hope of obtaining justice died within him. "I appeal to God and the world," said he. The reply of Jeffries was characteristic-" appeal to whom you will." Then followed the sentence. He was to be drawn in a hurdle to the place of execution; to be hung up by the neck, and then cut down alive; to be mutilated, and see the severed members burned before his face; to be beheaded and quartered, and the parts to be disposed of according to the will of the king. With lips that blanched not, and a voice that never faltered, he uttered this memorable prayer: "Then, O God! O God! I beseech thee to sanctify these sufferings unto me, and impute not my blood to the country, nor to the city through which I am to be drawn; let no inquisition be made for it; but if any, and the shedding of blood that is innocent must be avenged, let the weight of it fall upon those that maliciously persecute me for righteousness' sake." But Jeffries was not yet sated. He hastened to add one more pang to that strong but subdued agony. "I pray God," said the monster, "to work in you a temper fit to go into the other world, for I see you are not fit to live in this." Sidney.-" My lord, feel my pulse and see if I am disordered. I thank God I never was in better temper than I am now."

The sentence was received with a universal murmur of indignation. With one exception such a solemn and deliberate mockery had not been known within the memory of men then living. Russel had been tortured by the anguish of such a trial, but the nation justly deemed one sacrifice amply sufficient for a guilt, that might be still imaginary. They had expected that Sidney would go through the ordinary judicial forms, but they had expected also, that a fine would be the extent of his punishment. The result struck the minds of all with great and undisguised astonishment. Men of every class and of every party, from the high-born to the humble, from the churchman to the dissenter, from the whig to the tory, were loud in their expressions of abhorrence. He himself was not idle the while. There was still remaining one distant hope, worth striving to realize. He had once saved the life of the king, and now he strained every nerve to receive in return "measure for measure." Jeffries now became alarmed. It was ever his delight to shut out his victims from all hope of mercy. "Either Sidney must die or I must die," said he. But his alarm was needless. Charles was inexorable, though he commuted the sentence to simply beheading. Henceforth Sidney was no longer for this world. He bent all his thoughts on preparing to meet his God. Snapping every earthly tie, he directed his eager mind to that final home, where his strange and troubled life was so soon to end in a blessed and eternal repose. Nor was this preparation a painful one. Long before he had cast aside his doubts and fears, as the great hope burst with all the power of conviction upon his soul. Amid all his sorrows, through all his wanderings, that life had never left him, and many a time, when other hopes were dead, this had nerved him on to a renewed energy. Though his creed was somewhat peculiar; though his orthodoxy was somewhat questionable, many a pampered prelate might have envied him its consolations. He received the warrant for his execution with

a perfect unconcern, that amazed the bystanders. Not a muscle of that stern but not unlovely countenance quivered; not a relenting or an unworthy word did he utter, as he read his passport to the scaffold. That form, wasted with care, and bowed with the weight of more than sixty years, was drawn up to its utmost height; that eye was lighted up with the bright and quenchless enthusiasm of youth, as he placed in the hands of his friends his last commissions, and bade them all a final adieu. Even the sheriff wept at the grandeur and solemnity of the scene. With a mien as stately and composed as when he trod the battle-field years before, he mounted the platform and gazed down upon the crowd below. Both his address and his prayer were short, but replete with power and pathos. He thanked his God for the joy he experienced in suffering for "the good old cause," in which he had spent his life; and besought him to avert all tyranny and injustice from the country, for which he was about to die. Then turning to the instruments of death, he laid his head upon the block yet stained by the blood of Russel, with the calmness of one seeking repose, and at one blow of the axe, he entered into his rest.

