dier. "There is the same penalty for that all the world over, and I claim it now." So saying, he put his arm round her neck and gave her a hearty kiss. Both husband and wife now set upon him, and buffeted him soundly; indeed, so sudden and hearty were they in their attacks, that the soldier was completely taken by surprise. He struggled violently to disengage himself, but found it no easy matter, for their combined strength was quite equal to his own. At last, however, by a violent effort, he managed to release himself, and standing at a short distance, he remained for some moments to gather his scattered wits, so completely had they been dispersed by the vigorous attack of his two assailants. When he had somewhat succeeded, he said to Pepina,— "I forgive you, young lady, for I cannot revenge myself upon you; but that amiable old gentleman shall suffer for his behaviour to-morrow morning, I can tell him. I suppose you are going to Bellaggio, and unfortunately I am going the other way. I am already somewhat behind time, and my sergeant is not particularly forgiving, so I must be off. But we shall meet again, old gentleman, and then, if you do not give me satisfaction, I will cudgel your old body till it is black and blue all over. Two hours after daybreak to-morrow I will be with you; so look for me." Saying this, he started off in the direction of the inn they had lately passed. Tomaso and his wife now continued their road to Bellaggio, naturally very indignant at the behaviour of the soldier. Little conversation passed between the old couple, and at last there was a dead silence, which continued till darkness had set in. When they had come to within about a quarter of an hour's walk of Bellaggio, Pepina's attention was aroused by the sound of some one sobbing bitterly, and on listening more attentively, she found that it proceeded from Tomaso, who was walking a few paces in advance of her. She hastened up to him and found her suspicions were correct, and that he was crying like a child. "What is the matter with you, my dear?" she said to him. "Why do you cry so? It is not, I hope, at the rude behaviour of the soldier. I think we have given him a good lesson, and we may now treat him with contempt." "I do not care one straw about him; and if he puts his threat into force to-morrow, I think he will find me as completely his match as he did to-day," said Tomaso, totally ignoring the part Pepina had taken in the fray, which had been far more effective than his own. "I am unhappy from another cause. You are, in appearance, young and beautiful, while I am old and decrepit. All admire you, and all will ridicule me for having a wife so young and handsome; and I see that my life will, for the future, be one of utter misery, for I love you dearly, and cannot bear the idea of others paying you the attentions you will receive. I am afraid I made a very foolish bargain after all." "But there is no difficulty in getting off it, you know, dear," said Pepina. "The astrologer told us that, if we repented of the transaction, we could change to our former condition any time before next Sunday, when we shall have been married fifty years.' "But if I do change," said Tomaso, still crying, "I do not see that I shall gain much by it. I shall then have an old man's mind in an old man's body; while you will still remain in person young and beautiful." Certainly," said his wife, 'Why not? Just let us at once wish ourselves old again in mind and body, and so put an end to all unpleasantness between us.' Tomaso, of course, willingly agreed to this suggestion, and the transformation immediately took place. How it was effected it was impossible to say, so dense was the darkness around them. Tomaso's mind was now again that of an old man, while Pepina's form was once more that of an old woman, her body bent, and her step slow and difficult. At last they contrived to reach Bellaggio in safety, and they put up for the night at a little inn at the entrance to the town. Next morning Tomaso rose early, and proceeded to the water-side to engage a boat to carry him and his wife over to Menaggio. Having secured one, he told the boatman to remain in readiness, as he would return in a few minutes. He then left the water-side, and was on his way back to the inn to fetch Pepina and settle with the landlord, when he heard some one calling out to him, Stop, I say, you old baboon. You shan't escape me so easily as that." On hearing the voice, Tomaso turned round and beheld the soldier of the previous evening, with a couple of swords under his arm, and a dozen of his comrades at his heels, advancing towards him. "So I have found you, my friend," said the "this hag is not the fellow's wife"-here he soldier. "You see I am a man of my word. was interrupted by Pepina, who burst from the And now, in the presence of my honourable men holding her, and rushing on the soldier, comrades, I intend to wipe off the stain you assailed him even more vigorously than before, put on my honour yesterday evening." exclaiming at the same time, "How dare you "Leave me