Beware, beware, Robin, how you provoke a superior!" "In Mary's name, thou shalt not crow over Robin of Redesdale," cried he, approaching me in a threatening way; "thou hast had an eye on my Joan, Master Crackenthorpe; I would speak civilly, though I know thou bearest me ill-will; but for that! I will not bear that, and so I tell thee! Shame on thee, thou frocked drone! | Where are thy prayers? Where are thy almsdeeds? An thou smile on my kinswoman but once again, thou shalt feel the weight of an arm well used to rough work." The young man is strong, so I quietly retreated; but I cannot away with his insults. He wants to renew his holding. I peremptorily turned him out, and he abides with Hilyard, Joan's father, at present, and looks mighty sulky and proud when I meet him. Finding that they harbour Robin at the Hollow Farm, I have levied the hospital corn; they insulted my messenger, but I got the grain-I got the grain! The Archbishop of York is at Calais; he is uncle to Isabella, Earl Warwick's daughter, and the King's brother, George Duke of Clarence, is about to espouse Isabella. They are to be married in Calais, for the King liketh it not. The Nevilles are out of favour somewhat, and jealous of the Queen's family. But the Duke of Clarence hath a great liking for Warwick, and for Isabella, no doubt; she is a stately maiden, but pale and slender. Give me Joan's ripe cheek before all such moonish beauty! Later in 1463. While Warwick and his brother, the Archbishop, were at Calais for the wedding, a pretty wedding-feast we have had here. Oh! my beloved Malvesy! It was set a running and swallowed like small beer by the rude populace, who turned out, headed by Robin of Redesdale, to avenge themselves for my enforcement of St. Leonard's claim to the customary dues of corn. Robin urged his uncle, and being young and comely, and bold withal, was made captain; many joined them, for I had threatened distress to all, and the upshot was, that one dark night, I woke from my bed, and started to see all as light as day, but red, like twenty suns rising at once. I roused the brethren; we soon discovered it was the Grange on fire. All our grain was destroyed; our cook was carried off; our kitchen utensils battered and spoiled; our finest wine drank to the dregs; our fair house in ruins. This is not all; the rebels' numbers swelled to fifteen thousand, who marched into York threatening to go to the south and forcibly reform the abuses of government. The citizens of York were sore alarmed, and put themselves under the guidance and protection of Warwick's brother, the Earl of Northumberland. There was a great fight; I myself took Redesdale Robin, with the help of Laurence, the gardener. Northumberland, knowing he was the captain of the insurgents, had him immediately executed. But O, it touched all hearts to sec poor Joan, who, as soon as she heard of the danger to Robin, ran towards the scene of action, being fain to intercede with Northumberland for her lover. Her mother was nurse sometime in Northumberland's family, and she thought her prayer might be heard where others would fail. But Robin of Redesdale was stiff and stark before Joan arrived, and his pale face turned up to the moon's scarcely paler ray. One hand in death fiercely clutched his sword, the other was twined in a blue ribbon, hanging round his neck with half a broken coin. Joan's long hair, in her hurry, had come unbound, and strayed over her now white cheeks; a sense of suffocation also obliged her to loosen her neckerchief about the throat; and as she bent over the lips lately so eloquent in their vows to her, kissing them wildly, and addressing to the unconscious corpse before her words of tenderest import, Oh, I felt a pang of remorse! Am I chargeable with all this misery? Our late Warden's favourite verse from St. Matthew's gospel about turning the other cheek, and giving the cloak also, rushed into my mind, and caused me first to doubt whether it was quite right to excite public feelings, already hurt and outraged by public affairs, for the sake of a little grain, when I had enough, and my neighbours not too much. But nothing can recall the pitiless past. The future only is mine. And what a future! The people are preparing to choose other leaders in Robin's place, and who knows whether my greedy avarice may not plunge the country into civil wars. Also now rises up before me my sin of interfering as far as in me lay with the dead man's dearest affections. I am hideous to myself. I dread to walk even over the threshold, lest I meet that pale vacant face, so lately a pleasant index to the pure soul of Joan Hilyard. The remorse I feel will eat up my heart. The remnant of my days I shall devote especially to fasting and prayer, and in penitence and humility I trace out in this chronicle a part of the evils and sorrows to which avarice and an unlawful love have led. Who can tell the end? We have one King in confinement, and I fear shall have another in the same predicament. Unhappy me! Oh, that I had more minded my vows, and been less greedy of gain! Another hand fills up the record by stating that Master Crackenthorpe proved his repentance sincere by devoting himself, heart and soul, to the succour and relief of the tried and afflicted. Also he provided for the father and mother of poor Joan, who soon sank into a decline, and followed her lover to the grave. But