her court a young relative of her own, named Arabella Stuart. "The Lady Arabella," as she was always called, was the only child of Charles Stuart, Earl of Lenox, and Elizabeth Cavendish of Hardwick. Her father was of the royal blood of both England and Scotland-for he was the great-grandson of Henry the Seventh, and the uncle of James the Sixth. He died at the early age of twenty-one, leaving his daughter with no protector in the perilous great world to which she was born. The Lady Arabella was very carefully educated by her grandmother, the old Countess of Lenox, who lived in London. As she grew up to womanhood, she became celebrated for her talents and accomplishments, and for the elegance and grace of her manners. She became the ornament of that splendid court, where she was admired for her wit and learning, and loved and wondered at for her kind generous heart, her frankness of speech and innocent ways, and for her bright, sunshiny disposition. This was the time when Elizabeth Tudor had finally, with much reluctance, begun to realize that, great queen as she was-powerful, renowned, magnificent-she was getting to be an old and a decidedly ugly woman-and accordingly she grew harsher and sourer, more testy and tyrannical every day. Of course, she made all the people about her unhappy and uncomfortable; though they were far enough from letting her know they felt so-I'll warrant. No, they doubtless assured her that she was a saint for goodness and a lamb for amiability-and when at seventy years of age she went stiffly and rheumatically through the court dances, in her towering wig, her immense ruff, and hooped petticoat, wily courtiers who wanted gifts and offices, professed to be in raptures with her sylph-like figure, graceful movements, and sweet, youthful smile-and designing court ladies, though ever so young and blooming, coyly hung back when asked to join the minuet-declaring with a simper that they really could not make figures of themselves after such dancing as that! Yet, though they flattered her to her face in this fulsome manner, there is little doubt but that they privately relieved their feelings by ridiculing her vanity and ugliness-and some of them, I am afraid, in their secret hearts, wished her quietly laid away in her royal tomb in Westminster Abbey. Such, dear children, were courts and courtiers in those old times-sometimes wrongly called "the good old times." The young Lady Arabella was like a singingbird, a wild flower, a bounding doe, a laughing brook, a gleam of sunlight-any thing cheerful, sweet, glad and natural, in that stiff, formal, cold and hypocritical place. But Queen Elizabeth was jealous of her, as she had been of Lady Catherine Grey, for the same absurd reason her royal blood-and treated her with cruel suspicion and harshness. She was particularly set against her marrying-and when a son of the Duke of Northumberland addressed her, and she was pleased with him, and they were having a pleasant correspondence, and looking forward to a happy life together, Elizabeth, like the tyrannical Queen she was, came between them and parted them forever. She placed the Lady Ara bella in confinement, and kept her there until she thought her sufficiently punished for her presumption and disobedience. As for the young noble, he seems to have been but a faint-hearted lover, for he quietly yielded to the queen and abandoned Arabella, probably contenting himself with a wife less dangerously allied to royalty, and less obnoxious to Elizabeth on the ground of talents and beauty, as well as illustrious birth. When her cousin, James the Sixth of Scotland, ascended the throne of the United Kingdoms, Lady Arabella Stuart hoped for a brighter and easier life. But, no-matters were only worse, and she was at last convinced that unless she could drain every drop of that fatal royal blood from her viens, she could never cease to be an object of distrust to the reigning sovereign, whether Tudor or Stuart. To add greatly to her misfortunes her name was made use of, without her leave or knowledge, by a set of mad adventurers who conspired to depose King James and seat her on the throne. It was little wonder that the English people were disgusted with their new Scottish kingwho, beside being coarse, ill-made, awkward, and altogether ungentlemanly, was violent-tempered, obstinate, conceited, tyrannical, shallow-pated, and pedantic. In short, it seems proved by the history of his time, that a more contemptible monarch never sat on the throne of England for any length of time—and that is saying a great deal. The Lady Arabella, on the other hand, was a good, wise and gracious lady, and would probably have made an excellent queen. Nevertheless, it was a wild and hopeless scheme, for James had the legal right-possession, which it is said, "is nine points of the law"-and the English people were not yet strong and free enough to disregard these things, when royal prerogatives were abused and honest loyalty sought to be degraded into slavish submission. This unfortunate plot was the one in which Sir Walter Raleigh was so unhappily implicated. The Lady Arabella was present during the trial of the conspirators, and denied having had any knowlegde of their designs. It was even proved that when a letter was sent her to warn her that she was suspected of such a plot, she laughed over it, in her frank, light-hearted way, and sent it to the King. this William Seymour was a grandson of Lady Catherine and the Earl of Hertford-so he came of a brave and faithful stock. This happy union was soon interrupted-the secret of the marriage was discovered, and by some ill-natured courtier conveyed to the King, who proceeded to take vengeance on the offenders. Mr. Seymour was at once imprisoned in the Tower. The Lady Arabella was committed to the custody of Sir Thomas Parry, at Lambeth, but soon after removed to the house of a Mr. Conyers, at Highgate, where she was not so closely watched but that she had opportunities to write and send letters to her husband, who found means to send her loving and cheering replies. So this truehearted pair comforted each other under their trials, and thus were happy for awhile, in spite of their tyrannical sovereign. In the meantime, Mr. Seymour had safely effected his escape from the Tower, by disguising himself as a countryman, in a coarse cloth suit, with a black wig and a false beard, and boldly walked out of the great west gate, beside a cart that had brought him a load of faggots. The woodman who took his place for a little while, was well paid for his pains, I can assure you. Mr. Seymour then passed quietly along the Tower wharf, by the warders of the south gate, to where one of his faithful friends was waiting for him with a boat. They rowed to Lee, and found to their grief that the French bark had weighed anchor and was gone. But there was a ship in the distance that they hoped was it. Though a storm was coming