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“No, but his friend has," was the reply.
“ And his name ?"
“Parker," answered the girl.

“Well, oh, very well,” said the Jew, rubbing his hands ; “ better and better this is. But call her down : Sal—here, Sal-old girl, come and see your Solomons, come—Ah! this is good – ha! ha! ha!”

Before he had finished speaking, a step was heard descending the stairs, and in a moment after a girl, older by some years than the one noticed before, made her appearance. “ So you are come ?" she observed to the Israelite.

Yes, Sal,—couldn't do without you. Oh, you are a clever girl.” “ Come, come, no flummery,” interrupted Sal; “you should have been here before.”

“ No, I said ten o'clock--didn't I? I said, when it was dark-didn't I now ?”

“I hav'nt seen him since," said the elder girl.

“So Ciss told me; how is that, Sal? There is nothing gone wrong-nothing wrong, is there?” enquired the Jew, with apparent

“Oh, no!" returned the girl ; “it will be all right bye-and-by. He is but a boy, and not used to it. I sent him a message to-night that will bring him here to morrow, I'll venture.”

“ And then--".

“ And then,” continued the girl, sharply, “ I've a scheme ready which will not fail, -only be you ready. And now, the sooner we part the better-s0, good night.”

“Good night-good night, Sal. Oh, 'tis a clever girl-a clever girl;" and the Jew chuckled as he stepped into the street and turned once more upon his heel.







Fitzherbert had opened a secret drawer of his writing-desk, and had taken from thence a lock of hair, so dark that it almost vied with the unrivalled jet. He gazed upon it a few moments, and then pressed it fondly to his lips.

“And she perhaps is thinking of me now," he said to himself, “ Poor Amy! oh, that for her sake I could alter my course, and become all that she would wish to see me. Alas! alas !

deteriora sequor.

Mine is an unlucky fate, that forces me to become an actor, where it is even disgraceful to be a spectator. Poor Amy ! -But,” he continued, concealing the locket, “ here comes Parker."

The door opened, and that gentleman presented himself.

“ What a wet night !” he cried. “Well, it's all settled, and you'll be ready to-morrow !"

“ Yes,” sighed Fitzherbert, “ to-morrow" * * *

(To be continued.)




No ships have sailed as mine have done,

So fleetly or so far;
No oars been rowed so rapidly

To victory or war.
For all I am of kingly strain,
I woo the Cossack maid in vain.


In youth I fought a stubborn fight,

With but one shield to ten :
Then Drontheim's men were strown like straw,

And Drontheim's king was slain.
For all I am of kingly strain,
I woo the Cossack maid in vain.


One day I sailed,-a storm arose,

With but sixteen the crew;
Though but sixteen we baled the wave,

For all we were so few.
For all I am of kingly strain,
I woo the Cossack maid in vain.


Eight arts I know,-to throw the lance,

To ride, to swim, to row;
To strike the foeman on the field,

To skate o'er ice and snow,
For all I am of kingly strain,
I woo the Cossack maid in vain.


I jousted in a southern land,

And she was there to see;
I pointed spear, and wielded blade,

This day they sing of me.
For all I am of kingly strain,
I woo the Cossack maid in vain.


For all, I am of Norway's land,

And Norway's sons love home;
I'd rather sweep the ocean's coast,

And sail the ocean's foam.
I swept each coast-won fame,—yet she,
The Cossack maid, cares nought for me.

* See Mallet's Northern Antiquities, vol. ii. p. 236.

REGNER LODBROG'S DEATH-SONG.* We hacked the foe with the sword

We carved the food for the maws Of the wolf with the grizzled hide,

And the hawk with the golden claws. The whole huge ocean gushed,

Like one wide wound with gore,'Twas so we fought in our youth,

On the waves of the Eastern shore. We hacked the foe with the sword

When Helsing's helms were riven ; We sail'd with a swollen sail,

When Ifa's foam was driven. Our steel dropp'd ruddy dew,

It sang to the tune of the thunder, That louder and louder rung,

As the shields were cloven asunder. We hacked the foe with the sword

The blood-dew dropped like rain ; The death-darts whistled in air,

For cleaving the helms in twain. There is pride in the sound of the war,

There is joy in the bride's embrace,– Such were the joys of the fight,

When we felled Britannia's race.

We hacked the foe with the sword

On Humber's colder side;
The death-storm beat on the targe,

And he that bore it died.
They fled at the burst of the morn,

'Twas then that the steel bit proof,Such is the taste of the mead,

Beneath the widow's roof.

We hacked the foe with the sword

At last King Frier fell; Red and blue the swords

Shone on the golden mail. Blue for the steel, and red

For the blood, that the maidens lamented, 'Twas so on the Frisian shore,

That we fought, and return’d contented. We hacked the foe with the sword

'Twas then that Herthiof won ; 'Twas then that my best men fell,

And Rogvaldur my much-loved son. The spears, that he played with, smote,

His crest blushed red with blood, The corpse-birds shrieked the knell

Of the hero that made their food.

See Mallet's Northern Antiquities, vol. ii. p. 230.

We hacked the foe with the sword,

There was rain and rattle that day-
Many a hero fell,

In the first red dawn of the fray.
'Twas then that Agnar bled,

As Egill's dart came near-
Truly a son of mine own,

For he never had tasted fear.

To fall 'mid the hail of darts,

And the clang of the arrowy sleet-
Such is the hero's fate :-

To fly with a craven's feet,
To live like the slave of life-

Curse on the dastard's rest,
He feels no spark in his soul,

He bears no heart in his breast !
We hacked the foe with the sword,

Fifty times and one,
Since I fleshed* my maiden sword,

Have I trusted myself alone.
I have met with none that o'ercame me,

Hail ye Halls of Death,
Hail ye beakers of ale !

I laugh with my latest breath.

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A JOINER once of savage surly mood,

With inward hate and envy burned Against a bull-dog, bearing him ill blood.

Now this

The bull-dog took amiss ;
And all the joiner's spite,

As best he might,
With equal spite, in right good will, returned.

In short he bit him on the thigh,
(Where joiners love being bit not one iota more

Than you or I,)

Full sore.
And so the joiner took his adze and smote,

Severe and full,
The dog, that, growling out a ghastly note,

Died of a cloven skull.

The bull-dog's owner came
Instanter, when he heard the dog was dead ;
And, as his friend was not in barking frame,

Barked in his stead.

I hold it shameful to repeat the rout

The bull-dog's owner made,
With oaths, and curses, stampings, threats about

His bull-dog's broken head.
In vain the splitter of the scull essayed

To represent
That two good halves might make a whole good head;

Whereat the plaintiff far too harsh and hot
For reason or philosophy, would not

At all, though stagger'd by the argument.

In short, they went to law. The plaintiff said,
“ He never need have hit him on the head
“ At all ; he might have knocked him off instead,

" Or done as I should do,
“ Dealt him a blow, or two

" At most
“But now, alas! the poor dead dog is lost.”

And here he wiped his eyes; whereat the judge,

Just in his cool official way,

Asked what the joiner had to say To justify the grudge;

And added, that he “should, instead, “ Have struck him with the handle of the axe, 6. And not the head." Why, so I should have done in case the cursed Blood-thirsty dog had charged me but-end first ; “But, as it was, the shaft was no avail “ He bit me with his teeth, and not his tail."

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