the grass I know not how long, and then I wandered home. I drank a pint of brandy and threw myself upon the bed undressed. I don't think I slept a wink. Early in the morning that pale, pig's-eyed looking German called upon me, and in a few authoritative words in broken English bade me accompany him on a little visit. He led the way across the Pont St. Michel to the centre of the Marché Neuf, where we entered a small square building. It was the Morgue! The old Morgue, a much more wretched place than the present edifice. On our left hand there were large windows guarded by a rail, and beyond was the chamber of death. It nearly made me sick to see several dead bodies lying there. I shuddered and clung to my companion. He looked coldly on and pointed to a pink dress and some lace that was hanging in the furthest corner; and then, oh mercy! I saw her body, cold and white and still. There it lay in awful companionship! I think I must have fainted at sight of the poor lost woman, with her brown hair all damp and clinging to her white round shoulders. I remembered nothing until I found myself on a sofa in a well-furnished My senses were no sooner restored to me than that horrible German with the light moustache and the cold greenish eye came in and deliberately seizing me by the throat, began to shake and curse me. I felt like a child in his hands, I was so weak and faint, and all the sensations of approaching death came over me. I must have cried out and struggled, I suppose, for a woman rushed into the room and dragged my assailant from me; he left me with an oath; and the woman, a strong, wilful-looking creature led me into an adjoining room. I could hardly stand, but I was nevertheless strong enough and sensible enough to take the woman's advice and get out of that house. I stumbled down two pairs of stairs and found my way into the street, where I obtained a cab and went to my hotel. I found a letter, which had been delivered by the post: it was written in French. The words were, I loved you truly. I was unworthy of you: that is why you will never see your poor Louise again; here is a souvenir of her who blesses you with her last breath."

room.

That souvenir was a small locket fastened to a piece of blue ribbon. I need not tell you how deeply it affected me. During the night which followed these hours of mystery and terror and grief I slept the sleep of one who is at last exhausted in mind and body. I was awakened after midnight by the proprietor of

the house, who entered with a candle, and in some little excitement asked me if there was not something wrong. I was out of bed in an instant. "What is wrong, sir?" I asked. "I think your bedroom has been robbed, if I have not disturbed the thief,' he replied. "I saw a fellow prowling about before I went to bed, and as soon as I was awakened by the grating of a lock I got up and rang my bell. This was silly; I ought to have gone out and caught the thief. In another minute I heard a door shut; a stealthy step passed my room, and before I could follow my light was out, his cloak over my head, and Jacques here has come to say that they are after a fellow who leaped from a second-floor window, and made off along the Rue St. Honoré." This was the host's story so far as I could make out. We examined the room. My valise had been cut open, sure enough, and there lay beside it a great clasp-knife which had done the business. Louise's little note was gone, her locket had been torn away from the ribbon, and a packet of letters from England had been carried off. I shall always believe that German was the thief. And it seemed to me at the time that if he had not been disturbed he would have murdered me. He had evidently some mysterious power, or wished to have, over Louise. I stood in his way; how, I cannot understand; but it was so. Her liking for me was to him a terrible grievance: he had searched for letters and other tokens of our acquaintanceship. I told the hotel-keeper I had had a narrow escape: that knife was intended for something more desperate than cutting open a valise. Fancy, if he had murdered me, you would have seen no fat, sentimental recorder on the beach at Boulogne; and that happy-looking regiment of children coming from the machines yonder would not have been in existence. You are very much obliged to that German devil for not cutting my throat? And I thank my host of the Imperial for disturbing him before he had time to carry out his fell scheme.

Well, sir, to conclude, as the parson says, I put that bit of ribbon, which the thief had left behind him, into my pocket, took the next train to Calais, the next to Dover, returned to my father's house, and married Miss Longford. We are a thoroughly happy pair, as you have already had judgment enough to note. My children are good, contented, and numerous, as you see; and if that will make a story for Christmas, my friend, you are quite welcome to it, and you can call it Uncle Hartlebury's Romance.

