"Murder! is it murdher to burn a nest of vipers?"

“Else, think for a moment. You have an immortal soul to be saved." "Me! I have no soul. I lost it thirty years ago-let me pass."

"Listen to me."

"No, no, no; I have listened to you too long-away!"

"Grant me but one favor. It may be the last I shall ever ask-for I fear, Else, we must soon fly from this place, and then I can never hope to see you more. Grant me but one favor."

“What's that-marcy to the Hardwrinkles ?"

"No, dear Else, but mercy to yourself to your own soul, dearer to me than the wealth of worlds. Here," she continued, throwing her rosary over Else's neck, "tell these beads to-night before you sleep, and as you pray, fix your eyes on the crucifix."

"Stop, stop," exclaimed Else, her face flushed with passion, while the hood of her cloak falling back on her shoulders and revealing her gray elf locks, gave her the look of a sybil under the frenzy of inspiration. "Stop!" she ejaculated, repulsing the pious and affectionate girl" stop! I can't touch this blissed thing. Eh, what?" she added, as the rosary met her averted eyes," what's this?"

The image of Christ," responded Mary, "whose life was one continuous act of love. Look at those arms extended to bless and forgive the whole world, and tell me can you behold the image of that dying Saviour, and yet feel so hardhearted as to take the life of your fellow creature?"

"Whisht, girl, whisht," said Else, sinking back on a chair, as if her emotions had overpowered her, "I know all that; but whose rosary is this?"

"Father John's-he lent it to me when I lost my mother's."

"Good God!" exclaimed the old woman, covering her face with her hands, "this rosary was once mine."

"Yours!"

“Ay, ay, I remember it well-I brought it with me from the West Indees, and giv it to ould priest Gallaher of Gortnaglen, Father John's uncle. Augh, hoch, it lucks ould and worn now like myself."

"I wish it had grown old and worn in your own hands, Else, dear," said Mary, sitting beside her, and pushing back the gray hairs from her wrinkled forehead. “I wish it had, Else, for then your long life had been better and happier." "May be so."

"How consoling to reflect, in your old days, you had served God faithfully."

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It's useless to think of that now, Mary—I'm lost."

"Lost! oh, God forbid. Only forgive your enemies, and God will forgive you. Think how he forgave the Jews who put him to death: think how he forgave Magdalen and the penitent thief."

"Child," said Else, with a smile that made Mary shudder, it expressed so plainly the depth of her despair; "child, you speak only of sinners, but I'm a devil."

"No, no, don't smile and speak to me so, you are not-you are not," cried Mary, clinging to her old nurse's neck, "you never could love as you loved me and be so wicked. Oh never speak those awful words again, Else, they terrify me. No, no, you are not so wicked. You are not lost, the friend of the poor orphan can never be lost."

As Mary was yet speaking, a knock came, and Rodger O'Shaughnessy presented himself at the door. He had been engaged, it would seem, burnishing up the old silver salver, for he held the precious relic under his arm, and had pushed the shamois leather, with which he had been rubbing it, into the breast pocket of his old bottle green coat.

"What now, Rodger ?" inquired Mary, "has Mr. Lee returned?"

"Not yet, plaze your ladyship,” replied Rodger, bowing respectfully. "Oh, it's only Else Curley," he added, correcting himself; "I thought you had company. No he's not come back yet, and I wish he was, for there's strangers coming down the road here to the light-house, and not as much as a bit or a sup in the house fit to offer them. I wish to goodness they'd stay at home."

"Never mind, Rodger, receive them at the door, and shew them into the parlor."

"Indeed then I wont," replied Rodger; "they'll have to find the way themselves; and if they're any of the master's acquaintances you know, they'll not expect any thing, 'hem! if you only hint, ahem! that the butler's not at home." "Very well, Rodger, do as you please."

"And now," said Mary, turning to Else, "you promise to tell these beads tonight under the invocation of the Blessed Virgin. Do you promise?"

