flicker and fail. One evening the Colonel left his chair for his bed in pretty good spirits, but passed a disturbed night, and the next morning was too weak to rise. Then he remained in his bed, and his friends visited him there. One afternoon he asked for his little gown-boy, and the child was brought to him, and sat by the bed with a very awe-stricken face: and then gathered courage, and tried to amuse him by telling him how it was a half-holiday, and they were having a cricket-match with the St. Peter's boys in the green, and Grey Friars was in and winning. The Colonel quite understood about it; he would like to see the game; he had played many a game on that green when he was a boy. He grew excited; Clive dismissed his father's little friend, and put a sovereign into his hand; and away he ran to say that Codd Colonel had come into a fortune, and to buy tarts, and to see the match out. I curre, little white-haired gown-boy! Heaven speed you, little friend! After the child had gone, Thomas Newcome began to wander more and more. He talked louder; he gave the word of command, spoke Hindustanee as if to his men. Then he spoke words in French rapidly, seizing a hand that was near him, and crying, "Toujours, toujours!" But it was Ethel's hand which he took. Ethel and Clive and the nurse were in the room with him; the nurse came to us, who were sitting in the adjoining apartment; Madame de Florac was there, with my wife. At the look in the woman's countenance Madam de Florac started up. "He is very bad, he wanders a great deal," the nurse whispered. The French lady fell instantly on her knees, and remained rigid in prayer. Some time afterwards Ethel came in with a scared face to our pale group. "He is calling for you again, dear lady,” she said, going up to Madame de Florac, who was still kneeling; "and just now he said he wanted Pendennis to take care of his boy. He will not know you." She hid her tears as she spoke. She went into the room where Clive was at the bed's foot; the old man within it talked on rapidly for a while: then again he would sigh and be still: once more I heard him say hurriedly, "Take care of him when I'm in India ;" and then with a heartrending voice he called out, "Léonore, Léonore!" She was kneeling by his side now. The patient's voice sank into faint murmurs; only a moan now and then announced that he was not asleep. At the usual evening hour the chapel bell began to toll, and Thomas Newcome's hands outside the bed feebly beat time. And just as the last bell struck, a peculiar sweet smile shone over his face, and 66 he lifted up his head a little, and quickly said, Adsum!" and fell back. It was the word we used at school, when names were called; and lo, he, whose heart was as that of a little child, had answered to his name, and stood in the presence of The Master. (188.) CHILDE HAROLD'S GOOD NIGHT. George Gordon, Lord Byron, poet and dramatist, b. 1788, d. 1824; one of the greatest of British poets. The activity of his genius was almost as remarkable as that of its splendour, and nothing could restrain the strength and magnificence of its flight. Byron was weakly proud of his ancestry, and said he would rather be the descendant of those Byrons who accompanied William the Conqueror into England than the author of "Childe Harold" or "Manfred." He published his Hours of Idleness at the age of twenty-one. It was a volume of youthful poetical effusions, and one which was severely criticised in the Edinburgh Review, drawing forth from Byron his famous satire called "English Bards and Scotch Reviewers." In 1815 he married Miss Ann Millbank, but the union proved a most unhappy one. Separated from his wife Byron left England with the avowed intention of never again returning to it, and the following extract is said to be a reflex of the poet's feelings on the occasion. [Three speakers: CHILDE HAROLD, the PAGE, YEOMAN.] Childe Harold. "Adieu, adieu! my native shore fades o'er the waters blue; the night-winds sigh, the breakers roar, and shrieks the wild sea-mew. Yon sun that sets upon the sea we follow in his flight: farewell awhile to him and thee, my native land-Good night! A few short hours, and he will rise to give the morrow birth; and I shall hail the main and skies, but not my mother earth. Deserted is my own good hall, its hearth is desolate; wild weeds are gathering on the wall; my dog howls at the gate. Come hither, hither, my little page, why dost thou weep and wail? or dost thou dread the billows rage, or tremble at the gale? But dash the tear-drop from thine eye, our ship is swift and strong: our fleetest falcon scarce can fly more merrily along." The Page. "Let winds be shrill, let waves roll high, I fear not wave nor wind: yet marvel not, Sir Childe, that I am sorrowful in mind; for I have from my father gone, a mother whom I love, and have no friend, save these alone, but thee-and One above. My father blessed me fervently, yet did not much complain; but sorely will my mother sigh till I come back again."