stopped before the west door of great St. Paul's. There stood the Bishop of London, mitred and in his robes, holding a magnificent silver censer, and when he had censed the coffin, it was taken from off the bier, and carried with the same strange effigy before the altar. Nineteen strong men of the guards were appointed to this service; and weary work they had, for the coffin was exceeding heavy, but when they placed it for the night, those who liked to remain saw indeed a solemn spectacle. Full in front of the high altar stood the huge black coffin, with its strange-looking effigy sitting thereon, and flinging their giant shadows on the pavement. Above them, and nearly opposite, a glare of torches chased away the gathered darkness which yet moved not far off, but brooded and hung heavy in the lengthened aisles and gloomy corners of the church. Knights and heralds stood round, whose office it was to watch through the night; and there was the Bishop of London in his robes, with the abbots of St. Albans and Reading. All else were gone, except perchance some lingerer who looked on, awestruck. Then broke forth a solemn dirge, which reverberated through the building, and sounded from the lofty roofs, and throughout the aisles, as if unearthly voices had joined in the chant.

Next morning the bier and its attendants proceeded onward, gathering as they went both monks and seculars, till arrived at the convent of Westminster, where the weary company halted for the night. But scarcely had the light of morning dawned through the fretted windows of the abbey, than three solemn masses were sung, and the Duke of Buckingham, and seven English earls, with one lord from Scotland, came forward, according to the custom of those days, having each somewhat to offer. They were received in turn by the Archbishop of Canterbury, with the bishops and abbots, upon the second step of the altar, where the Duke of Buckingham, who represented the king's person, offered his late majesty's testament bound in gold. Next came the earls, each accompanied by two heralds, solemnly bedecked, and gave into the hands of persons appointed to the office, who stood on the south side of the altar, his coat armour, and richly-ornamented shield, his sword and helmet. This part of the solemn ceremony was indescribably affecting. It was the giving back to the church of the personal possessions with which the king had been invested, as now utterly valueless. After this, Sir Edward Howard, second son of the Earl of Surrey, in complete armour, but having his head uncovered, rode upon his black charger to the hearse, and after passing through the accustomed ceremonials, he was conducted with the English and Scottish earls, to the robingroom, where palls were given them, with which they returned to the coffin, and having pressed them to their lips, they were laid across the lid, in token of the last homage which they in duty ought to do unto the king. The king's great banner and standard was lastly resigned into the hands of the archbishop by Sir Edward Farrel; and a solemn sermon having been delivered by the Bishop of London, the effigy was taken from off the coffin, where it had remained seated, with its ball and sceptre, the pall removed, and the four royal banners lowered from each corner. This done, the two ends of the strong oak coffin became visible, but the upper portion was still covered with black velvet, having a cross of white satin, curiously embossed. The remains of him who lay within the spectators saw not, for they were inclosed in a leaden coffin, upon which was engraved in large letters,

"Hic jacet Regus Henricus Septimus."

Presently the coffin began to move, upborne wearily by strong men, on account of its great weight, and the heavy tread of those who bore it sounded throughout the abbey. Great was the reverence with which they placed it beside the coffin which held the remains of the noble Queen Elizabeth, the wife of him who now came to the same dark resting-place. When this was done, the archbishop and the bishop, laying their crosses upon the coffin, solemnly absolved the unconscious occupant. Earth was then strewed by the archbishop; and the Lord Treasurer and Lord Steward broke their staffs of office, and cast them into the vault. After which solemn renunciation of all future fealty to him who had been so great on earth, the principal officers did the

same. Then was the vault closed, and a rich pall of cloth of gold laid upon the bier or hearse. A few moments of deep silence ensued, after which the heralds cast off their emblazoned coats, and threw themselves upon the hearse, crying aloud with lamentable voices—

"The noble King Henry the Seventh is dead!" Another moment and every herald hastily resumed his coat and proclaimed! "Long life to the noble King Henry VIII. !—Amen!"

LITTLE MABEL BY THE

BROOK.

A LOVE STORY OF THE OLDEN TIME.
BY FANNY E. LACY.

