"This last tale," said Lathom, as soon as he had concluded his manuscripts, "comes not from the old Latin books, but from what is called the English Gesta."

"An imitation of the original, I suppose," said Thompson.

"So thought that antiquarian, Mr. Douce," replied Lathom.

"Is it not natural, that a work so remarkable as this old Latin Gesta seems to have been, should have stimulated some person to compose a similar work for this country?" suggested Herbert.

"If the English version was not intended for the same work as the original, it is difficult to account for the striking identity between the stories in each of the Gesta; whilst the difference between the two works is in no respect greater than is consistent with that great latitude which the old transcribers and translators gave themselves."

"It is, therefore, Lathom, in your opinion, as much an original work as Donne's Satires modernized by Pope, or Horace's Art of Poetry translated by Roscommon," said Thompson.

"Yes, or as Dr. Johnson's version of the Tenth Satire of Juvenal."

"We must be thinking of adjourning," said Herbert, as the college clock began to strike eight.

"Or we may find ourselves inscribed among St. Peter's madmen," said Lathom.

"St. Peter's madmen-who were they?" exclaimed Herbert and Thompson together.

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"Five men St. Peter deemed to be madmen," rejoined their host.

"One

ate the sand of the sea so greedily that it ran out of his mouth: verily he was the covetous man of this world. The next madman stood over a pit filled with sulphur and pitch, and strove to inhale the noxious vapour that rose from the burning mass: he was the glutton and the debauchee. A third lay on a burning furnace, and endeavoured to catch the sparks that rose from it, that he might feast on them; for he was rich, and would have fed on gold, though it would have been his death. The next lunatic sat on the pinnacle of the temple, with his mouth open to catch the wind, for he was a hypocrite; whilst the last madman devoured every finger and toe of his own he could get into his mouth, and laughed at others; for he was a caluminator of the good, and devoured his own kind."

"And the sixth stayed up to read in a Christmas vacation," suggested Thompson.

4

CHAPTER IV.

Modern Conversions of the Old Tales-THE THREE BLACK CROWS-King Lear-THE EMPEROR OF ROME AND HIS THREE DAUGHTERS-The Merchant of Venice-THE THREE CASKETS

"WHAT a mine must these tales of the old monks have been to writers of every age," said Herbert, as the friends returned to their old book for the fourth evening.

"The purloiners of gems from their writings have been innumerable, and of all ages. Gower, Lydgate, Chaucer, Shakspeare, of olden days; and in a later time, Parnell, Schiller, Scott, and Southey have been indebted to the didactic fictions of the old monks for many a good plot, and many an effective incident."

"As the old monks themselves were indebted to the earlier legends of other lands, the traditions of their own convent, or the meagre pages of an old chronicle."

"Even the veteran joker, Mr. Joe Miller, has been indebted to the Gesta for one of his standard tales," said Lathom; "The Three Black Crows dates back to the middle ages."

"The moral, however, was hardly so polite as that now attached to the story; for the monk boldly headed his tale with this inscription,

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' of women who not only betray secrets and lie fearfully.'"

'Pray let us hear the original Joe Miller," said Thompson. "Here then you have," replied Lathom, "the original

Tale that will raise the question, I suppose,

What can the meaning be of three black crows?"

THE THREE BLACK CROWS.

ONCE upon a time, there lived two brothers, the one a cleric, the other a layman. The former was always saying that no woman could keep a secret, and as his brother was married, he bade him test the truth of this assertion on his own wife. The layman agreed; and one night, when they were alone, he said, with a sorrowful face, to his spouse:

My dear wife, a most dreadful secret hangs over me; oh that I could divulge it to you; but no, I dare not; you never could keep it, and, if once divulged, my reputation is gone.” "Fear not, love," rejoined the wife; are we not one body and one mind; is not your advantage my benefit, and your injury my loss?"?

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"Well, then," said the husband, "when I left my room this morning a deadly sickness came upon me, and after many a pang, a huge black crow flew out of my mouth, and, winging its way from the room, left me in fear and trembling."

"Is it possible?" asked the wife; "yet why should you fear, my life? be thankful rather that you have been freed from so noxious and troublesome an occupant.'

Here the conversation ended. As soon as it was day, up got the wife, with her thoughts full of the black crow, and hastened to a neighbour's house.

"Dearest friend," said she, "can I trust you with a secret ?" "As with your life," rejoined the confidant.