what a great fire will a little spark kindle! The chronicler goes on to say that very soon England saw the strange sight of two Kings in confinement at the same time-Henry the Sixth in the tower, and Edward the Fourth in Yorkshire. And the after-troubles, the death of the Princes in the Tower, and the usurpation of crookedbacked Richard are known unto all. Do you see yonder pretty cottage, half-hidden | this little window, his head between his dimpled by the trees, and seeming as if it grew among them? The larches and dark pines spread their shady arms over the roof to shelter it from harm, and well they've done their duty; for though I am old, and walk on crutches, the cottage is the same as when a little child, like you, I played among its garden flowers. Many a summer evening I've sat beside its trellised door, and smiled to see how hard the flowers strove to win a climbing race along its sides. There were the roses thrusting out their thorns to try and check the tiny jessamine, which after all got quite ahead of them; but jessamine can't climb alone, so one day as it tried to go too fast it quite outran the friendly strings which had been put to guide its course, and down it came headlong, and lay half dead upon the gravel walk, while a woodbine which had kept a steady pace then gained the race. It was to reach that little window that they tried. You ask me what I have to say about the cottage. Listen then. One day, while sitting in my favourite spot, my head half-buried in the flower-leaves, a little honeyed voice addressed me thus: "I think you're somewhat idle, sir; maybe you'd like to hear a tale to tell the children in the evening time." "Thank you," said I, "I'm always glad to hear the flowers talk, for I can take my nap and listen on as well as if I were awake." And so the Woodbine told me this: "Not very long ago I saw a pretty child playing about the garden here; sometimes he'd pluck the daisies from the grass and weave them into chains; then, tempted by a passing butterfly, forget his work and scamper off in chase of it until it passed the garden wall, or flew too high into the sunny air for him to mark its flight. At length he stopped before a rose-bush laden with bright flowers. How beautiful they are,' he said; I think my mother would like one; she always used to gather them when she was well, but now I've not seen any in her room for many days.' Saying this, he pulled one from its stem, but as he did so a strong arm grasped his little shoulder, and shook him to and fro as I have seen fierce winds do to the tender blossoms in the spring. Why do you pluck the flowers, child?' it said. As sure as you're alive, Old Bogy 'll have you if you do such things. I thought that tall dark woman was like some fierce strong animal beside a gentle lamb. Oh, who will mend my broken flower!' the poor child said; it's wings have all come off." And his tears lay upon the scattered leaves like evening dew. Cruel, cruel, said I to myself; is thy own heart so black, bad woman, that thou must cast its shadow on that sunny one? "The next time that I saw the child was at hands, watching the sun, as sinking below the distant hills it made the sky flow bright as the sweet rose's leaves: then it grew paler, the colour of the crown-imperial's cup; soft yellow marked with shades of quiet brown, and as he still looked out the night clouds rose, forming themselves in many curious shapes, till one, still stranger than the rest, seemed to approach until it nearly reached him. Then I saw his little cheek grow very pale, for he saw the dark cloud had a human shape, wrapped in a robe, among whose many folds it hid its bended head. At last it slowly rose, and showed a face so pale and almost sad, and yet so sweet to look on, that the poor child began to breathe again. Don't be afraid of me, my boy,' the figure said. I love you, and have come to say will never do you harm; as you have guessed I am Old Bogy. They call you Sunbeam, do they not, although your name is Emil? Well, the same with me; they call me Bogy, but my name is Night-King Night. See, I have brought my good Queen with me; she cannot travel quite as fast as I do; there she tarries still behind.' And he pointed to a lady gliding through the air; her eyes were dark but very soft, and looked so lovingly upon the boy that he stretched out his little arms to welcome her; and, as a mother meets her child, the beautiful Queen Sleep met him, took him upon her knee, folded her robe about him, and sang a soft low tune, until he quite forgot his troubles of the day. Then she arose, bade the child take the Night King's hand and hers, and the three quietly stole out into the open air. Now you are not afraid,' Old Bogy said. Oh, no,' replied the child. I'm very glad to go with you.' As the party passed, the flowers folded up their leaves and fell asleep upon their beds. This is my work,' the Night King said. Did the flowers not sleep, like pretty children, they would lose their freshness long before their time.' 6 'I cannot say I saw much more; my head began to nod, and though I tried with all my might I could not keep awake. What happened next was told me by a neighbour here, which, strange to say, keeps open all the night. It saw them glide across the moonbeams as they pierced the boughs of spreading trees, stopping from time to time to soothe some bleating lamb just taken from its