"Ay, I'll say them to plaze ye," replied Else, " but it's of little valie they'll be, for I hav'nt bent a knee to God since afore you were born."

"No matter," said Mary, "God is merciful. He has converted worse hearts than yours. Say your prayers to-night, Else, and who knows but the old rosary, once so familiar to your touch, with God's good grace, may awaken those better and nobler feelings which so long have lain dormant in your heart."

"God be with ye, Mary," said Else, tenderly kissing the forehead of the gentle girl. "God be with you, asthore. I tould ye my intintin, that ye'd know what happened me, if the worst comes to the worst."

"I have no fear of that, dear nurse; there's still a bright spot in your soul which will redeem it from the sins that cloud it, were they as numerous as the sands of Araheera. Go now and remember your promise."

"Ay, ay, I'll remimber it. Bad as I am, Mary, I niver broke my promise yet ;" and so saying the old solitary of Benraven wrapped her gray cloak about her shoulders and passed from the room.

Mary, after paying a visit to the little cabin boy, and finding him still asleep, but apparently much easier, approached a window that looked out upon the iron bridge and the narrow road leading from it to the village of Araheera. She expected to see the strangers whom Rodger had announced coming down the hill, but they had already passed the gate and entered the light-house yard. Else Curley's tall form was the only object she could see hurrying back to the Cairn accompanied by Nannie, who had waited for her as usual outside the gate, and now went bleating and trotting after her.

To be continued.

Miscellanea.

SIMUL ET JUCUNDA ET IDONEA DICERE VITE.

THE LAST HOURS OF LOUIS XVI.-We abridge the following account of the last moments and execution of the unfortunate Louis XVI, from Allison's excellent History of Europe. His last interview with his family presented the most heart-rending scene. At half-past eight the door of his apartment opened and the Queen appeared, leading by the hand the Princess Royal and the Princess Elizabeth; they all rushed into the arms of the King. A profound silence ensued for some minutes, broken only by sobs of the afflicted family. The King took a seat, the Queen on his left, the Princess Royal on his right, Madame Elizabeth in front, and the young Dauphin between his knees. This terrible scene lasted nearly two hours; the tears and lamentations of the royal family frequently interrupting the words of the King, sufficiently evinced that he himself was communicating the intelligence of his condemnation. At length, at a quarter past ten Louis arose; the royal parents gave each of them their blessing to the Dauphin, while the Princess still held the King embraced around the waist. As he approached the door, they uttered the most piercing shrieks: "I assure you," said he, "I will see you again in the morning at eight o'clock." "Why not at seven?" they all exclaim. "Well then, at seven," answered the King. 'Adieu, adieu !" These words were pronounced with so mournful an accent that the lamentations of the family were redoubled, and the Princess Royal fainted at his feet. At length, wishing to put an end to so trying a scene, the King embraced them all in the tenderest manner, and tore himself from their arms.

The remainder of the evening he spent with his confessor, the Abbé Edgeworth, who, with heroic devotion, discharged the perilous duty of attending the last moments of his sovereign. At twelve he went to bed and slept peaceably till five. He then gave his last instruction to Clery, and put into his hands the little property that still remained in his hands, a ring, a seal, and a lock of hair. "Give this ring," said he, "to the Queen, and tell her with what regret I leave her; give her also the locket containing the hair of my children; give this seal to the Dauphin; and tell them all what I suffer at dying without receiving their last embrace; but I wish to spare them the pain of so cruel a separation." He then received the holy sacrament from the hands of his confessor from a small altar erected in his chamber, and heard the last service of the dying at the time when the rolling of the drums and the agitation in the streets announced the preparation for his execution.

