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yet survive, that he should be hanged; and the lady his wife was judged, in such a case, without remedy, to be burnt. It was in a place called St. Katherine, behind the Temple, in Paris, that the lists were made. And thither the king repaired with his uncles, and the Duke of Burgundy, and his great lords, and much people, so much that it was a marvellous sight to behold them. Then the two champions came into the field, armed at all points. The earl of St. Poule governed John of Carogne, and the earl of Alençon's company was with Jaques le Grys. There was a perfect silence commanded, and the knight walked up to that part of the field where his lady was sitting in a chair covered with black. He spake to her thus in a loud voice: "Dame, by your information, and in your quarrel, I do put my life in adventure as to fight with Jaques le Grys-you know if the cause be just and true." The poor lady's face was deadly wan, and her frame which had been wasted by continual grief at her heart, trembled all over from the agony of those movements. But she rose up immediately that her husband had ceased to speak, and a new and powerful spirit seemed to support her as she called out, "Sir, it is as I have said,-wherefore you may fight surely -the cause is good and true." So distinct were the tones of her clear voice, that her words were heard all over the field; and when she had spoken them, the fearfulness of her mind had passed from her. She knelt down, and seemed then like another creature, and she lifted up her clasped hands towards the high heavens, and, all regardless of the crowd around her, she prayed aloud for her husband's life, and for victory to his good cause. The knight also knelt, and by her side, seeming to join in her prayers; and when he rose, he kissed her forehead, and took her by the hand, and lifted her up, and blessed her, and himself, and so entered the field.

The high and fearless spirit of the lady left her not again, but as the fight raged beneath her she sat still in her black chair, looking up into heaven, and humbly praying all the time. It

was a dreadful trial to her when she heard the trampling of their horses, and the forceful thrusting of the spears against their armour, and the loud mad clashing of their swords. Once came a minute's pause. The lady looked not down, though the deep groaning of many who surrounded her went to her heart. She saw not that her husband ons rushed fiercely to the fight. The was wounded, and again the champifrequent blazing of their weapons in the sunshine darted oftentimes like lightning flashes before her eyes, and dazzled them into tears. combat raged immediately below where Then the she sat, and she seemed to feel the ground shaken beneath her feet, or she shrank away from the rapid blows, and thought they parted the very air that blew over her face. dreadful sense of the passing combat, Yet with all this the powers of her mind clung and trusted to one exalted hope, and that hope did not fail her.

There was another, but not a silent pause, a general stirring sounded throughout the crowd, and voices burst forth on all sides, some in shoutings of joy. Aline knew that her husband's fate was decided, either by victory, or the certainty of death. All her womanly feelings rushed back upon heart; she did not dare to look down, but slowly she closed her eyes, and then sank back, overpowered by a

swoon.

her

Although the attention of most persituation of the combatants, some there sons was now drawn entirely to the were who turned to the poor lady; and by their assistance she woke up from the swoon which had fallen upon her. Her husband's form first met her sight, but not gashed with wounds, not stretched breathless and ghastly on the earth. He was standing erect before his.king, and she saw that the king smiled upon him-Jaques le Grys was slain, and his corpse was yet lying where he fell. He had confessed his guilt.

Another trial yet awaited Aline of Carogne, and from it the heroic lady did not shrink. With her husband she had left the field of the combat for the church of our Ladye in Paris, and

there they had on their knees humbly and heartily offered up their thanks and praises to the throne of grace. They had now risen; and Aline leaned upon her husband's bosom, and wept freely. She had not ceased weeping when he led her to a small door, which opened from one of the side aisles near the high altar, to the cloisters of the adjoining convent. Of tentimes did the knight clasp more tenderly in his arms his young and weeping lady; and oftentimes did he kiss with his trembling lips her forehead, and her lips, and her pale cheek, and the one little thin band which lay upon his shoulder. At length she lifted up her head, and a smile played about

her lips, though it scarcely rose inte her large melancholy eyes. Once more she sank upon his bosom, and their lips met in one last kiss. Then he suffered her to raise her head from his breast, and to withdraw her hand from his grasp, and his eyes alone føllowed with their earnest gaze the form which departed from his sight-for ever. The knight of Carogne sailed as a pilgrim to the holy city of Jerusa lem; and returning two years afterwards to Paris, they showed him there the tomb of his faithful wife. In a few months from that time they laid his corpse beneath the same tomb, in the church of our Ladye in Paris. CYRIL.