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'Oh, such a marvellous accident happened to my husband!" "What? what?" asked the anxious friend.

"Only last night, he felt deadly sick, and, after a great deal of pain, two black crows flew out of his mouth, and took wing from the room."

Away went the wife home, with her mind disburthened of the awful secret; whilst her friend hastened to her next neighbour, and retailed the story, only with the addition of one more crow. The next edition of the legend rose to four; and at last, when the story had gone round the gossips of the village, a flock of forty crows were reported to have flown from the poor man's mouth; and there were not a few who remembered seeing the black legion on the wing from the man's window. The consequence of all this was, that the poor husband found himself saddled with the very questionable reputation of a wizard, and was obliged to call together the village, and explain to them the true origin of the fable. On this his wife and her confidants were overwhelmed with ridicule and shame, and the men of the village were the more impressed with the truth of the cleric's maxim.

"Did the old monk attempt a further interpretation of his ungallant fable?” asked Herbert.

"Undoubtedly," replied Lathom. "The unfortunate husband typified the worldly man, who thinking to do one foolish act without offence, falls into a thousand errors, and has, at last, to purge his conscience by a public confession."

"Let us now pass on to Shakspeare's plagiarisms," said Herbert.

"Improvements-new settings of old jewels, which only heighten their lustre-not plagiarisms," replied Lathom. King Lear dates back to the Gesta, Theodosius of Rome occupies the place of the British king, his child Theodosia is Shakspeare's Cordelia."

THE EMPEROR OF ROME AND HIS THREE DAUGHTERS.

THEODOSIUS was emperor of Rome, mighty in power, and wise in counsel. He had no son, but three daughters, whom he loved exceedingly. Now when they were come of full age, the emperor called unto him the eldest and said, "How much lovest thou me ?"

"More than mine ownself," replied the eldest.

"It is good," rejoined her father, "thou shalt be rewarded for thy love."

So he married her unto a neighbouring king of great power and wealth. Then he sent for his second daughter, and asked her the same question.

"Even as I do myself," was the reply.

At this the emperor was well pleased, and he kissed his child, and said, "I will reward thee for this thy love." So he married her unto one of the greatest nobles of his realm.

At last he sent for his youngest daughter, and when she was come into his presence, he asked her likewise, "how much she loved him."

Theodosia bowed her head, and bent her knee to her father, as she mildly replied, "Even as my father deserveth.”

Then was the emperor hurt with her reply, and he said, "Lovest thou me no more than this? thy reward shall be less than thy sisters." So he married her unto a poor but good lord, who was one of the lesser nobles of his kingdom.

Time past away, misfortune came upon the emperor, and his kingdom was all but taken from him by the king of Egypt.

Then said he to himself, "I will appeal to my children," so he wrote to his eldest daughter for aid.

My lord, the king, I have here a letter from my father," said the eldest daughter to her husband, "he asketh help of us in his misfortunes."

"Is it not just that we should aid him ?" replied the king; will raise an army, and go and fight for him."

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"Nay, my lord," rejoined his wife, "consider the expense, send my father five knights to keep him company in his wanderings."

Alas, alas!” said the aged emperor when he read his eldest child's answer, "in her was my chief trust; she, that loved me more than herself, hath done only this much, how then shall I trust the other two ?"

Then wrote he to the second daughter, who, when she read her father's letter, advised her husband to grant him food, lodging, and raiment, during the time of his need. The emperor was sore grieved at this reply. "Now have I tried my two daughters, and have found them wanting, let me try the third," so he wrote to his youngest child.

When the messenger brought the emperor's letter to Theodosia, she wept sorely as she read how that her father was driven from his capital, and was become a wanderer in his own kingdom. Then went she to her husband and said,

"Oh, my dear lord, by thy love towards me, succour me in this great distress: my father is driven from his capital by the king of Egypt, and even now wanders up and down his own kingdom, homeless and unattended."

"As thou willest, Theodosia," replied the noble, "so will I do." "Gather then a great army, raise again my father's banner, and go, my lord, fight for my father's throne, and under God's blessing thou shalt conquer."

Gladly the noble obeyed the wishes of his wife; gladly did he summon his retainers and friends, and raise the royal standard. His example was all that was required; numbers flocked to the royal standard, for they wished well to the emperor, but lacked a leader. Then led he his forces against the king of Egypt, and long and fierce was the battle; but at length the emperor's friends prevailed, the Egyptian was driven from the land, and