WHERE a rustic cottage stood,
A sunlit brook went singing by ;
As though 'twould say an if it could,
"I would all were content as I :"
This cottage was a maiden's home,

On whom full many loved to look;
And known by all that way to roam,
As little Mabel by the brook.
'Twas at the sultry dreamy hour,

Of summer's noon; when pictures seem
Glowing by enchantment's power,
On the shining glassy stream,
She sat her down the water near,
Oft therein to cast a look ;
And smiling as she saw appear,
Pretty Mabel by the brook.

Smiles there were, and pouting, thought,
To rule those rosy lips in turn;
And where nature kind had wrought

A passing shade some might discern:
Yet the bloom upon the bough,

Pride of many a leafy nook; Was not a fairer sight, I trow, Than little Mabel by the brook.

With a mellow lullaby,

Chimes of distant village bells;
In music-rounds, went floating by,
To echoing caves and deep green dells:
And the maiden thought to say,

As her little head she shook;
"I wish I were a ladye gay,
"Instead of Mabel by the brook.

"I wish I had, of satin sheen,

"A mantle fine, and kirtle too; "And a little page in Lincoln green,

"To buckle on my daintie shoe: "A gentle hawk upon my hand,

"To heed my every lure and look ;
"And a gentler Lord, with house and land,"
Sigh'd little Mabel by the brook,

And then she clapp'd her hands and laugh'd,
To view the picture of her thought;
You'd guess'd, I ween, the wench was daft,
To see her thus so fancie-fraught;

When, oh! the wonder! there stood nigh,
Just like some tale of faerie book;
The page and all that waked the sigh,
Of little Mabel by the brook.

No more the stream reflects-good lack!-
The likeness of a rustic maid;
But on a snow-white palfrie's back,

A ladye, gloriously array'd:
And a youthful knight of noble air,

Held her hand with loving look;
Oh! who'd have guess'd such ladye fayre,
Was little Mabel by the brook!

On she went with the bonnie train,

So beauteous in her grand disguise; When, lo! one crossed them on the plain, Whose heart look'd through his wondering eyes:

Who, as he pass'd that ladye by,

With all a lover's last fond look ; Breathed sad farewell to days gone by,

With little Mabel by the brook.

Yet once he paused; and 'twas to tell
A tale of true love's patient life;
How he had loved her long and well,
With hope some day to call her wife:
He could not boast of golden store,

His wealth was but a shepherd's crook ;
But his true heart ne'er sigh'd for more,
With little Mabel by the brook.

Oh, then, with keen remorse to quake,

The maiden leap'd her palfrie down;
And "Ne'er," she cried, "will I forsake
"A loving heart for England's crown!
"Take back, great sir, your proffers great,
"And leave me in my lowly nook;
"To wed my humble, faithful mate,
"Still little Mabel by the brook."

Just then a whispering summer breeze,
Pass'd lightly o'er the dimpling stream;
And Mabel woke beneath the trees,

To find the whole had been a dream!
And idle dream of worldly gain,

That as a page from wisdom's book; Contented taught her to remain

Still little Mabel by the brook.

OR, THE MAN FROM BELOW.*

CHAP. XXXIII.-FANNY WILKINSON IN THE CHARACTER OF JULIET.

THE nature of our story will not permit us to indulge in minute details respecting the quirks and contrivances by which the strollers sought to keep up the delusion of the scene. As far as possible the barn was successively transformed into Verona and Mantua, the palace of the Capulets, a street, Friar Laurence's cell, Juliet's bedroom, and the tomb.

She

Our attention just now must be engrossed by Fanny Wilkinson, who, little older than Juliet herself, projected her mind by the force of nature into the character, and looked so completely the young beauty of Verona that her clownish and credulous audience for a moment fully believed her to be all that she personated. Fanny, whose figure had already attained its complete development, was a small light and graceful person, with a beautifully-formed bosom, neck, and shoulders. A severe critic might perhaps have objected to the irregularity of her features, which as a whole, however, were so fascinating that she was pronounced by the provincial connoisseurs as quite irresistible. had a rich fair complexion, a mouth of inimitable loveliness, eyes of a wild lustrous blue, and a profusion of dark brown hair which, when its luxuriance in certain characters shaded the neck and forehead, imparted to her figure much elevation and dignity. Her countenance was infinitely flexible; it appeared to have no habitual expression, but passed through every metamorphosis which passion causes with so much ease and rapidity that each new form seemed in turn to indicate the natural feelings of her mind. Among all Fanny's perfections, however, her voice was the greatest; rich and melodious, tender, powerful, and invested with inexpressible sweetness, it thrilled through the whole theatre literally intoxicating those who heard her.