[Lady Anne Barnard, daughter of James Lindsay, fifth Earl of Balcarras, born at Balcarras, Fife, 27th November, 1750; died in Berkeley Square, London, 6th May, 1825. She married Sir Andrew Barnard, a son of the Bishop of Limerick, and colonial secretary at the Cape of Good Hope. She accompanied her husband to the Cape, and wrote an interesting description of an expedition across the country, in letters, part of which have been published in the Songstresses of Scotland, by Sarah Tytler and J. L. Watson. The popularity of Auld Robin Gray, and the well-kept mystery regarding its author

ship, are referred to in Lady Anne Barnard's letter to Sir Walter Scott, dated July, 1823.1 In the year of her death, Scott edited for the Bannatyne Club a tract containing a corrected version of the ballad, and a continuation by the authoress. The second part was written to gratify her ladyship's mother; but it never became popular; and the poetess was quite sensible that it did not deserve to become so; for although it contains several fine lines, it destroys the nobility of the characters which gave force and grandeur to the original ballad We quote the second part as a curiosity.]

"Robin Gray, so called from its being the name of the old herd at Balcarras, was born soon after the close of the year 1771. My sister Margaret had married, and accompanied her husband to London: I was melancholy, and endeavoured to amuse myself by attempting a few poetical trifles. There was an ancient Scotch melody, of which I was passionately fond;

who lived before your day, used to sing it to us at Balcarras. She did not object to its having improper words, though I did. I longed to sing old Sophy's air to different words, and give to its plaintive tones some little history of virtuous distress in humble life, such as might suit it. While attempting to effect this in my closet, I called to my little sister, now Lady Hardwicke, who was the only person near me, 'I have been writing a ballad, my dear; I am oppressing my heroine with many misfortunes. I have already sent her Jamie to sea-and broken her father's arm-and made her mother fall sick-and given her Auld Robin Gray for her lover; but I wish to load her with a fifth sorrow within the four lines, poor thing! Help me to one.' 'Steal the cow, sister Anne,' said the little Elizabeth. The cow was immediately lifted by me, and the song completed At our fireside, and amongst our neighbours, Auld Robin Gray was always called for. I was pleased in secret with the approbation it met with; but such was my dread of being suspected of writing anything, perceiving the shyness it created in those who could write

nothing, that I carefully kept my own secret. Meantime, little as this matter seems to have been worthy of a dispute, it afterwards became a party question between the sixteenth and eighteenth centuries. Robin Gray was either a very ancient ballad compose perhaps by David Rizzio, and a great curiosity, or a very very modern matter, and no curiosity at all I was persecuted to avow whether I had written a not,--where I had got it. Old Sophy kept my commisel. and I kept my own, in spite of the gratification of seeing a reward of twenty guineas offered in the newspapers to the person who should ascertain the point past a doubt, and the still more flattering circumstance of a visit from Mr. Jerningham, secretary to the Antiquarian Society, who endeavoured to entrap the truth from me in a manner I took amiss. Had he asked me the ques tion obligingly, I should have told him the fact distinctly and confidentially. The annoyance, however, of this important ambassador from the Antiquaries was amply repaid to me by the noble exhibition of the Ballat of Auld Robin Gray's Courtship,' as performed by dancing-dogs under my window. It proved its popu larity from the highest to the lowest, and gave the plea sure while I hugged myself in my obscurity." The air to which the ballad is now sung was written by the Rev. William Leeves, of Wrington.

The novel Robin Gray, by Charles Gibbon, is founded on the ballad.

DEERSLAYER.