(Lit. Gaz.)

FORGET ME NOT:

A CHRISTMAS AND NEW-YEAR'S PRESENT FOR 1824.

[Last year Mr.Ackerman produced the first of these pretty and cleverly got up little books, in this country, which have long been so popular in Germany. The design was judicious, and great success attended it but for those who may not have seen the last, we beg to say that by the present it is worthily succeeded. The introductory lines on the title “ Forget me not," by Bernard Barton, are so simply sweet and appropriate that we take leave to quote them :-]

THE HEART'S MOTTO-FORGET ME NOT.'

Appealing language! unto me How much thy words impart ! They seem as if designed to be

The Motto of the Heart;

BY BERNARD BARTON.

Whose fondest feelings, still the same,
Whate'er its earthly lot,

Prefer alike this touching claim,
And say Forget me not!

The soldier, who for glory dies,

However bright may seem

The fame he wins in others' eyes,
Would own that faine a dream,
Did he not hope its better part
Would keep him unforgot.
The chosen motto of his heart
Is still-Forget me not!

The sailor, tost on stormy seas,

Though far his bark may roam,
Still hears a voice in every breeze
That wakens thoughts of home.
He thinks upon his distant friends,
His wife, his humble cot;
And from his inmost heart ascends
The prayer Forget me not!'

The sculptor, painter, while they trace
On canvas, or in stone,
Another's figure, form, or face,
Our motto's spirit own ;

Each thus would like to leave behind

His semblance-and for what? But that the thought which fills his mind Is this Forget me not!

The poet too, who, borne along

In thought to distant time,
Pours forth his inmost soul in song,

Holds fast this hope sublime!

He would a glorious name bequeath,
Oblivion shall not blot,

And round that name his thoughts enwreath
The words Forget me not!

Our motto is, in truth, the voice

Of nature in the heart;

For who from mortal life, by choice,
Forgotten would depart?

Nor is the wish by grace abhorr'd,
Or counted as a spot;
Even the language of our Lord
Is still-Forget me not!

Within the heart his Spirit speaks
The words of truth divine,
And by its heavenly teaching seeks
To make that heart his shrine.
This is the still small voice' which all
In city or in grot,

May hear and live-its gentle call
I-Man, forget me not!

(Lit. Gaz.)

GREENWICH HOSPITAL.

Not many wise, not many learned, not many noble.

WE have now all sorts of clubs and societies, composed of all sorts of odd fellows, who meet upon all sorts of occasions, and transact all sorts of business: but I shall, without, farther preface, introduce to your notice an assemblage of old Blue Bottles belonging to Greenwich College, under the title of the Quidam Association,' who meet at the "Jolly Sailor" for the purpose of recounting past adventures, and fighting their battles o'er again. It would do your heart good to hear them, and afford a fine subject for the pencil of Wilkie, could he but take a sly glance when the enthusiastic crisis is on, in the description of an engagement. I join them sometimes, and I remember once Jack Rattlin had gone through the battle of the Nile, till the moment they were called from their quarters to board their opponent; he did it so naturally and bellowed so loudly, applying his hand to his mouth by way of speaking trumpet," Boarders on the starboard bow!" that the whole company rose spontaneously, and with visages like the grim ferryman that poets write of,' seized crutch es, sticks, wooden legs, &c. &c. and presented so formidable an appearance, that I began to get alarmed, but was soon relieved from apprehension by three hearty cheers,-the enemy had struck! This was a signal for the landlord to replenish,--but avast, you shall have all their pictures, from the president (for they've got a president as well as the United States) down to the last old Pigtail admitted.

And first for the President. Jem Breeching was gunner's mate of the Ajax when she caught fire and blew up in the Dardanelles. The powder had got hold of his face, and never was there a better barometer in the world. You have only to look upon Jem's frontispiece, to know which way the wind blows and what sort of weather is expected-in easterly breezes 'tis as blue as a dying dolphin; to the southward, a cerulean hue; westerly, a greyish pink; but at north, aye at

north, 'tis a beautiful mixture of every

tint in the rainbow. A pair of small squinting ferret eyes, and a nose like the gnomon of a dial; but there's a sort of Listonish look with him, a Jenny-say-Quawish curl of the lip, that tells you at once he's fond of fun. Jem has one standing jest-his wooden pin.

