of England, a roaming outcast, without a shelter or a home."

6. "So thou didst know my mother, good man?" said Alice, laying her hand on the beggar's arm, and looking up wistfully in his face.

"Thy mother?-ay, I knew her once," he replied, with uppressed emotion.

"Then speak to me of my mother. I long to hear some one speak of her. People say she was very kind and gentle. Alas! I never saw her. She died in giving me birth; and so there's a void in my heart I would fain fill up with her image. Say, pilgrim, canst paint her to my fancy? I will listen to thee most attentively."

7. The mendicant turned his head aside, and drew his hand quickly across his eyes.

"Pardon, me, good man," said Alice, as she saw the mo tion, and understood it; "I fear me I have awakened some painful recollection."

"Nay," replied the mendicant, "it is but a foolish weak. ness." And he raised himself up to his full height, and planted his staff firmly against the rock, as if to nerve himself for the trial.

8. Father Peter and Nell Gower were conversing at the farther end of the cell, and casting a look occasionally in the direction of the speakers.

"Nell saith I am somewhat like my mother. Good man, dost think so?" inquired Alice.

"Like thy mother, my fair child? Ay, thy face is somewhat like. But the face is only a small part—a hundred such aces were not worth a heart like hers."

"She was so good?"

9. "Ay, and so noble, and so grand of soul."

"Ah!"

"And yet so humble, so charitable, so pure, and so truly Catholic. Hold, I'll question thee as to the resemblance, and then tell thee, mayhap, in how much thou'rt like thy mother."

"Speak on," said Alice; "I'll answer thee right faithfully."

"Hast been good to the poor beggar who came to beg ar alms and shelter? and didst give him the kind word at meeting, and the secret dole at parting?"

Alice hesitated.

10. "She hath," replied a deep voice from a distant corner of the chapel.

Alice started, somewhat surprised at the solemn sound, but the mendicant seemed not to notice it.

"Hast worshipped thy God in the night and in the morning?" "She hath."

"Hast been frequent at the sacred confessional and the holy altar?"

"She hath," responded the same voice, a third time.

11. "Dost love thy religion better than thy life?" demanded the pilgrim, in a sterner tone, still leaning on his staff, and looking steadily at the young girl. Answer for thyself, maiden."

66

"Methinks I do," she at length replied, casting her eyes bashfully on the ground, and playing with the chain of her cross. "But I'm only a simple country girl, and have not yet been greatly tempted."

"Good," said the mendicant. "And art ready to sacrifice thy life for thy faith?"

"Ay, willingly !" responded Alice, in a tone of increased confidence.

12. "Hearken to me, child. Thy religion is a low, mean, and contemptible thing. It is driven out from the royal courts and princely halls of thy native land, where it once ruled triumphant, to dwell with the ignorant and the poor. It is forced to seek shelter in woods and caves. It is banished the presence of the great and powerful, despised and scoffed at even by the learned; nay, it is flung from their houses like a ragged garment, and fit only to be worn by wretched beggars like myself! Ha, girl! thy religion is the scorn of thy compeers--like the Christian name in the times of the Diocletians, it's a disgrace and dishonor to acknowledge it."

13. "I care not," said Alice; "was not my Redeemer de spised for his religion?"

"And art bold enough to meet the contemptuous smiles, and withstand the winks and nods, of the enemies of thy faith, as thou passest them by?"

Alice answered not in words, but she raised the cross from her bosom, where it hung, and reverently kissed the lips of the image of the Saviour.

The mendicant understood the silent reply, and proceeded : 14. "But of thy father. Wouldst abandon him to pre serve thy faith? Wouldst see him dragged on a hurdle to the gallows, amid the shouts of the rabble, when thy apostasy would save him?"

"What is he a prisoner?" she cried, fearing the mendicant had hitherto been only preparing her for some dreadful announcement.

“Nay, answer me, maiden. Wouldst save thy father by apostasy?"

15. "Never!" responded Alice, raising herself to her full height, and crossing her arms on her breast as she spoke. "Never! I love him as fondly as ever daughter loved a parent-nay, I would give my life cheerfully to save his; but I would see him hanging on the gallows at Tyburn till the wind and sun had bleached his bones, rather than renounce the religion of my God and the honors of my ancestors !"

"Ha! thou wouldst, girl?" said the mendicant, catching her hand, and gazing full in her face. "Then thou hast learnt to feel as a Catholic."

124. MARCO Bozzaris.

HALLEOK.

FITZ GREENE HALLECK-an American poet, born at Guilford, Connecticat, in 1795. His poetry is musical, and full of vigor, evincing a refined taste, and a heart alive to every generous and noble sentiment.

[Marco Bozzaris, the Epaminondas of modern Greece, fell in a night attack upon the Turkish camp at Laspi, the site of the ancient Platea, August 20, 1828, and 'expired in the moment of victory.]

1. Ar midnight, in his guarded tent,.

The Turk was dreaming of the hour

When Greece, her knee in suppliance bent,
Should tremble at his power:

In dreams through camp and court he bor
The trophies of a conqueror;

In dreams his song of triumph heard;
Then wore his monarch's signet ring,—
Then press'd that monarch's throne,—a king;
As wild his thoughts, and gay of wing,
As Eden's garden bird.

2. An hour pass'd on,-the Turk awoke;
That bright dream was his last;

He woke, to hear his sentries shriek,—
"To arms! they come! the Greek! the Greek↑
He woke, to die midst flame and smoke,
And shout, and groan, and sabre-stroke,

And death-shots falling thick and fast
As lightnings from the mountain cloud;
And heard, with voice as trumpet loud,
Bozzaris cheer his band :-

"Strike-till the last arm'd foe expires!
Strike for your altars and your fires!
Strike for the green graves of your sires!
God, and your native land!”

8 They fought, like brave men, long and well; They piled the ground with Moslem slain; They conquer'd; but Bozzaris fell,

Bleeding at every vein.

His few surviving comrades saw

His smile, when rang their proud hurrah,

And the red field was won;

Then saw in death his eyelids close,
Calmly, as to a night's repose,

Like flowers at set of sun.

4 Come to the bridal chamber, Death! Come to the mother's when she feels

For the first time her first-born's breath;
Come when the blessèd seals
That close the pestilence are broke,
And crowded cities wail its stroke;
Come in consumption's ghastly form,
The earthquake shock, the ocean storm;
Come when the heart beats high and warm,

With banquet song, and dance, and wine,-
And thou art terrible: the tear,

The groan, the knell, the pall, the bier,
And all we know, or dream, or fear,
Of agony, are thine.

5 But to the hero, when his sword
Has won the battle for the free,
Thy voice sounds like a prophet's word,
And in its hollow tones are heard

The thanks of millions yet to be.
Bozzaris! with the storied brave

Greece nurtured in her glory's time,
Rest thee: there is no prouder grave,
Even in her own proud clime.

We tell thy doom without a sigh;
For thou art Freedom's now, and Fame's,-
One of the few, the immortal names,

That were not born to die!

125. MRS. CAUDLE ON LATE HOURS.

DOUGLAS JERROLD.

DOUGLAS JERROLD, born in Sheerness, Kent, England, in 1808; died, 1857 As a dramatic and humorous writer, Jerrold was unsurpassed among his contemporaries. He was one of the principal contributors to "Punch," and wielded a pen of considerable power in lashing the follies of the age.

1. PERHAPS, Mr. Caudle, you'll tell me where this is to end Though, goodness knows, I needn't ask that. The end is plair enough. Out, out, out! Every night, every night!