Hopeless as seemed the condition of England, that last prayer did not long remain unanswered. Charles, stretched on a bed of anguish and remorse, soon followed him to the grave. The Duke of York, who had been the most unrelenting of his persecutors, lived to see himself stripped of a kingdom he did not deserve-self-dishonored by a craven flight-an exile, and dependant upon a court, whose mercenary he had always been. Jeffries, that monster of iniquity, distracted with the most abject terror, and rescued with difficulty from the hands of an infuriated mob, who were howling for vengeance, was thrown into the tower-too good a kennel for such a bloodhound. The state, purged of impurities, which had made it the by word of Europe, acquired more than its former liberties with a great increase of security, and entered once more upon its old course of national prosperity, and national glory. And if aught of blemish dimmed the lustre of Sidney's name, that stain was washed away by the justice of a renovated parliament.

There

It will not prove misspent time, to occupy a few moments in the contemplation of his character. Nor should we rise from such contemplation disappointed, if we discover errors there as well as virtues. Perfection is not an attribute of humanity, and Sidney had his faults, in common with us all. His patriotism is unquestionable. never lived a man who loved his country with a more enduring and absorbing passion. Amid all his exertions at home, and all his sufferings abroad, his eye was ever bent in an intense and steady gaze upon that country's welfare. All these exertions, and all these sufferings, he accounted but a meagre sacrifice, compared with the boon for which he prayed. And yet there is fault to find even with his patriotism. It had too much of the Junius-Brutus cast, after whom he copied. It was too uncompromising. This was his crowning error. He wished to realize at once his cherished vision of a republic, and would not think for a moment of a humbler acquisition. He forgot that “

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reed shaken in the wind," by bending to the blast comes off unharmed; while the knotted oak, obstinate in its strength, and unyielding, is uprooted and destroyed. By a less conspicuous opposition, and without any real sacrifice of principle, he might have relieved his country of a portion of her burden.

This

There is something exceedingly captivating in self-reliance. It is the grand climax of moral sublimity. Nothing strikes upon the mind with such resistless power; nothing so proclaims "the divinity that stirs within us.” The possessor of this attribute commands a willing and universal homage, such as the proudest monarch cannot extort by the mere exercise of his prerogative. This was preeminently the attribute of Sidney. When his enemies had compassed him about, and all the efforts of his friends were powerless; when the last glimmer of earthly hope had vanished, and the darkness of death was fast closing around him, we have seen him rely upon himself with a confidence that knew no hesitation. Calmly, and with the dignity of Cesar, he gathered his robe about him, and met his fate with Roman decency and fortitude. But this very virtue was pushed to an extreme. same self-confidence, exalted as it is in itself, bred a haughty contempt of those whose opinions and pursuits differed from his own. Nor was it confined to opinions merely; it often extended to their advocates. He looked down upon his brother Henry with the eye of Jove regarding the pranks of Cupid. A sneer was seldom wanting when Henry was the subject of conversation. And yet this brother, though a gallant and a roué, was far from contemptible. Had he been what Sidney professed to consider him, he could not have played so conspicuous part in the second revolution. In his letters to his father during his exile, we discover traces of a wayward and scornful impatience pervading the whole, which was by no means a becoming return for advice so kindly given.

But while we acknowledge these defects and others less conspicuous, when we turn aside to the contemplation of his entire character, we forget them all. His virtues place him on an eminence, from which these cannot drag him down. Nay, there is something not unlovely even in his errors. They were the offspring of a high and generous nature, stimulated by enthusiasm. For Sidney, the scholar, the statesman, the patriot, and more than all, the man, we feel a great, but not extravagant veneration. Partisan prejudice has long since ceased to malign him, and literary Ghoules, who prey hyena-like upon the reputation of the dead, have left his memory undisturbed. His name and influence yet live, and will live on till the last generation of earth shall pass away, for never was a title to immortality more proudly won, more richly deserved.

D. H. B.

Lady Alda..