Next on the list is old Sam Quketoes: he was purser's steward of Bedford when the enterprising Captain Franklin was a lieutenant in the same ship, and talks much about the plays they performed on board. Indeed he says the whole ship's company were very fond of drammers. Sam piques himself on his larning, and has Shakspeare "conn'd by rote, to cast into our teeth; and in his brain, which is as dry as the remainder biscuit after a voyage, he hath strange places cramm'd with observations, the which he vents in mangled form, with overwhelming brow gulling of simples." Sam has a huge red proboscis dangling from a face of scarlet, that appears like a joint of meat roasting before a good coal fire, or like the sign of the red lion over the door of a brandy cellar; but his eye (that's his left eye, for the other's gone) is a squeaking one, and if any body is disposed to quiz his forefront, it immediately flashes, "Tua refert teipsum NOSSE."

Who have we next? Oh, Hameish Mogan from the Highlands, but known now as James Hogarth. He was brought up in the town of Ayr, and received all the little education he ever had from Burns the poet, of whom he speaks in raptures, and often repeats his verses, particularly his "Address to the Deil," with great precision and fluency. Hameish was bound apprentice to a tailor; but finding they'd mair use for claymores than breeks in the highlands, he listed into the 42d regiment, and was with them in Egypt when they engaged and defeated Boney's Invincibles. He has all the fire and spirit of the Gael, and when relating the account of their pinning the French up against the walls of Aboukir

castle with their bayonets, he erects himself as stiff as buckram, and screws up his mouth like a button-hole. "Eh, (says he,) we measured our ground and cut out our wark weel that day, though there was mony a gude yard of braid claith spoiled by the ugly bayonets." Poor Hameish had a seam ript in his head by a French trooper, and a musket-ball took up a seating in his hip; so he was invalided, for marching was out of the question, as he bobb'd up and down like a barrow with a broken wheel. But still he would serve his King, so he entered into the navy, and was in the Victory at the battle off Trafalgar, when Nelson fought and Britain triumphed. Here he got another wound; relentless Fate displayed her shears, and nearly snipp'd the thread of life; but he stuck to his stuff, and was in the Agamemnon when she was wreck'd in the River Plate. From thence he was sent into the Mutine sloop, and was at Buenos Ayres at the first declaration of their independence. This vessel brought home the Spanish deputy to the Court of Great Britain.

Teddy O'Shaugnessy has been in almost every ship in the navy, either as master at arms or as lock 'em tenends, i. e. ship's corporal. Teddy is a perfect original, and when at sea acquired the name of Mittimus Oramus, the Irish attorney-at-law; and I much question whether the late Counsellor Curran could handle a cause, sport a rapparty (as Teddy calls it,) or, as a punster, make a pun stir with more hec-la. His spectacles, which he declares will make any man see no-lens vo-lens, are mounted on a huge Domine dirige nose that meets an aspiring chin, defying every joke that can be levell'd against them, and seeming to say, "Aye, aye, Quiz, seper-a-bit." He wears his hair close cropp'd, and nature has rendered it so coarse, that it shows like a plantation of young broomsticks; and thereby hangs a tail, or rather stretches away from his neck in an horizontal direction like a tangent-screw, which fastens his head to his shoulders, always retaining the same situation, for Teddy's tail never

varies.

