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says his lordship, 'what objections have you, old dusty wig?'

I have many objections, my lord: in the first place, all these gentlemen of the jury have received ten broad pieces of gold from the younger brother, and I have received but five!'

He then proceeded to point out the contradictory evidence which had been adduced, in such a strain of eloquence, that the court was lost in astonishment: the judge at length, unable longer to contain himself, called out with vehemence, Who are you?-where do you come from?— what is your name?'


To which interrogatories the miller replied: 'I come from Westminster hall-my name is Matthew Hale-I am Lord Chief Justice of the Court of King's Bench; and feeling, as I do, a thorough conviction of your unworthiness to hold so high a judicial situation, from having observed your iniquitous and partial proceedings this day, I command you to come down from that tribunal which you have so much disgraced; and I will try this cause myself.'

Sir Matthew then ascended the bench in the miller's wig, &c.—had a new jury empanneled-reëxamined all the witnesses, proved them to have been suborned; and circumstances being completely turned, the case was unhesitatingly decided in favor of the elder brother's rights.



O melancholy Moon,

Queen of the midnight, though thou palest away
Far in the dusky west to vanish soon
Under the hills that catch thy waning ray,
Still art thou beautiful beyond all spheres,
The friend of grief, and confidant of tears.

Mine earliest friend wert thou:

My boyhood's passion was to stretch me under

The locust tree, and, through the checkered bough, Watch thy far pathway in the clouds, and wonder

At thy strange loveliness, and wish to be

The nearest star, to roam the heavens with thee.

Youth grew; but as it came,

And sadness with it, still, with joy, I stole

To gaze, and dream, and breathe perchance the name That was the early music of my soul,— And seemed upon thy pictured disk to trace Remembered features of a radiant face.

And manhood, though it bring
A winter to my bosom, cannot turn

Mine eyes from thy lone loveliness; still spring
My tears to meet thee, and the spirit stern
Falters, in secret, with the ancient thrill—

The boyish yearning to be with thee still.

Would it were so; for earth

Grows shadowy, and her fairest planets fail;

And her sweet chimes, that once were woke to mirth, Turn to a moody melody of wail,

And through her stony throngs I go alone,

Even with the heart I cannot turn to stone.

Would it were so; for still

Thou art mine only counsellor, with whom
Mine eyes can have no bitter shame to fill,
Nor my weak lips to murmur at the doom
Of solitude, which is so sad and sore,
Weighing like lead upon my bosom's core.

A boyish thought, and weak:

I shall look up to thee from the deep sea,
And in the land of palms, and on the peak
Of her wild hills, still turn mine eyes to thee;
And then perhaps lie down in solemn rest,
With nought but thy pale beams upon my breast.

Let it be so indeed

Earth hath her peace beneath the trampled stone:
And let me perish where no heart shall bleed,
And nought, save passing winds, shall make my moan;
No tears, save night's, to wash my humble shrine,
And watching o'er me, no pale face but thine.


Grizel Cochrane. A Historical Fragment.-WILSON.

WHEN the tyranny and bigotry of the last James drove his subjects to take up arms against him, one of the most formidable enemies to his dangerous usurpations was Sir John Cochrane (ancestor of the present Earl of Dundonald), who was one of the most prominent actors in Argyle's rebellion. For ages a destructive doom seemed to have hung over the house of Campbell, enveloping in a common ruin all who united their fortunes to the cause of its chieftains.

The same doom encompassed Sir John Cochrane. He was surrounded by the king's troops,-long, deadly, and desperate was his resistance, but at length overpowered by numbers, he was taken prisoner, tried, and condemned to die upon a scaffold. He had but a few days to live, and his jailer only waited the arrival of his death-warrant to lead him forth to execution. His family and his friends had visited him in prison, and exchanged with him the last, the long, the heart-yearning farewell. But there was one who came not with the rest to receive his blessing,-one who was the pride of his eyes and of his house-even Grizel, the daughter of his love.

Twilight was casting a deeper gloom over the gratings of his prison-house, he was mourning for a last look of his favorite child, and his head was pressed against the cold, damp walls of his cell, to cool the feverish pulsations that shot through it like stings of fire, when the door of his apartment turned slowly on its unwilling hinges, and his keeper entered, followed by a young and beautiful lady. Her person was tall and commanding; her eyes dark, bright, and tearless; but their very brightness spoke of sorrow-of sorrow too deep to be wept away-and her raven tresses were parted over an open brow, clear and pure as the polished marble. The unhappy captive raised his head as they entered.


