tidings somewhat more quickly; but perhaps not quite so compendiously: After this conquest of Lorraine, the Duke of Burgundy took great courage to go upon the land of the Swiss to conquer them; but they bearded him at an unset place, and hath distressed him, and hath slain the most part of his vanward, and won all his ordnance and artillery, and moreover all stuff that he had in his host, except men and horse that fled not; but they rode that night twenty miles; and so the rich salets, helmets, garters, nowches, gelt, and all is gone, with tents, pavilions and all, and so men deem his pride is abated.' Look at Comines, and you will find that Sir John had got to the root of the matter.

The Paston Letters were written in the days before Banks. This distressed family seem luckily to have kept out of the hands of the Jews; but if it had been thought honest in those days to take interest, the perpetual labour and humiliation to scrape together a few pounds might have been avoided. But what could bankers have done for them in anticipation of rents, when there was little exchange of commodities, in a country where producers and consumers were widely separated?

The Paston Letters were written in the days before Power-looms; so that a new coat and a new gown were matters to be very earnest about, even with a knightbanneret and a lady of the manor.

The Paston Letters were written in the days before the Printing-Press; and so, some may marvel that they are so clearly expressed, and have so many just thoughts, and are for the most part earnest and to the purpose. The very absence of any character derived from a current literature is, rightly considered, a charm of this correspondence. Romances, indeed, the ladies had to read, of Arthur, and Guy, and Richard Coeur de Lion: and they had many an old ballad, now preserved or lost; and they had legends of the Saints. Sir John Paston had a library of which an inventory is left, consisting altogether of thirty-four volumes. Of these one was 'in print.' Anne Paston (of whom we

hear little) had a book, The Siege of Thebes.' But neither gentleman nor lady had much opportunity for literature, even though one of the greatest of poets had long before opened his 'well of English undefiled.' There is not one allusion to Chaucer in all this correspondence of fifty years.

The Paston Letters were written in the days before the Reformation, although the morning sky showed streaks of that day-spring; and so we have glimpses of friars and pilgrims; and Sir John Paston tells a tale of a vision seen about the walls of Boulogne, as it had been a woman with a marvellous light; men deeming that Our Lady there will show herself a lover of that town.' Let us not laugh at the undoubting mind of Sir John Paston. With touches of what we call superstition, there was, amongst these people, a deep abiding sense of God over all-a part of the reverence that was a great characteristic of our nation-of children for parents, of servants for masters, of wives for husbandsof the laity for the church-ONCE UPON A TIME.

THE DISCOVERER OF MADEIRA.

Ir is the beginning of June: the year 1419. Two small vessels are leaving the port of Lisbon. The Infant Dom Henry waves his hand from the quay, as the commander o the little expedition bows profoundly from the deck of the leading ship. That commander is Gonzalves Zarco.

Where is Gonzalves sailing when he trusts his ships to the broad bosom of the Atlantic? Where, without the guides of modern navigation? Charts he has none. He has heard that Marco Polo brought from China to Europe the knowledge of an instrument that invariably pointed to the North-but he doubts. He will hug the land as long as he can. The meridian sun and the Polar star must direct him in his need. His business is to find the Isles of the West, of which ancient tradition imperfectly whispers. In 1418, Gonzalves was engaged in exploring the coasts of Africa. He was shipwrecked on a little island, which he will now endeavour again to reach.

The seas are calm; the days are bright and long. If the nights are dark, Gonzalves anchors. He is pretty certain of the course. In due time he reaches the small island of Porto Santo, in which, last year, he left two or three of his

crew.

What is this strange relation which soon meets the ear of Gonzalves—a relation which is to give new ardour to his sagacious courage, but which has terrors for his superstitious seamen? On the north-east of the isle there appears, at a long distance, a thick darkness-a motionless cloud-which hangs over the sea, and reaches to the sky. That region of darkness-is it not the abyss? There, is the boundary of this earth; and beyond, is the entrance to the Shades. Sometimes a distant murmur, as of troubled waters, comes

E

across the sea. It is the rush of the mournful river of Acheron. Some say, that when the Christians fled from the oppression of the Moors and Saracens, they found an island of refuge in this ocean; and that from that time a mysterious cloud covered that island, so that no enemy could come near to harm them. Who shall dare to pierce that cloud, and solve these mysteries?

Gonzalves sits on the beach of Porto Santo, and looks again and again in the direction of that cloud. When the morning sun shines bright in the east, the cloud is there. When the moon climbs the sky, the cloudy distance is still visible. It never changes its place; its form is always the Gonzalves will take counsel of Juan de Moralès, his

same.

pilot.

Juan is many years younger than Gonzalves; yet his forehead is wrinkled with cares that scarcely belong to the young. He has passed his boyhood in captivity in Morocco. He has done servile offices up to the period of manhood. He has been chained to the oar, and rowed his taskmasters through many a perilous surf. There is something strange and mysterious about him. His messmates shun him, for they say he is a Castilian, and an enemy to Portugal. He has the Castilian steadiness, with more than Castilian Misfortune has not abased him : he carries himself as loftily as the proudest of his countrymen; and yet he is of a fairer complexion than those countrymen, and he speaks their language with a singular mixture of other dialects, and even of other tongues. But that may come of his long captivity amongst Christian slaves of all lands. Juan is not popular but Gonzalves has unbounded confidence in his pilot.

reserve.

:

'Juan,' says Gonzalves, we will wait no longer. Hold you still your opinion?'

My belief is ever the same.

That dark mass, so defined and unchanging, is a mountainous land, seen through a constant mist.'

You have the confidence of knowledge, rather than of conjecture. Did you ever hear speak of such a mountainous

land? In that quarter, leagues off, must lie the African deserts.'

'I have no knowledge-except my dreams be knowledge. I dream of mountains, rising from the sea, covered with trees to the very summits; of ravines, where rivers come dashing down out of the mountain mists, and rush brightly to the ocean; of a narrow beach under the mountains, where the waves break wildly, and yet how beautifully!'

'Juan! you must have seen such a land!'

Oh no! it is a dream-a dream of the poor ship-boy's loneliness.'

'We will sail to-morrow, Juan.'

'Good.'

'Say nothing; but steer us right to the cloud.'

The anchors are weighed in the dawn of a summer morning. A brisk breeze soon carries them away from Porto Santo. There is a man of importance on board, Francis Alcaforado, a squire of Dom Henry's chamber. He is keeping a diary of that voyage-a busy inquisitive man. 'Captain, where are you steering?'

To look for the Isles of the West.'

But you are sailing towards the darkness!'

'I think they lie beyond the darkness.'

'You are tempting Heaven. See, we are in the bosom of a mist. There is no sun in the sky. Change your course, Gonzalves.'

'Sir, I must obey my commission.'

'Look! there is something darker still in the distance.'

I have seen it before-it is land.'

Juan is at the helm. He steers boldly through the mist. It is land. The sun is behind that mass of mountains. Juan must be cautious; there are rocks in that sea. Gonzalves orders out the boats. There is a loud murmuring of surf upon a shore not very distant. The sun is mounting out of the exhalation. The mist is rolling off. There are trees on the hills. The boats may near the shore. Glory to Saint Lawrence! That eastern cape first seen, and now doubled, shall be the Cape San Lourenço ! All