sat on the fence, leisurely gnawing a kernel of corn. Never shall I forget the moment when Harry whispered "now" I reached out the tongs, but a sudden mist came over my eyes; then a quiver started from my heart and ran along my arm; the coal descended on to Harry's wrist instead of into the pan: he, with an exclamation more hot than holy, dropped the gun, the gun fell on to the coal and then went off, frightening away the "chipmunk" with its report, but (believe it or believe it not, my reader) sending a "whizzing death" through the fat sides of a toad, which we had before remarked demurely seated on a stone near where we stood. This laughable accident having restored to Harry his good nature and to me my courage, the gun was re-loaded, a new coal procured, my eyes and nerves were true to me-there was a flash, a smoke, a stunning report, and

"Lo, the struck blue-bird stretched upon the plain !"

At last, wearied with our labours and satisfied with glory, we gathered up our spoils and turned homeward.

It is strange, but though many years have passed, I still remember distinctly just what game I held in my pinafore on that day— viz.: one blue-bird, two chipping-birds, a meadow lark and a redbreasted robin. The toad I did not count. All of these, with the exception of the robin, a part of whose neck only had been carried away, were literally shot to pieces.

To my disappointment, I found none but servants to whom to display the proofs of my valour. My sweet cousin Alice was at school, and my aunt and uncle taking their morning drive. I waited impatiently for their return, and meeting them on the portico, held up my bloody trophies, exclaiming " See the game Cousin Harry and I shot while you were gone!" The colonel, patting my cheek, pronounced me "a brave girl;" but my aunt, sadly smiling, said only-"This must have been the robin, that sung on our lattice at prayer-time this morning. Poor bird! its song of praise is ended !"

This gentle reproof quivered like an arrow in my heart. I turned hastily threw away the mangled remains of all but the robin, and with that sought my room. There I folded the dead

bird to my breast, and wept over it bitter and passionate tears. I was agonized with contrition when I bethought me that He who had created worlds on worlds had not disdained to mould that tender form, to tint its plumage with one of the colours glowing in the bow which He hung in the Heavens, and to breathe the soul of song into its trembling little bosom. Then bowing down my head, I fervently promised never, never to take from a happywinged creature the existence which the Father of all in His wisdom had bestowed. Thank Heaven that vow is yet unbroken --the necessary destruction of wasps, musketoes and horse-flies always excepted.

CHAPTER II.

Three years had passed since my daring exploits as a huntress, and I was again spending a few merry weeks with the Groves. It was summer, and Harry came home for a vacation, accompanied by two college friends. As one of the young gentlemen was hopelessly lame, hunting was out of the question, and fishing parties on the lake took its place. Every favourable morning their boat put off the shore, and every evening they returned, famously dirty and hungry, with wet feet and dry canteens, and generally, with the exception of Harry, cursing their luck. I well recollect that, however large the party, Harry always insisted on furnishing the fishing-tackle. The colonel once remonstrated with him on this extravagance, but was archly reminded that "he who spares the rod spoils the child," and that as a good parent he should "give line upon line" as well as "precept upon precept." So the old gentleman turned laughingly away, being, like all other amateur soldiers, proverbially good-natured.

Those parties were, I regret to say, made up of the sterner sex exclusively; but after Harry's friends had left, I proposed one morning that he should take Cousin Alice and myself to the lake, on a fishing excursion.

"Alice is quite skilful," he replied, "but do you understand angling ?"

"No; but there is nothing which I cannot learn."

"Very well, my modest coz; put on your bonnet, and we will go down and practice awhile by catching small fish for bait in the old mill-pond."

The sheet of water to which my cousin referred, was nothing more than an enlargement and a deepening of the stream which ran through our town. The mill, which its waters once turned, had been destroyed by fire, and all the fixtures were fallen to decay, but a capital place for catching bait, nevertheless.

After spending a half hour in initiating me into the mysteries of angling, Harry took a station farther up stream. Near me lay a small log, extending out into the pond, the top only lying above the water. Wearied at last with sitting on the bank, and catching not even a "glorious nibble," I picked my way out to the very end of this log, and cast my bait upon the waters. Presently I marked an uncommonly large "shiner" glancing about hither and thither; now and then tantalizingly turning up his glittering sides to the sunlight. My heart was in my throat. Could I manage to get that fish on to my hook, it were glory enough for one day. Reader, have you ever seen a shiner?" Is he not the most finifine, dashing, dandyish, D'Orsay of the waves, that ever cut a swell among "sheepsheads," or coqueted with a young trout.

The conduct of this particular fish was peculiarly provoking. It was in vain that I clad the uninviting hook in the garb of a fresh young worm, and dropped it, all quick and quivering, down before his very nose. Like a careful wooer, who fears " a take in," he would not come to the point; he had evidently dined, and like an old Reformer, played shy of the Diet of Worms.

At last, as though a sudden appetite had been given him, which required abatement, he caught the worm, and the hook caught him, and-and-but language fails me

Ye may tell, oh, my sisters in author-land, of the exquisite joy, the intoxicating bliss which welms a maiden's heart when love's first kiss glows on her trembling lips; but give me the rapturous exultation which coursed through every vein, and thrilled along every nerve as my first fish bent the top of the slender cane towards the water.

But, ah, the instability of human happiness! That unfortunate "shiner" was strong-very. I had just balanced myself on the rounded three inches of the log; I now saw that I must drop the rod and lose the fish, or lose my balance and win a plunge. Like a brave girl, as I flatter myself I am, I chose the latter. Down, down I went, into six feet depth of water, pertinaciously grasping the rod, which, immediately on rising I flung, with its glittering pendent, high and dry on the shore; and having give one scream, only one, went quietly down again.