alone," said Tomaso. "I want say I am not his wife, when I have been married to have nothing to say to you." to him for fifty years? I will soon prove to you that I am." "That I can easily imagine," said the soldier; "and I am perfectly willing to admit that it is not an unreasonable wish on your part. But, my friend, I take a totally different view of the case, and satisfaction for the insult you offered me yesterday I will have. I have brought with me a couple of good swords, so that you can have no excuse. Choose which you like, and you shall have fair play. Bythe-by, where is your pretty wife? Yes, you may laugh, comrades," he continued; "but this old fellow has one of the handsomest girls for a wife I ever saw in my life. That I will say, although she was not particularly civil to me last night. No matter; I shall easily find the means to get into her good graces; and my first step shall be to rid her of her ugly old husband. I am sure she will be grateful to me for that, so this will be something gained. I only wish she were here now to see the pains I am taking to make her a widow." This wish was immediately accomplished, for Pepina, who, witnessing the scene from the window of the inn, had guessed the soldier's intentions, now rushed through the crowd, and after buffeting the fellow's face severely, she seized him by the hair, which she pulled out by handfuls at a time-the soldier in vain attempting to rid himself of her. Comrades," he called out, "for heaven's sake take away this hag; I shall not have a hair left on my head if you don't." But his companions, instead of assisting him, roared with laughter, and asked him jeeringly if this was the young beauty he had been raving so much about. How long Pepina would have kept up the struggle it is impossible to say, had it not been put a stop to by the captain of the soldiers, who came forward to inquire the cause of the tumult. "What is all this about?" he asked, as soon as some of the men, in obedience to his orders, had released their comrade from Pepina's clutches. "He wanted to murder my husband, who is an infirm old man, and I am protecting him." "And most efficiently, it appears," said the captain. "And now what is your version of the story?" he continued, addressing the soldier. "In the first place, captain," said the soldier, Pepina was again drawn away from the soldier, and the captain inquired of Tomaso whether she was really his wife. "She is, your excellency." "Have you any complaint to make against the soldier?" "I have, your excellency; and a great one too. He met us yesterday evening, and grossly insulted my wife; indeed, we had great difficulty in getting away from him." "Well, what have you to say in your de fence?" said the captain, turning to the soldier. "I never insulted the old woman, captain. nor did I ever see her before. It is true I sav this fellow yesterday, but he was with a very beautiful young woman whom he called hiswife.” The captain then inquired of Pepina whether she was with her husband the previous evening, and whether any other person had been with them. He received for answer that there was no one else present, and that she had not quitted her husband's society even for a minute during the whole of the day. 66 Now," said the captain to the soldier, "one thing is clear to me; and that is, that you must have been drunk again yesterday evening; for no one in his sober senses could have mistaken this old woman for a handsome young girl. I have warned you many times that your drinking habits would at last bring you into disgrace, and you have paid no attention to these warnings. But I will now give you a lesson you will not easily forget. For one month you shall remain in irons; and the next time I hear any complaint against you, the sentence shall be confinement in irons for one year. Take him into custody," said the captain to his attendants, "and see that my orders are carried out." The soldier was immediately removed, and the crowd shortly afterwards dispersed. Tomaso, accompanied by his wife, and carrying his bundle, then went to the boat which he had engaged, and they were rowed across the lake to Menaggio. In the evening they arrived at their new dwelling, which they found very commodious, and in excellent condition. They resided in it during the remainder of their lives, without anything worthy of notice occur ring to mar their happiness. EXMOOR HARVEST-SONG. BY R. D. BLACKMORE. The corn, oh the corn, 'tis the ripening of the corn! The corn, oh the corn, and the yellow, mellow corn! Here's to the corn, with the cups upon the board! We've been reaping all the day, and we'll reap again the morn, The wheat, oh the wheat, 'tis the ripening of the wheat! The wheat, oh the wheat, and the golden, golden wheat! The barley, oh the barley, and the barley is in prime! All the day it has been rustling with its bristles brown, Waiting with its beard abowing, till it can be mown! 