Up to this moment Fanny's mind was no less beautiful than her form: in the ordinary sense of the word it had not, of course, been much cultivated; but as in some new tropical colony the fresh virgin earth puts forth at the first touch of the plough a richer, more varied, and marvellous vegetation than the highly-wrought soils of long-inhabited countries, so her fancy and imagination, broken up by the genius of the poet, threw forth beauties of manner and character which astonished all whom nature had fitted to enjoy such exhibitions.

Romeo and Juliet has always been a favourite on the stage, notwithstanding the defects, and indeed absurdities, which it contains; the magic influence of the poetry blinds our judgment, we forget the great dramatist's contradictiondo not laugh when he talks of Lady Capulet at twenty-eight as an old woman, makes a similar blunder respecting the Nurse, and represents a man of princely fortunes intermeddling, like a poor citizen, with the internal economy of his household; for objections are all floated away on the tide of passion, Juliet's beauty, youth, inexperience make us for the time overlook the strange irregularity of her impulses; and her dissimulation, her hypocrisy, her ingratitude towards her parents, in the hurry of stage action, are eclipsed by her love for Romeo. We are allowed no time for analysis or reflection, through emotion, excitement, and calamity, the poet hurries us towards the end; and the faults, and even vices, of Juliet's character are obliterated by our sympathy for her misfortunes.

Paul entered the playhouse in company with Mrs. Wilkinson, who appeared that night among the spectators to witness her daughter's performance. We

*Continued from page 210.

shall not dwell on the imperfections of Mr. Wilkinson's company, or relate how Mercutio was impersonated by a fellow without an ounce of wit; how the fiery Tybalt was content to limp about on Mr. Link's wooden leg; nor how : many other strange things were perpetrated and endured, for the sake of the somewhat dashing Romeo of Mr. Redmond, and the exquisitely-natural Juliet of Fanny Wilkinson.

Everybody has felt what I may perhaps find it impossible to express; I mean the curious magic by which a small point of space, enclosed by brick and mortar, and lighted up with tallow candles, is transformed for a moment into a sort of Paradise, filled with thrilling emotions, and calculated to transport the imagination into regions of unknown and delicious joy. Earth is all delusion, all external show, all vapour and unsubstantial shadows, upon which our minds themselves unsubstantial-feed during their brief dream of existence. Paul, as I have already observed, sat by Mrs. Wilkinson; and, on looking upon that which was as much the mimicry of a stage as the stage itself is the mimicry of life, experienced an absorbing interest in which no other individual present could possibly share. The moment Fanny appeared, all his soul was in his eyes. The scenes that wanted her presence he scarcely noticed-they were only so many dull points of transition from reality to reality. Off the stage, his affection for Fanny had been mild, gentle, unobtrusive, resembling a modification of friendship-though a little more earnest, perhaps, than that feeling is apt on a sudden to be. As soon as he saw her on the stage he loved her. How or why this should have been I leave for philosophers to explain, but the fact was as I have stated; and every time that Mr. Redmond, as Romeo, addressed her in the language of passion, he felt disposed to rush forward and throttle him. Unaccustomed to conceal his thoughts, he fairly broke out to Mrs. Wilkinson after the scene at Juliet's window :

"I'm 'nation wishful to pitch into that fellow!-And why will Fanny talk to him so freely? I don't like it at all."

"Hush, Paul!" said she in a whisper; "it's only acting."

"I ain't no way sure of that," answered he: "all the blood in my body boils like a tea-kettle! I shan't be able to sit here much longer; I can't look on it— I can't indeed."

"Nonsense, child; you'll get used to it," cried the mother."

"Never," replied Paul, "unless you make a Romeo of me."

"Well, you've only to learn to act, and you shall play Romeo." "And how can one learn to act?"

