They said he only stirr'd the lead and straight it turn'd to gold, And so his wickedness and wealth increased a hundred-fold. Slow round, as round a dial-plate, the statue's shadow pass'd, On fountain and cathedral roof, by turns, eclipse it cast, Before it fled the pale blue light, chased as man's life by Death, Deep low you heard the great clock tick, like a sleeping giant's breath. III. The moonbeams, in cascades of light, poured from the poplar's crown, Rippling in silvery lustre the leafy columns down, They roof'd the town hall fair and bright with bonny silver slates, They even turned to argent pure the bars of the prison grates. That day at sunset there had come a voice unto this man, He shook his fist at stars and moon, then shut his furnace up, The devil floating o'er his slave smiled at his puny power; gave, The ponderous statue fell and crushed the brains out of the knave. Then clear and still the moonshine pure upon the lone square lay, No shadow left to sully it, it spread as bright as day; At dawn they found Hans Memling, crushed, dead-cold beneath the stone, BUT WHAT HE SAW, AND WHAT HE FOUND, HAS NEVER YET BEEN -All the Year Round. KNOWN. MRS. CAUDLE ON UMBRELLAS. What "THAT'S the third umbrella gone since Christmas. were you to do? Why, let him go home in the rain, to be sure. I'm very certain there was nothing about him that could spoil. Take cold, indeed! He doesn't look like one of the sort to take cold. Besides, he'd have better taken cold than take our only umbrella. Do you hear the rain, Mr. Caudle? I say, do you hear the rain? And as I'm alive, if it isn't St. Swithin's day! Do you hear it against the windows? Nonsense; you don't impose upon me. You can't be asleep with such a shower as that! Do you hear it, I say? Oh, you do hear it! Well, that's a pretty flood, I think, to last for six weeks; and no stirring all the time out of the house. Pooh! don't think me a fool, Mr. Caudle. Don't insult me. He return the umbrella? Anybody would think you were born yesterday. As if anybody ever did return an umbrella! There do you hear it? Worse and worse? Cats and dogs, and for six weeks-always six weeks. And no umbrella! "I should like to know how the children are to go to school to-morrow? They shan't go through such weather, I'm determined. No: they shall stop at home and never learn anything-the blessed creatures!-sooner than go and get wet. And when they grow up, I wonder who they'll have to thank for knowing nothing-who, indeed, but their father? People who can't feel for their own children ought never to be fathers. "But I know why you lent the umbrella. Oh, yes; I know very well. I was going out to tea at dear mother's to-morrow-you knew that; and you did it on purpose. Don't tell me; you hate me to go there, and take every mean advantage to hinder me. But don't you think it, Mr. Caudle. No, sir; if it comes down in buckets-full, I'll go all the more. No: and I won't have a cab. Where do you think the money's to come from? You've got nice high notions at that club of yours. A cab, indeed! Cost me sixteen-pence at least sixteen-pence! two-and-eightpence, for there's back again. Cabs, indeed! I should like to know who's to pay for 'em; I can't pay for 'em, and I'm sure you can't, if you go on as you do; throwing away your property, and beggaring your children-buying umbrellas! "Do you hear the rain, Mr. Caudle? I say, do you hear it? But I don't care—I'll go to mother's to-morrow: I will; and what's more, I'll walk every step of the way,—and you know that will give me my death. Don't call me a foolish woman, it's you that's the foolish man. You know I can't wear clogs; and with no umbrella, the wet's sure to give me a cold-it always does. But what do you care for that? Nothing at all. I may be laid up for what you care, as I daresay I shall—and a pretty doctor's bill there'll be. I hope there will! It will teach you to lend your umbrellas again. I should'nt wonder if I caught my death; yes: and that's what you lent the umbrella for. Of course! "Nice clothes I shall get, too, trapesing through weather like this. My gown and bonnet will be spoilt quite. Need'nt I wear 'em then? Indeed, Mr. Caudle, I shall wear 'em. No sir, I'm not going out a dowdy to please you or anybody else. Gracious knows! it isn't often that I step over the threshold; indeed, I might as well be a slave at once,—better, I should say. But when I do go out, Mr. Caudle, I choose to go like a lady. Oh! that rain—if it isn't enough to break in the windows. "Ugh! I do look forward with dread for to-morrow! How I am to go to mother's I'm sure I can't tell. But if I die, I'll do it. No, sir; I won't borrow an umbrella. No; and you shan't buy one. Now, Mr. Caudle, only listen to this: if you bring home another umbrella, I'll throw it in the street. I'll have my own umbrella, or none at all. "Ha! and it was only last week I had a new nozzle put to that umbrella. I'm sure, if I'd have known as much as I do now, it might have gone without one for me. Paying for new nozzles, for other people to laugh at you. Oh, it's all very well for you-you can go to sleep. You've no thought of your poor patient wife, and your own dear children. think of nothing but lending umbrellas! You “Men, indeed!-call themselves lords of the creation!