on, and the waves were rising very high, Mr. Seymour hired a fisherman to take him out to this vessel. Alas! it was not the right But some base little spy of a bird, who ought to one. Then in his sorrowful perplexity, almost in have been on better business, carried tidings of despair, he hailed a Newcastle coal-craft, and for this correspondence to the ear of the King-whoa large sum induced the master to alter its course, fretted, and stormed, and swore in broad Scotch, and land him in Flanders-probably hoping that and commanded that the Lady Arabella should be his wife would be able to join him there. removed to Durham, and kept in close confinement there. Now when the news of the escape of the Lady Arabella and William Seymour came to the King, A friend gave the poor woman timely warning, he stormed worse than ever-swore several hard and she in her grief and terror at the prospect of oaths in broad Scotch-raved up and down his this farther separation, wrote to her husband, beg-cabinet-kicked the pet spaniel of his handsome ging him to arrange some plan of escape for them both. The noble Seymour had made so many friends in the Tower that he was not strictly guarded, but allowed to walk about the courts and see his friends privately. So, he wrote to his wife, laying a very ingenious plan for her to escape, giving her particular directions, and promising to join her at Lee, and cross the channel with her to France in a vessel which she would find waiting for them. On the night before the day set for her journey to Durham, the Lady Arabella, assisted by a faithful serving-woman, named Markam, disguised herself completely in male attire. She put on a doublet, a pair of long French hose, a large wig of light hair covering her dark locks-a black hat, a cloak, and a pair of high top-boots. Then she buckled about her slender waist a long light sword, called a rapier-trembling at the very touch of it—and so, went out with Markam, quite unsuspected. They walked a mile and a half to an inn, where one of Seymour's friends was awaiting them with horses. When the Lady Arabella mounted, she was so faint with terror and fatigue, that the ostler who held the stirrup for her, said he feared "that young gentleman would hardly hold out to London " But though there was not the slightest evidence against her, and she was honorably acquitted, she was always afterward obliged to endure cold neglect and petty persecutions from the King and royal family, and consequently the court. She grew retired, studious and religious in her habits, shunning the gay world as much as possible. And the court grew not a little more tiresome for thisthere was no one to take her place, and her lively|vived her, and after awhile she grew strong, courtalk and charming manners were missed even by those who were too stupid or ungenerous to acknowledge her rare talents and goodness. It was generally thought that the Lady Arabella would never marry-she had become so thoughtful and reserved, and appeared so entirely devoted to learning and religion. It seems that the King thought so, for he gave her a written permission to wed, provided she chose for her husband one of his subjects. He made a great parade about this, as though it were an act of wonderful generosity. But by this time the Lady Arabella understood her royal kinsman, and when she found that in her deepest heart she loved William Seymour, son of the Earl of Beauchamp, and that all the joy of her sorrowful, persecuted life was in the dear love he gave her she did not dare to bestow her hand upon him before the world, or to inform the King of her attachment, but was privately married, as the Lady Catherine Grey had been.-By the way, But the brisk exercise in the cool night air re ageous and cheerful-and even laughed with Markam about her manly way of riding, which of course was strange and awkward to her. About six o'clock in the morning they reached Blackwall, where they found two men, a gentlewoman and a waiting-maid, with two boats-one to receive them, and the other filled with the trunks and valuables of Mr. Seymour and his wife. They hastened from Blackwall to Woolwich from Woolwich to Gravesend, and from Gravesend to Lee, where they went at once on board the French bark which was lying at anchor. Here the Lady Arabella wished to remain until her husband should come-but her followers and the captain of the vessel thought it not prudent, and against her tearful entreaties, hoisted sail and put out to sea, only promising her to hover as near as was safe to the English coast, that Seymour might join them. favorite, the Duke of Buckingham, and behaved in a most unkingly manner generally; all because a faithful and loving husband and wife had made a brave effort to live together, as they had promised before God to do. He ordered that a vessel of war should at once be sent after the fugitives. This ship soon came up with the French bark, which was lingering for Mr. Seymour, and fired into her thirteen shot before she would surrender. The Lady Arabella was taken, and lodged in the Tower-bravely protesting, it is said, that she was more glad that her husband had escaped from it, than she was sorry to enter it herself—as his happiness was of far more consequence than her own. But, poor fellow, little happiness came to his sad heart after that dreadful disappointment. He lived for several years in Flanders, a lonely, sorrowful exile-ever looking longingly toward his country, that he dared not revisit-ever thinking of his noble wife, as sitting in her gloomy prison chamber, sadly musing over the brief happy days of their love-or as weeping wildly, and stretching out her arms toward him;-as sometimes despairing utterly, and sometimes vainly hoping for deliverance. The Lady Arabella was brought before the King's Privy Council, and very sternly examined. She replied to all their questioning with frankness and admirable judgment, and bore herself far more royally than the miserable jealous-minded monarch that opposed her. Nothing treasonable could be proved against her, and yet she was sent back to the Tower. O, what a foreboding gloom fell on her once glad spirit-what a death-like chill shot through her brave, warm heart, as she passed once again under the cold shadows of those dark prison portals! About a year from this time the Lady Arabella sent word to her cousin, the King, that she had some very important disclosures to make. So the King, rubbing his hands in savage glee, at having brought the proud woman to terms, called a Privy Council in great haste to hear what she had to declare. The prisoner appeared before them, and made some very startling disclosures indeed-so startling that the base King turned pale, and all those hardened old lords looked shocked, almost grieved. She revealed that sorrow, persecution and imprisonment had driven her mad! Yes, the once gay and gifted Lady Arabella Stewart was a maniac ! |