[James Fenimore Cooper, born in Burlington, New Jersey, 15th September, 1789; died in Cooperstown, New York, 14th September, 1851. He is sometimes called "the Scott of America." After studying in the Yale College, he served six years in the United States navy, travelled in Europe for several years, and ultimately settled in his native country. His first novel, Precaution, appeared in 1821, and was followed by The Spy: The Pioneers; The Pilot, &c. He wrote thirty-four novels, various sketches of travel, a History of the United States Navy, and other works. His tales of Indian and

backwoods life, and of the sea, maintain their place as amongst the very best of their kind. Daniel Webster said of him: "The enduring monuments of Fenimore Cooper are his works. While the love of country continues to prevail, his memory will exist in the hearts of the people."

Our extract is from the famous Leatherstocking series of tales. Natty Bumpo passes through many adventures under the names of Deerslayer, Hawkeye, Pathfinder, and, in his old age, Leatherstocking. His chief comrade is Chingachgook, or the "Big Serpent," who is a chief of the Mohicans or Delaware Indians. The latter's betrothed, Wah-ta-Wah, or in English, Hist-oh-Hist! bas been captured by the Iroquois or Mingos. Deerslayer assists his friend in rescuing the girl from their enemies, but he is himself made prisoner.]

The

The day succeeding his capture Deerslayer was conducted before the assembled band. It was an imposing scene into which he was brought. All the older warriors were seated on the trunk of a fallen tree, waiting his approach with grave decorum. On the right stood the young men, armed, while the left was occupied by the women and children. In the centre was an open space of considerable extent, always canopied by leaves, but from which the underbrush, dead wood, and other obstacles had been carefully removed. more open area had probably been much used by former parties, for this was the place where the appearance of a sward was the most decided. The arches of the woods, even at high noon, cast their sombre shadows on the spot, which the brilliant rays of the sun, that struggled through the leaves, contributed to mellow, and, if such an expression can be used, to illuminate. It was probably from a similar scene that the mind of man first got its idea of the effects of Gothic tracery and churchly hues; this temple of nature producing some such effect, so far as light and shadows were concerned, as the well-known offspring of human invention.

As was not unusual among the tribes and wandering bands of the aborigines, two chiefs shared, in nearly equal degrees, the principal

and primitive authority that was wielded over these children of the forest. There were several who might claim the distinction of being chief men, but the two in question were so much superior to all the rest in influence, that, when they agreed, no one disputed their mandates; and when they were divided, the band hesitated like men who had lost their governing principle of action. It was also in conformity with practice--perhaps we might add in conformity with nature-that one of the chiefs was indebted to his mind for his influence, whereas the other owed his distinction altogether to qualities that were physical. One was a senior, well known for eloquence in debate, wisdom in council, and prudence in measures; while his great competitor, if not his rival, was a brave, distinguished in war, notorious for ferocity, and remarkable, in the way of intellect, for nothing but the cunning and expedients of the war-path. The first was Rivenoak, while the last was called le Panthere, in the language of the Canadas; or the Panther, to resort to the vernacular of the English colonies. The appellation of the fighting chief was supposed to indicate the qualities of the warrior, agreeably to a practice of the red-man's nomenclature; ferocity, cunning, and treachery being perhaps the distinctive features of his character.

Rivenoak and the Panther sat side by side, awaiting the approach of their prisoner, as Deerslayer put his moccasined foot on the strand; nor did either move, or utter a syllable, until the young man had advanced into the centre of the area, and proclaimed his presence with his voice. This was done firmly, though in the simple manner that marked the character of the individual.

"Here I am, Mingos," he said, in the dialect of the Delawares, a language that most present understood; "here I am; do with me what you please. My business with man and 'arth is settled; nothing remains now but to meet the white man's God, accordin' to a white man's duties and gifts."

A murmur of approbation escaped even the women at this address, and, for an instant, there was a strong and pretty general desire to adopt into the tribe one who owned so brave a spirit. Still there were dissenters from this wish, among the principal of whom might be classed the Panther, and his sister, le Sumach, so called from the number of her children, who was the widow of le Loup Cervier, now known to have fallen by the hand of the captive.

[After much deliberation, Deerslayer was