— pretty lords, when they can't even take care of an umbrella! "I know that walk to-morrow will be the death of me. But that's what you want-then you may go to your club, and do as you like—and then, nicely my poor dear children will be used-but then, sir, then you'll be happy. Oh, don't tell me! I know you will. Else you'd never have lent the umbrella! "You have to go on Thursday about that summons; and, of course, you can't go. No, indeed, you don't go without the umbrella. You may loose the debt for what I care-it won't be so much as spoiling your clothes-better loose it: people deserve to loose debts who lend umbrellas! "And I should like to know how I'm to go to mother's without the umbrella? Oh, don't tell me that I said I would go-that's nothing to do with it; nothing at all. She'll think I'm neglecting her, and the little money we were to have, we shan't have at all-because we 've no umbrella. "The children, too! Dear things! They'll be sopping wet: for they shan't stop at home-they shan't loose their learning; it's all their father will leave 'em, I'm sure. But they shall go to school. Don't tell me I said they should'nt : you are so aggravating, Caudle; you'd spoil the temper of an angel. They shall go to school; mark that. And if they get their deaths of cold, it's not my fault-I didn't lend the umbrella." "At length," writes Caudle, "I fell asleep; and dreamt that the sky was turned into green calico, with whalebone ribs; that, in fact, the whole world turned round under a tremendous umbrella!"-Douglas Jerrold. THE TRIAL BY COMBAT. THE Grand Master at once commanded the herald to stand forth and do his devoir. The trumpets then again flourished, and a herald, stepping forward, proclaimed aloud,-" Oyez, oyez, oyez.-Here standeth the good Knight, Sir Brian de Bois-Guilbert, ready to do battle with any knight of free blood who will sustain the quarrel allowed and allotted to the Jewess, Rebecca; and to such champion the Reverend and Valorous Grand Master, here present, allows a fair field, and equal partition of sun and wind, and whatever else appertains to a fair combat." The trumpets again sounded, and there was a dead pause of many minutes. "No champion appears for the appellant," said the Grand Master. "Go, herald, and ask her whether she expects any one to do battle for her in this her cause." The herald went to the chair in which Rebecca was seated, and spoke to her in these terms:-" Damsel, the Honourable and Reverend the Grand Master demands of thee if thou art prepared with a champion to do battle this day in thy behalf, or if thou dost yield thee as one justly condemned to a deserved doom? "Say to the Grand Master," replied Rebecca, "that I maintain my innocence, and do not yield me as justly condemned, lest I become guilty of mine own blood. Say to him, that I challenge such delay as his forms will permit, to see if God, whose opportunity is in man's extremity, will raise me up a deliverer; and when such uttermost space is passed, may His holy will be done!" The herald retired to carry this answer to the Grand Master. "God forbid," said Lucas Beaumanoir, "that Jew or Pagan should impeach us of injustice!—Until the shadows be cast from the west to the eastward will we wait to see if a champion shall appear for this unfortunate woman. When the day is so far past, let her prepare for death." The herald communicated the words of the Grand Master to Rebecca, who bowed her head submissively, folded her arms, and, looking up towards heaven, seemed to expect that aid from above which she could scarce promise herself from man. It was the general belief that no one could or would appear for a Jewess accused of sorcery; and the knights, instigated by Malvoisin, whispered to each other that it was time to declare the pledge of Rebecca forfeited. At this instant a knight, urging his horse to speed, appeared on the plain advancing towards the lists. A hundred voices exclaimed, a champion! a champion!" And despite the prepossessions and prejudices of the multitude, they shouted unanimously as the knight rode into the tilt-yard. The second glance, however, served to destroy the hope that his timely arrival had excited. His horse, urged for many miles to its utmost speed, appeared to reel from fatigue; and the rider, however undauntedly he presented himself in the lists, either from weakness, weariness, or both, seemed scarcely able to support himself in the saddle. To the summons of the herald, who demanded his rank, his name, and purpose, the stranger knight answered readily and boldly, "I am a good knight and noble, come hither to sustain with lance and sword the just and lawful quarrel of this damsel, Rebecca, daughter of Isaac of York; to uphold the doom pronounced against her to be false and truthless, and to defy Sir Brian de Bois-Guilbert, as a traitor, murderer, and liar; as I will prove in this field with my body against his, by the aid of Heaven, of Our Lady, and of Monseigneur Saint George, the good knight." "The stranger must first shew," said Malvoisin, “that he is a good knight, and of honourable lineage. The Temple sendeth not forth her champions against nameless men." "My name," said the knight, raising his helmet, "is better known, my lineage more pure, Malvoisin, than thine own. am Wilfred of Ivanhoe." I "I will not fight with thee at present," said the Templar, |