At nine o'clock Santerre presented himself in the temple. "You come to seek me," said me King: "Allow me a minute." He went into his closet, and immediately returned with his testament in his hand. "I pray you," said he, "give this packet to the Queen, my wife." "That is no concern of mine," replied the representative of the municipality. "I am here only to conduct you to the scaffold." The King then asked another member of commune to take charge of the document, and said to Santerre: "Let us be off." In passing through the court of the temple Louis cast a last look at the tower which contained all that was most dear to him on earth: and immediately summoning courage, seated himself calmly in the carriage beside his confessor, with two gendarmes on the opposite side. During the passage to the place of execution, which occupied two hours, he never ceased reciting the psalms which were pointed out to him by the venerable priest. Even the soldiers were astonished at his composure. The streets were filled with an immense crowd who beheld in silent dismay the mournful procession: a large body of troops surrounded the carriage; a double file of the National Guard and a formidable array of cannon rendered hopeless any attempts at When the procession arrived at the place of execution, between the gardens VOL. IV.-No. 4.

rescue.

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of the Tuilleries and the Champs Elysées, he descended from the carriage and undressed himself without the aid of the executioners, but testified a momentary look of indignation when they began to bind his hands. M. Edgeworth exclaimed with almost inspired felicity: Submit to this outrage as the last resemblance to the Saviour, who is about to recompense your sufferings."

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At these words he resigned himself, and walked to the foot of the scaffold. Here he received that sublime benediction from his confessor: "Son of St. Louis, ascend to heaven!" He no sooner mounted, than advancing with a firm step to the front of the scaffold, with one look he imposed silence on twenty drummers, placed there to prevent him from being heard, and said with a loud voice: "I die innocent of all the crimes laid to my charge: I pardon the authors of my death, and pray God that my blood may not fall upon France. And you, my people · At these words Santerre ordered the drums to beat; the executioners seized the King, and the descending axe terminated his existence. One of the assistants seized the head and waived it in the air; the blood fell on the heroic confessor, who was on his knees by the lifeless body of his sovereign.

THE LEGEND OF THE WANDERING JEW.-This mysterious individual, whose name is proverbial in all countries, is thus spoken of in Notes and Queries: Of the many myths which diverge from every little incident of our Saviour's life, the legend of Ahasuerus, the Wandering Jew, is certainly the most striking and widely distributed. According to the old ballad in Percy's Collection:—

He hath passed through many a foreign place:

Arabia, Egypt, Africa,

Greece, Syria, and great Thrace,

And throughout all Hungaria.

In all the nations of the Seven Champions he is found in some shape or other, and it is amusing to note the way in which the story adapts itself to the exigences of time and place. In Germany, where he appeared A.D. 1547, he was a kind of Polyglot errant, battling professors and divines with the accumulated learning of fifteen centuries. In Paris he heralded the advent of Cagliostro and Mesmer, cured diseases, and astounded the salons by his prodigious stories, in which he may be truly said to have ventured the entire animal. He remembered seeing Nero standing on a hill to enjoy the flames of his capital: and was a particular crony of Mahomet's father at Ormus. It was here, too, he anticipated the coming scepticism, by declaring from personal experience, that all history was a tissue of lies. In Italy the myth has become interwoven with the national art lore. When he came to Venice he brought with him a fine cabinet of choice pictures, including his own portrait, by Titian, taken some two centuries before. In England, John Bull has endowed him with the commercial spirit of his stationary brethren, and, to complete his certificate of naturalization, made him always thirsty! But the Jew of Quarter Sessions' Reforts, who is always getting into scrapes, is not the Jew of the rural popular legends; in which he is invariably represented as a purely benevolent being, whose crime has been long since expiated by his cruel punishment, and therefore entitled to the help of every good Christian. When on the weary way to Golgotha (such is the popular legend), Christ, fainting and overcome under the burden of the cross, asked him, as he was standing at his door, for a cup of water to cool his parched throat; he spurned the supplication, and bade Him on the faster. "I go," said the Saviour "but thou shalt thirst and tarry till I come." And ever since then, by day and night, through the long centuries he has been doomed to wander about the earth, ever craving for water, and ever expecting the day of judgment which shall end his toils:

Mais toujours le soleil so lève,

Toujours, toujours

Tourne la terre où moi je cours,

Toujours, toujours, toujours, toujours!