'Tis the harvest, and the barley must abide its time. (Chorus.) The barley, oh the barley, and the barley ruddy brown! We'll go amowing, soon as ever all the wheat is down; The oats, oh the oats, 'tis the ripening of the oats! All the day they have been dancing with their flakes of white, 'Tis the harvest, let them dangle in their skirted coats. (Chorus.) The oats, oh the oats, and the silver, silver oats! Here's to the oats with the backstone on the board! We'll go among them, when the barley has been laid in rotes: The corn, oh the corn, and the blessing of the corn! Come unto the door, my lads, and look beneath the moon, We can see, on hill and valley, how it is yelloon, With a breadth of glory, as when our Lord was born. (Chorus.) The corn, oh the corn, and the yellow, mellow corn! -From Lorna Doone. A VISION OF MIGHTY BOOK HUNTERS. [John Hill Burton, LL.D., F.R.S.E., born at Aberdeen, 22d August, 1809. Educated at Marischal College; called to the Scottish bar in 1831; appointed secretary to the Prison Board, Scotland, in 1854, and subsequently historiographer-royal for Scotland. Mr. Burton contributed to the Westminster and Edinburgh Reviews and to Blackwood. His principal works are: The Life and Correspondence of David Hume; Lives of Simon, Lord Lovat, and Duncan Forbes of Culloden; Narratives from Criminal Trials in Scotland; History of Scotland, from the Revolution to the Extinction of the last Jacobite Insurrection; History of Scotland, from Agricola's Invasion to the Revolution of 1688; The Scot Abroad: The Book-Hunter; and various legal works.] As the first case, let us summon from the shades my venerable friend Archdeacon Meadow, as he was in the body. You see him now -tall, straight, and meagre, but with a grim dignity in his air which warms into benignity as he inspects a pretty little clean Elzevir, or a tall portly Stephens, concluding his inward estimate of the prize with a peculiar grunting chuckle, known by the initiated to be an important announcement. This is no doubt one of the milder and more inoffensive types, but still a thoroughly confirmed and obstinate case. Its parallel to the classes who are to be taken charge of by their wiser neighbours is only too close and awful; for have not sometimes the female members of his household been known on occasion of some domestic emergency—or, it may be, for mere sake of keeping the lost man out of mischief to have been searching for him on from bookstall unto bookstall, just as the mothers, wives, and daughters of other lost men hunt them through their favourite taverns? Then, again, can one forget that occasion of his going to London to be examined by a committee of the House of Commons, when he suddenly disappeared with all his money in his pocket, and returned penniless, followed by a waggon containing 372 copies of rare editions of the Bible? All were fish that came to his net. At one time you might find him securing a minnow for sixpence at a stall -and presently afterwards he outbids some princely collector, and secures with frantic impetuosity, "at any price," a great fish he has been patiently watching year after year. His hunting-grounds were wide and distant, and there were mysterious rumours about the numbers of copies, all identically the same in edition and minor individualities, which he possessed of certain books. I have known him, indeed, when beaten at an auction, turn round resignedly and say, "Well, so be it but I daresay I have ten or twelve copies at home, if I could lay hands on them." It is a matter of extreme anxiety to his friends, and, if he have a well-constituted mind, of sad misgiving to himself, when the collector buys his first duplicate. It is like the first secret dram swallowed in the forenoon-the first pawning of the silver spoons—or any other terrible first step downwards you may please to liken it to. There is no hope for the patient after this. It rends at once the veil of decorum spun out of the flimsy sophisms by which he has been deceiving his friends, and partially deceiving himself, into the belief that his previous purchases were necessary, or, at all events, serviceable for professional and literary purposes. He now becomes shameless and hardened; and it is observable in the career of this class of unfortunates, that the first act of duplicity is immediately followed by an access of the disorder, and a reckless abandonment to its propensities. The Archdeacon had long passed this stage ere he crossed my path, and had become thoroughly hardened. He was not remarkable for local attachment; and in moving from place to place, his spoil, packed in innumerable great boxes, sometimes followed him, to remain unreleased during the whole period of his tarrying in his new abode, so that they were removed to the next stage of his journey through life with modified inconvenience. Cruel as it may seem, I must yet notice another and a peculiar vagary of his malady. He had resolved, at least once in his life, to part with a considerable proportion of his collection-better to suffer the anguish of such an act than endure the fretting of continued restraint. There was a wondrous sale by auc tion accordingly; it was something like what may have occurred at the dissolution