"Why, Mr. Link, to be sure."

"And who taught Mr. Link?"

"He got, I believe, among the players when a boy, and afterwards assisted the officers when they got up private theatricals in the army

"Private what?" inquired Paul.

"Private theatricals."

"And what are they?"

abroad."

"The performance of plays by people who are not professional actors. But hush, here comes Fanny.'

Paul's attention was now once more riveted on the stage, and his face became by turns red and pale, and he clenched his fists, and set his teeth, and groaned audibly, as he witnessed in succession the liberties that Romeo takes with Juliet. Several times he muttered half aloud to himself

"I'll kill that fellow, as sure as life!"

Sometimes his faith in the events in progress caused him to forget even his jealousy and his anger. When Juliet, left alone in her bed-chamber, prepares to swallow the poison, Paul started on his feet, and cried—

"Don't drink a drop of it, Fanny!"

At this interruption many of the spectators laughed, and Paul re-seated him

self, excessively ashamed of what he had done; but when the representation came to the scene in the tomb, his feelings again overpowered him: he gasped, as it were, for breath; and as Fanny proceeded to mimic suicide and death, he became intensely agitated; his dilated eyes were filled with tears-his lips, separating and trembling, grew pale as his cheeks-his breast heaved-and at length, as the last crisis of Juliet's fate was over, he again rose and exclaimed"Oh, God, she is gone!

This time, the audience, having been worked up to nearly the same pitch, strongly sympathised with Paul; and at the conclusion of the piece Fanny was dismissed amidst thunders of applause, to which the emotion and excitement of her incipient lover had largely contributed.

"Well, Paul," said Mrs. Wilkinson, when they had got out into the street, "what do you think of Fanny's acting?

"I think she did not act at all, ma'am," answered he; "it was all true-she meant every word she said; and that infernal Romeo will take her away before long, you'll see."

"You astonish me, Paul!" replied Mrs. Wilkinson.

"How so, ma'am?"

"I thought you knew what a play meant, and that actors and actresses only say what is set down for them, and not what they themselves think or feel." 'Well, I believe I do know that, ma'am; but whatever may be the case with Fanny, I'm sure that fellow was 'nationly in earnest. And now tell me, maʼam, who is he?

There was a certain tone of uneasiness, if not of anger, in Mrs. Wilkinson's voice when, in reply to Paul's question, she said—

"I'll tell you all about him some other time. See, here is Fanny and her father." And the youthful actress, coming joyously up, shook hands with Paul; and then, putting her arm in his, said, in her sweetest manner

"How did you like me to-night, mother? Did I please you-did I throw enough of earnestness into my part-was it like life?

"Oh, 'nation like life!" exclaimed Paul, before the mother could have time to reply.

Oh, you think so, Paul," cried Fanny; "but what do you say, my mother?" Mrs. Wilkinson replied, in an encouraging, but somewhat thoughtful tone— "You acted with great force and earnestness, my child, and my heart, as I looked at you, overflowed with pleasure; yet there were moments

"What, mother? Explain, for God's sake! Were there any parts in which I failed ?"

"Oh, no, my dear; I mean there were moments in which I thought you succeeded but too well; and Paul was of exactly the same opinion.'

“This is all a mystery to me," observed the father; "I never saw her display so much strength in her part. Did not you like her acting, Paul?”

66

My notion was, sir," answered he, "that there was no acting in it. I thought 'twas every bit of it real.”

"Well, my boy," exclaimed Wilkinson, "that's the best of all criticisms. But I'm confoundedly hungry, as I hope you all are; and as we have been more than usually lucky to-night, we'll have a supper. I have given orders for it already, and have invited Redmond to join us.'

"I'm very sorry, dear, answered Mrs. Wilkinson; "I should have liked much better to have had none but our own family."

A slight shudder of rage passed through Paul's frame. Mr. Wilkinson replied to his wife

“I'm sorry you are vexed, Mary, and I won't do anything of the sort again without asking you; but I was pleased with his acting, and gave him the invitation thoughtlessly."

At this moment the subject of their conversation himself came up, and accosting Fanny with the utmost coolness, and at the same time holding out his arm, said, in a gentlemanly, but somewhat affected manner—

K K