My child! my own Grizel!' he exclaimed, and she fell upon his bosom.

'My father! my dear father!' sobbed the miserable maiden, and she dashed away the tear that accompanied the words.

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Your interview must be short-very short,' said the jailer, as he turned and left them for a few minutes together.

God help and comfort thee, my daughter!' added Sir John, while he held her to his breast, and printed a kiss upon her brow; I had feared that I should die without bestowing my blessing on the head of my own child, and that stung me more than death; but thou art come, my love-thou art come!-and the last blessing of thy wretched father

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Nay, forbear! forbear!" she exclaimed; not thy last blessing!-not thy last! My father shall not die!' 'Be calm, be calm, my child,' returned he. 'Would to Heaven that I could comfort thee!-my own!-my own! But there is no hope; within three days, and thou and all my little ones will be' Fatherless he would have said, but the word died on his tongue.

Three days!' repeated she, raising her head from his breast, but eagerly pressing his hand; three days!-then there is hope-my father shall live! Is not my grandfather the friend of Father Petre, the confessor and the master of the king? From him he shall beg the life of his son, and my father shall not die.'

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Nay, nay, my Grizel,' returned he, 'be not deceived; there is no hope-already my doom is sealed-already the king has sealed the order for my execution, and the messenger of death is now on the way.'

'Yet my father shall not shall not die!' she repeated emphatically, and clasping her hands together. 'Heaven speed a daughter's purpose!' she exclaimed, and turning to her father, said calmly, we part now, but we shall meet again.'

What would my child?' inquired he, eagerly, and gazing anxiously on her face.

'Ask not now,' she replied, my father, ask not now, but pray for me, and bless me-but not with thy last blessing.' He again pressed her to his heart, and wept upon her neck. In a few moments the jailer entered, and they were torn from the arms of each other.





On the evening of the second day after the interview we have mentioned, a wayfaring man crossed the drawbridge at Berwick from the north, and proceeding along Marygate, sat down to rest upon a bench by the door of an hostelrie on the south side of the street, nearly fronting where what was called the 'Main-guard' then stood. He did not enter the inn, for it was above his apparent condition, being that which Oliver Cromwell had made his head-quarters a few years before, and where, at a somewhat earlier period, James

the Sixth of Scotland had taken up his residence, when on his way to enter on the sovereignty of England.

The traveller wore a coarse jerkin, fastened round his body by a leathern girdle, and over it a short cloak, composed of equally plain materials. He was evidently a young man, but his beaver was drawn down so as almost to conceal his features. In one hand he carried a small bundle, and in the other a pilgrim's staff. Having called for a glass of wine, he took a crust of bread from his bundle, and after resting for a few minutes rose to depart. The shades of night were setting in, and it threatened to be a night of storms. heavens were gathering black, the clouds rushing from the sea, sudden gusts of wind were moaning along the streets, accompanied by heavy drops of rain, and the face of the Tweed was troubled.


'Heaven help thee! if thou intendest to travel far in such a night as this,' said the sentinel at the English gate, as the traveller passed him, and proceeded to cross the bridge.

In a few minutes he was upon the wide, desolate, and dreary moor of Tweedmouth, which for miles presented a desert of furze, fern, and stunted heath, with here and there a dingle covered with thick brushwood. He slowly toiled over the steep hill, braving the storm, which now raved with the wildest fury. The rain fell in torrents, and the wind howled as a legion of famished wolves, hurling its doleful and angry echoes over the heath. Still the stranger pushed onward, until he had proceeded two or three miles from Berwick, when, as if unable longer to brave the storm, he sought shelter amidst some crab and bramble bushes by the wayside.

Nearly an hour had passed since he sought this imperfect refuge, and the darkness of the night and the storm had increased together, when the sound of a horse's feet was heard hurriedly plashing along the road. The rider bent his head to the blast. Suddenly his horse was grasped by the bridle, the rider raised his head, and the stranger stood before him, holding a pistol to his breast.

Dismount,' cried the stranger, sternly.

The horseman, benumbed, and stricken with fear, made an effort to reach his arms, but in a moment the hand of the robber, quitting the bridle, grasped the breast of the rider, and dragged him to the ground. He fell heavily on his face, and for several minutes remained senseless. The stranger seized the leathern bag which contained the mail to the north, and flinging it on his shoulder, rushed across the heath.

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