of the monasteries at the Reformation, or when the contents of some time-honoured public library were realized at the period of the French Revolution. Before the affair was over, the Archdeacon himself made his appearance in the midst of the miscellaneous self-invited guests who were making free with his treasures. He pretended, honest man, to be a mere casual spectator, who, having seen in passing the announcement of a sale by auction, stepped in like the rest of the public. By degrees he got excited, gasped once or twice as if mastering some desperate impulse, and at length fairly bade. He could not brazen out the effect of this escapade, however, and disappeared from the scene. into a rich harvest. In him truly the bibliomania may be counted among the many illustrations of the truth so often moralized on, that the highest natures are not exempt from human frailty in some shape or other. Let us now summon the shade of another departed victim-Fitzpatrick Smart, Esq. He too, through a long life, had been a vigilant and enthusiastic collector, but after a totally different fashion. He was far from omnivorous. The archdeacon lay under what, among a He had a principle of selection peculiar and portion of the victims of his malady, was separate from all others, as was his own indideemed a heavy scandal. He was suspected of viduality from other men's. You could not reading his own books-that is to say, when classify his library according to any of the he could get at them; for there are those who accepted nomenclatures peculiar to the inimay still remember his rather shamefaced ap- tiated. He was not a black-letter man, or a parition of an evening, petitioning, somewhat tall-copyist, or an uncut man, or a rough-edge in the tone with which an old schoolfellow man, or an early-English-dramatist, or an down in the world requests your assistance to Elzevirian, or a broadsider, or a pasquinader, help him to go to York to get an appointment or an old-brown-calf man, or a Grangerite, or -petitioning for the loan of a volume of which a tawny-moroccoite, or a gilt-topper, a marbledhe could not deny that he possessed number- insider, or an editio princeps man; neither did less copies lurking in divers parts of his vast he come under any of the more vulgar classificollection. This reputation of reading the cations of an antiquarian, or a belles-lettres, or books in his collection, which should be sacred a classical collector. There was no way of to external inspection solely, is, with a certain defining his peculiar walk save by his own school of book-collectors, a scandal, such as it name- -it was the Fitzpatrick-Smart walk. In would be among a hunting set to hint that a fact, it wound itself in infinite windings through man had killed a fox. In the dialogues, not isolated spots of literary scenery, if we may so always the most entertaining, of Dibdin's speak, in which he took a personal interest. Bibliomania, there is this short passage:-"I There were historical events, bits of family will frankly confess,' rejoined Lysander, 'that history, chiefly of a tragic or a scandalous kind I am an arrant bibliomaniac-that I love books-efforts of art or of literary genius on which, dearly-that the very sight, touch, and mere perusal.' 'Hold, my friend,' again exclaimed Philemon, 'you have renounced your profession-you talk of reading books-do bibliomaniacs ever read books?'" Yes, the archdeacon read books-he devoured them; and he did so to full prolific purpose. His was a mind enriched with varied learning, which he gave forth with full, strong, easy flow, like an inexhaustible perennial spring coming from inner reservoirs, never dry, yet too capacious to exhibit the brawling, bubbling symptoms of repletion. It was from a majestic heedlessness of the busy world and its fame that he got the character of indolence, and was set down as one who would leave no lasting memorial of his great learning. But when he died, it was not altogether without leaving a sign; for from the casual droppings of his pen has been preserved enough to signify to many generations of students in the walk he chiefly affected how richly his mind was stored, and how much fresh matter there is in those fields of inquiry where compilers have left their dreary tracks, for ardent students to cultivate through some intellectual law, his mind and It was difficult, almost impossible, for others to predicate what would please this wayward sort of taste, and he was the torment of the book-caterers, who were sure of a princely price for the right article, but might have the wrong one thrown in their teeth with contumely. It was a perilous, but, if successful, a gratifying thing to present him with a book. If it happened to hit his fancy, he felt the full force of the compliment, and overwhelmed the giver with his courtly thanks. But it required great observation and tact to fit one for such an adventure, for the chances against an ordinary thoughtless gift-maker were thousands to one; and those who were acquainted with his strange nervous temperament, knew that the |