Now comes my old and worthy

friend Ben Marlin. You have already heard of him through the wonderful account which was real-lie, true-lie, and faithful-lie (Ben's own accent) related some time since. He prides himself upon being a bit of a cog-no-squinteye, a sort of critic that sees two ways at once, and has a small collection of queeriosities which he calls his mu-se-hum; for instance, his baccastopper is made of one of Noah's cheek teeth given him by an old Arab, who had it from the Wandering Jew. His pricker, which has been made to go into the hollow of the tooth, is the identical needle (descended to him in the thread of lineal gin-and-ale-oigie as heir-loom of the Twist family) with which the first Mr. Twist raised himself to opulence, by sewing up a rent in the seat of Julius Cæsar's smallclothes. This needle has occasioned much controversy among the members, Sam affirming that the Romans were sans culottes, or only had 'em of cast iron or brass; but Ben insists upon the matter, and furthermore adds, “The job was so cleverly done, that Mrs. Julius Cæsar preserved them as a specimen of British neatness and ingenuity." Teddy sides with Sam, and says Julius was a highlander and wore petticoats; and Dick Wills who knows a little of history, asserts that the ancient Britons were clad in winding-sheets stuck together with skewers. Jem Breeching gives them a knowing look, and after a few hems-"Gemmen, it's my opinion-I say, gemmen, it's my opinion that if Mrs. Julius Cæsar took such a fancy to the small-clothes, it is more than probable that they actually belonged to her in their primitive state, and that her husband had slipp'd them on by mistake, being unable to find his petticoats. I say, gemmen, he might have slipp'd them on by mistake, or in a hurry, through the uncourteous reception our forefathers gave him, and that she was compelled to adopt the coats, and so it has continued ever since. And this is no fundamental error, for I'm borne out in my argument that the inexpressibles were originally the natural privilege of the ladies, by the struggles which many gentlewomen make for them even in the present day;

nay, are they not worn by the softer sex (here Jem rolls his goggle eye) in many parts of the world to this hour?" But for Ben's picture: he is a short, thick, punchy man, one leg exceeding bandy, the other perfectly straight -but that's his wooden one; a face like a dripping-pan; a short, club, basrelief nose, scarce a quarter of the face, and, you know, to be in due proportion it should be exactly one-third; and this may be easily ascertained by the thumb, for the thumb is equal to one-third of the face, and the nose equal to one third of the face; ergo, the thumb is equal to the nose. Some people's noses, to be sure, are longer than others, and that accounts for their being so easily led by them. Ben lost his leg in the gallant action of the E frigate, Captain P---, when she took the off the Black Rocks.

And now, Mr. Editor, I must lay down my brush for the present, as they have just piped to grog, so I hasten to wet my whistle and clear my pallet; but you may rely on an early description of the remaining members, their rules and regulations, their debates and harangues, &c. &c.; with may a tough yarn of most disastrous chances; of moving accidents, by flood and field; of hair-breadth 'scapes; of Andes vast and deserts wild, and mountain waves whose heads touch heaven; of flying fish and swimming cows; and genuine anecdotes of many a brave commander. Grog a-hoy!' Aye, aye, I'm coming, like seven bells half struck-like a cuckoo-clock maker-Good bye, Mr. Editor-like a bunch of sheep's trotters tied in granny's knots-like-like-like

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AN OLD SAILOR.

(Edin. Mag.)

ON A CHILD PLAYING.

SWEET bud, that bye and bye shall be a flowre;
Younge star, that just hath broken on our eye;
Pure spring, ere long to grow a stream of power;
First dawn of Hope that soon shall flame out high
Into the mild arche of the golden skye:

I love, younge Fawn, to see thee sport; and yet
Such contemplation breeds but vain regret.

Let thy proud mother smile to see thy wayes,
And once again forget herself in thee-
Let the proud father eke the mother's praise,
But, graver, place thee fondling on his knee,
And vainly prophecy what thou shalt be-
Pleased with the tongueless eloquence, that lies
Still silent, in thy clear blue laughing eyes.

Let them enjoye-whilst yet they may enjoye;
And, infant son of Time, do thou smile on;
Deem not for aye to be the favourite boy;
Take what thou can'st, or ere thy time is gone;
For still the darling is the youngest son;.
And thou shalt quickly sorrow sore to see
Another, younger still, supplanteth thee.

Though many a high presage be cast upon thee-
Though many a mouth be diligent to praise thee-
Though Beauty pine until that she hath won thee-
Though Worship, wheresoe'er thou go'st, delays thee-
Though Fate and Fortune emulate to raise thee-
Yet all the thronging honours that surround thee
Shall not availe thee, since that Care hath found thee.

Time's train is lacquey'd still by Wearinesse ;
What boots the crownlet of o'er-flatter'd gold,
Or gemm'd Tiara, if they cannot bless

Or soothe the aching brows that they enfold?
What boots it to wax honourably old,

39 ATHENEUM VOL. 14.

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