It is related in Bernard's History of Chivalry that, while the Moors held possession of North Spain, a short time before the reign of Alphonso, they made an incursion into the southern part of France, and besieged an important castle. This was, for some time, bravely defended by Roland de Faulconbridge, a Norman knight, but at last he was traitorously inveigled into an ambush, and slain. Abdallah, the general of the Moors, sent his body into the castle, with a message that, if it was not surrendered upon the next day, no quarter should be given to the defenders. The latter, disheartened by the death of their leader, were willing to comply. The body of Sir Roland was taken into the Chapel, and, while the funereal ceremonies were proceeding, they were interrupted by the entrance of Lady Alda, the widow of the dead. She was attired in a suit of armor, and held her husband's bloody sword in her hand. She upbraided the astonished vassals for their cowardice, and called upon them to revenge the death of their Lord. Animated by this address, they flew to arms. In the morning a sally was made, headed by Lady Alda herself. Though the number of the Normans did not exceed three hundred, and the Moorish army amounted to several thousands, the bravery of the former was so astonishing, that the besiegers were repulsed with great loss, and Abdalla slain in single combat with the woman whose husband he had murdered.

The castle bells are tolling!

The culv'rins sternly rolling!

The white-robed priests are singing,

The solemn dirge is ringing!

The cathedral walls are crowded with brave lord and lovely dame-
Sir Roland Faulconbridge lies there, last baron of his name.
The bravest knight of Normandy, whose minstrels long shall tell
How, beneath the Paynim treachery, with sword in hand he fell!
As the choristers sang, the sad symphonies rang
Through chancel and sculptured nave,
And the good Bishop's prayer rises clear on the air,
For the dead knight's repose in his grave!
But now the Bishop's prayer is hushed,

Well

And the dirge has ceased awhile-
For a flash of steel and a ringing tread
Are wavering through the aisle!
"Who art thou, coming in such guise?

And art thou friend or foe?"
The visor's raised, and the holy priest
Reels back, as from a blow!

may the Bishop start back in dismay,
For, by the lurid and flickering ray,

Full in the glare of the deep red flame,

He beholds lady Alda, the knight's haughty dame !

Sternly she spoke-" Is it meet to be said

That the line of the Faulconbridge buried its dead
With a womanish wail and a priestly prayer,

While the murderer's taunt was still loud on the air?

I hold in this band the good sword that he bore-
Still undried on its blade is the Moslemah gore!
And I summon ye all, if there be one true knight
Dares follow, where woman dares lead on the fight,
Lay the foot in the stirrup, the lance in the rest!
The spur in the steed, and the shield on the breast!
Be unsparing each heart, and be crimsoned each sword,
In the blood of yon cowardly, infidel horde!"
She ceased.-From his seat every warrior sprung,

And every steel glove on a sword-hilt rung!

And every voice joined in one echoing shout-
To the battlements all! Let us arm and out!"

And the culverins pealed till the stout walls reeled
All in the fair moonlight!

And the dying shout of the Turk rang out
Through the long and bloody night!

There yonder lies the Moorish camp-a stern yet gorgeous sight
The atabals are pealing wide-gold armor glancing bright!
And many a banner slants aloft, in many a purple fold.

Beneath them lie ten thousand swords-ten thousand warriors bold,
The pride of all the Paynim land. There king Abdallah stands
With thoughts of blood within his heart, and blood upon his hands!
And he smiles a cruel smile as he looks on that array,

For he thinks to rend the Christians as the falcon rends the jay!
But ha! the gates are opened wide, and forth the Normans pour!
Three hundred knights are riding out, but Alda rides before.

Her white, rounded arm to the shoulder is bare!

From beneath the bright helm streams her long glossy hair,
Her fingers, erst wonted o'er lute string to glide,

Grasp the hilt of a sabre, once terribly plied-
Bright. red at the point, and dark red at the hilt,

With the blood that its edge hath but recently spilt!

Her face was still lovely, but fearfully changed,

Like those spirits who first through infernal realms ranged!
With features obscured by hate, stern and fell,

The form seemed of Heaven, but the spirit of Hell !

"Now, for revenge, ye noble knights! Saint Denis strike for France! For God, and king, and vengeance !"—fair levelled every lance,