Just then, Harry, who had heard my fall at first, reached the spot, plunged in, caught and bore me safely to the bank. When I had coughed the water from my throat, and wiped it from my eyes, I pointed proudly towards my captive "shiner." Alas! what did I behold!—that fish, my fish, releasing himself from the hook, and floundering back into his native element! Yes, he was gone, gone for ever, and for one dark moment,

Naught was everything, and everything was naught."

I need not tell of our walk homeward, of the alarm and merriment which our appearance created or how I was placed in bed and half smothered with blankets; how a nauseous compound was sent up to me, which Harry kindly quaffed, and grew ill as I grew well. All such matters can be safely left to the imagination of my intelligent reader.

I will but add, that though of late years I have angled more extensively and successfully, have flung a lucky hook into the beautiful rivers and glorious lakes of the west, have dropped occasional lines into the waters of American literature, I have never since known that pure, young delight, that exquisite zest, that wild enthusiasm which led me to stake all on one mad chance, and brave drowning for a "shiner."

MERCA

LIF

Lives of the Queens of England from the Norman Conquest, with Anecdotes of their Courts; now first published from Official Records and other Authentic Documents, Private as well as Public. By Agnes Strickland. Vols. X. and XI. London: Henry Colburn.

WHILE Catherine of Braganza was on her way to that court where every insult that woman could intensely feel was heaped upon her head by him who had sworn to cherish her as his queen, the daughter of Ralph, Earl of Clarendon, was delivered of a child-for that child a singular destiny was reserved. As Mary 11., she lived to supplant her father on the English throne; to guide the councils of her state at a time when English statesmen were utterly bereft of principle; when every man had two faces, and pocketed the pay of two masters; when what was whispered at Whitehall was uttered aloud at St. Germains; when the men who were the loudest in asserting the principles of Protestantism were in secret communication with the emissaries of the pope. Time has cleared up many a mystery, and to us, at this distance of time, with secret memoirs and correspondence accumulating on all sides around us, the glorious Revolution of 1688 is not altogether destitute of the character of a farce.

In this farce or tragedy, for the reader may consider it in either light, Mary acted an eventful part. Of her youthful life but little is recorded. At an early age, her education was taken from her father's control by Charles 11., for the nation was alarmed by the avowed fact, that the Duke of York was like his new bride, a Catholic. It was well known that, on the near approach of death, the late duchess had renounced the religion of her youth, and had received the sacrament according to the rules of the Roman church. Accordingly, to Compton, the soldier Bishop of London, was committed the charge of the princess and her sister Anne. That he made them zealously Protestant there can be no doubt; that he equally advanced their secular learning does not so evidently appear. Anne's education was shamefully neglected. She grew up a disgrace to her preceptor and the rank she held. When seated on the throne of this realm to uphold Protestantism and the principles of the Revolution of 1688, she could find no better occupation than paltry intrigue and disgusting gluttony. She died as she had lived, a gambler and a dupe. The puppet moved according to the caprice of the Mrs. Freeman or Abigail Hill, who held the reins. December, 1847.—VOL. L.—NO. cc.

C C

Mary was cast in a higher mould, as superior to her sister in person as she was in mind. "She was tall, slender, and graceful, with a clear complexion, almond-shaped dark eyes, darker hair, and an elegant outline of features." An anecdote told by the Princess Mary to Sarah Churchill illustrates the obstinate character of her sister Anne. They were walking in their young days together in Richmond Park, when a dispute arose between them, whether an object they beheld at a great distance was a man or a tree. The Lady Mary maintained the former opinion. Anne the latter. At last, they came nearer, and Lady Mary, supposing her sister must be convinced that it was a man, said, "Now, Anne, you must be certain what the object is." "No, sister," was the reply, "I still think it is a tree."

When Mary reached her fifteenth year, it was considered high time to provide her with a husband. There were two candidates for her hand. The Duke of York would gladly have seen her the wife of his kinsman, the Dauphin of France. Charles 11. and the English people preferred that she should marry her first cousin, William Henry, Prince of Orange. Fortunately for the prince, he consented to this arrangement. To Charles II. he was much indebted. He was restored by him to the dignities his father held. He was given by him an English princess for a bride, and eventually the English throne.

At that time war was deemed glory, and William started as an hero. Hence his liberty campaigns with the grande monarquehence our national debt. William was distinguished for personal courage. During a battle in the Low Countries between France and Spain, the Prince of Orange received a musket shot in his arm. The Dutchmen retreated, but their young general took off his hat with his wounded arm, and waving it above his head to show his arm was not broken, cheered them on to renew the charge. Again, in the battle of Mont Cassel, his best Dutch regiment obstinately retreated. The prince ralled them. Again they fled, and carried him with them in their flight. The diminutive hero, however, fought both the French and the Dutch in his unwilling transit. One great cowardly Dutchman he slashed in the face, exclaiming, "Coquin, je te marquerai au moins afin de te pendre." "Rascal, I will set a mark on thee at least, that I may hang thee afterwards." "This adventure," says Miss Strickland, rather magniloquently, "leans from the perpendicular of the sublime, somewhat to the ridiculous." On another occasion, when the dark hour of adversity seemed about to extinguish his last glimmering of hope, and when he was recommended to yield the defence of Holland, and make peace with Louis XIV., his spirited answer, "No, I mean to die in the last ditch," evinced that, however little he might be in stature or sickly in constitution, yet that he had, to borrow from the author of Eothen "the pluck of ten battalions."