— Childe Harold. "Enough, enough, my little lad! such tears become thine eye; if I thy guileless bosom had, mine own would not be dry. Come hither, hither, my staunch yeoman, why dost thou look so pale? or dost thou dread a Frenchman foe? or shiver at the gale?" The Yeoman. "Deem'st thou I tremble for my life? Sir Childe, I'm not so weak; but thinking on an absent wife will blanch a faithful cheek. My spouse and boys dwell near thy hall, along the bordering lake, and when they on their father call, what answer shall she make?" Childe Harold. "Enough, enough, my yeoman good, thy grief let none gainsay; but I, who am of lighter mood, will laugh to flee away. And now I'm in the world alone, upon the wide, wide sea: but why should I for others groan, when none will sigh for me? Perchance my dog will whine in vain, till fed by stranger hands: but long ere I come back again he'd tear me where he stands. With thee, my bark, I'll swiftly go athwart the foaming brine; nor care what land thou bear'st me to, so not again to mine. Welcome, welcome, ye dark blue waves! and when you fail my sight, welcome, ye deserts, and ye caves! my native land-Good night!" (189.) DEATH OF GAWTREY THE COINER. Edward George Lytton Bulwer, afterwards Lord Lytton, poet, novelist, and dramatist, b. 1805, d. 1873, educated at Cambridge. Of his numerous novels the most popular are The Disowned, Paul Clifford, Eugene Aram, Last Days of Pompeii, The Caxtons, Night and Morning, My Novel; of his plays, Money, Lady of Lyons, and Richelieu. "His prose romance is ingenious and varied, showing the result of deliberate intellect and culture, and an honest love for the beautiful and the sublime." [Gawtrey is a character in Bulwer's famous novel of Night and Morning, illustrative of the force of circumstances driving a man of strong passions, but naturally honest disposition, to commit offences against society and its laws.] At both doors now were heard the sounds of voices. 66 Open in the king's name, or expect no mercy!" "Hist!" said Gawtrey. "One way yet-the window-the rope." Morton opened the casement-Gawtrey uncoiled the rope. The dawn was breaking; it was light in the streets, but all seemed quiet without. The doors reeled and shook beneath the pressure of the pursuers. Gawtrey flung the rope across the street to the opposite parapet; after two or three efforts the grappling-hook caught firm hold-the perilous path was made. "Go first," said Morton; "I will not leave you now; you will be longer getting across than I shall. I will keep guard till you are over." “Hark! hark!—are you mad? You keep guard! What is your strength to mine? Twenty men shall not move that door while my weight is against it. Quick, or you destroy us both! Besides, you will hold the rope for me, it may not be strong enough for my bulk of itself. Stay!-stay one moment. If you escape, and I fall-Fanny-my father, he will take care of her you rememberthanks. Forgive me all! Go, that's right!" With a firm pulse Morton threw himself on that dreadful bridge; it swung and crackled at his weight. Shifting his grasp rapidly—holding his breath-with set teeth-with closed eyes--he moved on-he gained the parapet―he stood safe on the opposite side. And now, straining his eyes across, he saw through the open casement into the chamber he had just quitted. Gawtrey was still standing against the door to the principal staircase, for that of the two was the weaker and the more assailed. Presently the explosion of a firearm was heard; they had shot through the panel. Gawtrey seemed wounded, for he staggered forward and uttered a fierce cry; a moment more and he gained the window-he seized the rope-he hung over the tremendous depth! Morton knelt by the parapet, holding the grappling-hook in its place with convulsive grasp, and fixing his eyes, bloodshot with fear and suspense, on the huge bulk that clung for life to that slender cord! "Le voila! le viola!” cried a voice from the opposite side. Morton raised his gaze from Gawtrey; the casement was darkened by the forms of the pursuers-they had burst into the room-an officer sprung upon the parapet, and Gawtrey, now aware of his danger, opened his eyes, and, as he moved on, glared upon the foe. The policeman deliberately raised his pistol-Gawtrey arrested himself— from a wound in his side the blood trickled slowly and darkly down, drop by drop, upon the stones below; even the officers of law shuddered as they eyed him; his hair bristling—his cheek white— his lips drawn convulsively from his teeth, and his eyes glaring from beneath the frown of agony and menace in which yet spoke the indomitable power and fierceness of the man. His look, so fixed-so intense-so stern, awed the policeman; his hand trembled as he fired, and the ball struck the parapet an inch below the spot where Morton knelt. An indistinct, wild, gurgling sound-half laugh, half yell—of scorn and glee, broke from Gawtrey's lips. He swung himself on--near-near-nearer―a yard from the parapet. "You are saved!" cried Morton; when at that moment a volley burst from the fatal casement-the smoke rolled over both the fugitives-a groan, or rather howl, of rage, and despair, and agony, appalled even the hardiest on whose ear it came. Morton sprang to his feet, and looked below. He saw on the rugged stones, far down, a dark, formless, motionless mass-the strong man of passion and levity-the giant who had played with life and soul, as an infant with the baubles that it prizes and breaks-was what the Cæsar and the leper alike are, when all clay is without God's breath--what glory, genius, power, and beauty would be for ever and for ever, if there were no God! (190.) AULD ROBIN GRAY. When the sheep are in the fauld, and a' the kye at hame, And a' the weary warld to sleep are gane, The waes o' my heart fall in showers from my e'e, While my gudeman sleeps sound by me. Young Jamie lo'ed me weel, and sought me for his bride, But saving a crown he had naething else beside: He had nae been gane a year and a day, When my faither brake his arm, and our cow was stole away; My mither she fell sick, and Jamie at the sea, And auld Robin Gray cam' a courting to me. My faither could na work, my mither could na spin, My heart it said nay, for I look'd for Jamie back, Or why was I spared to cry, Wae's me! My faither urged me sair, my mither did na speak, I had na been a wife a week but only four, Sair, sair did we greet, and mickle did we say,- |