Sometimes, during the cold winter nights, the lonely cottager will be awoke by a plaintive demand for "Water, good Christian! water, for the love of God!" And if he looks out into the moonlight, he will see a venerable old man in antique raiment, with grey flowing beard, and a tall staff, who beseeches his charity with the most earnest gesture. Wo to the churl who refuses him water or shelter. My old nurse, who was a Warwickshire woman and, as Sir Walter said of his grandmother, "a most awfu' le'er," knew a man who boldly cried out: "Allvery fine, Mr. Furguson, but you can't lodge here." And it was decidedly the worst thing he ever did in his life, for his best mare fell dead lame, and corn went down, I am afraid to say how much per quarter. If, on the contrary you treat him well, and refrain from indelicate inquiries respecting his age-on which point he is very touchy-his visit is sure to bring good luck. Perhaps years afterwards, when you are on your death-bed, he may happen to be passing, and if he should, you are safe; for three knocks with his staff will make you hale, and he never forgets any kindnesses. Many stories are current of his wonderful cures; but there is one to be found in Peck's History of Stamford, which possesses the rare merit of being written by the patient himself. Upon Whitsunday in the year of our Lord, 1658, "about six of the clock, just after evensong," one Samuel Wallis, of Stamford, who had been long wasted with a lingering consumption, was sitting by the fire, reading in that delectable book called Abraham's Suit for Sodom. He heard a knock at the door; and, as his nurse was absent, he crawled to open it himself. What he saw there, Samuel shall say in his own style:-" I beheld a proper, tall, grave old man. Thus he said: Friend, I pray thee, give an old pilgrim a cup of small beere!' And I said, 'Sir, I pray you, come in and welcome.' And he said, 'I am no Sir, therefore call me not Sir; but come in I must, for I cannot pass by thy doore.' After finishing the beer-Friend,' he said, 'thou art not well.' I said 'No, truly, Sir, I have not been well this many yeares.' He said, 'What is thy disease?' I said, 'A deep consumption, Sir; our doctors say past cure; for truly, I am a very poor man, and not able to follow doctors' councell.' Then,' said he, ' I will tell thee what thou shalt do; and by the help and power of Almighty God above, thou shalt be well. To-morrow, when thou risest up, go into thy garden, and get there two leaves of red sage, and one of bloodworte, and put them into a cup of thy small beere. Drink as often as need require, and when the cup is empty fill it again, and put in fresh leaves every fourth day, and thou shalt see, through our Lord's great goodness and mercy, before twelve dayes shall be past, thy disease shall be cured and thy body altered."

After this simple prescription, Wallis pressed him to eat-" But," he said, "no, friend, I will not eat; the Lord Jesus is sufficient for me. Very seldom doe I drinke any beere neither, but that which comes from the rocke. So, friend, the Lord God be with thee."

So saying he departed and was never more heard of; but the patient got well within the given time, and for many a long day there was war hot and fierce among the divines of Stamford, as to whether the stranger was an angel or a devil. His dress has been minutely described by honest Sam. His coat was purple, and buttoned down to the waist; "his britches of the same couler all new to see to;" his stockings were very white, but whether linen or jersey, deponent knoweth not; his beard and head were white, and he had a white stick in his hand. The day was rainy from morning to night, "but he had not one spot of dirt upon his cloathes."

Aubrey gives an almost exactly similar relation, the scene of which he places in Staffordshire Moorlands. He there appears in a "purple shag gown," and prescribes balm leaves.

So much for the English version of the Wandering Jew. Nothing tending to illustrate a theme to which the world has been indebted for Salathiel, St. Leon, Le Juif Errant, and The Undying One, can be said to be wholly uninteresting.

A GENEROUS SOUL never loses the remembrance of the benefits it has received, but easily forgets those its hand dispenses.