mother's side, or place upon its leafy perch some poor young bird which had not learned to know its place of roost. length they stopped before a door hewn in a rocky hill, the entrance to the palace of the bats. Keeping watch beside the door was a tall foxglove, which lowered its deep spotted bells as the Night King and Queen and little * Arragonite Cavern. At child passed in. The hall was lined with what appeared like cream-white hardened moss. At the parlour door were hung long draperies, just like elephants' great ears, except that they were fringed with crystal drops; and when they reached the drawing-room the child exclaimed, Oh, what a pretty house; 'twas very kind of you to bring me here.' There were the bats suspended from the roof like tiny lamps; it was strange no one used the seats, for seats there were, but they perhaps were saved for visitors. The lining here was more like coral branches, spreading about the roof like beautiful white hands: the child was right, it was indeed a pretty house. The bats then stretched their filmy wing, said something to each other in a queer low chattering tone, and flew away: it is their place to announce the King's approach to all his court, and see the procession in readiness to attend him on his rounds. As the royal party passed from out the bats' abode, they found their courtiers waiting at the door. About their feet were hundreds of bright lamps held by the glowworms, which have held the post of torch-bearers from time beyond remembrance. Then came a flight of beetles playing on an instrument, which one might think an ophoclyde; then moths, both large and small, bright-eyed frogs, good-natured looking toads, while at the head the solemn night-owl led the way. From among the coloured blossoms over head which the evening breeze waved to and fro like flags, the nightingale struck up her sweet, wild song, which by the-bye was hardly heard, the night-jarr chattered so; but soon the owl, who is a well-bred bird, quite hissed him into silence. Over wild fields they passed, whose flowering grass, as it bent to the passing breeze beneath the moon's soft light, looked like calm waters, upon whose face white moonbeams sported with the shadow-leaves which scurried to try and catch them in their play; but all in vain, for when they thought they had them safe, the moonbeams flitted off they knew not where, but always came again and frolicked as before. "Now," said the Night-King, "we've some work to do; but first I must dismiss my train, we do not need it further on our way than this. We'll see the frogs safe off, the rest have wings, and do not need my care so much. Come where the little river turns your father's mill, and opposite that tree whose ivy wreaths make fairy bowers in the stream, we'll take our stand." Then Bogy gave the word, and one and all the happy frogs hopped among the rustling reeds, and swam away, leaving a thousand little starry waves along their course. Across the twinkling stars and mottled moon the shadowy bats were seen to flit a time or two, and then were gone; next the good night-owl took his leave, and, though so large, moved through the air as quietly as downy clouds along the summer sky: not so the beetles, they made a horrid hum, bumped up against the cottage window, then tumbled down, half stunned; but soon rose up again, and with the same zum zum fussed and fumed among the scented boughs, as if they thought the night were made for them alone; but the sweet nightingale stayed on, she is musician to the queen, and sings to suit her moods, at times a joyous tune, but oftener so wild and touching, that one cannot choose but weep. "Look," said the Night-Queen to the child, "look where that slanting moonbeam mingles its light with the red rays which from the taper at the casement there tries hard to pierce the purple air; there, take this glass, and tell me what you see." "Ah! it's my mother," said the child; "how pale and thin she looks; her eyes, which were so bright, are heavy now. She does not see me-no, for if she did they'd shine again." "Your mother, child, is ill," the NightQueen said; "but I have had permission from our Father in Heaven to cure her." And as she said these words, her soft breath fell upon the mother's brow like gentle rain upon a flower parched with heat; and the child saw her eyelids slowly close over her heavy eyes, and heard her say, "Oh, Emil dear, you're there;" and on her lips there came once more the smile he knew. "Good bye," old Bogy said, and passed his hand over the child's soft hair; and on his cheek the Night-Queen left a parting kiss. Then from the curtains of his little bed he thought he saw a bright young figure fold them in her arms; but as she turned her laughing eyes to him, he missed Old Bogy and his Queen. "They'll come again, I am their daughter; my name, if you would know, is Early Morn." "I then awoke myself," the Woodbine said, " and saw the fair girl reach her beautiful transparent arms towards the sky; while on her golden hair the last remaining star sat like a precious gem, and from her bosom flew a twittering lark into the morning air." Emil, my gentle one," a soft voice said, "God has restored me, I am ill no more; last night he sent a gentle sleep to soothe my pains away. I come to give you my accustomed morning kiss." "I knew it well, my mother," Emil said, "Old Bogy showed me that you would not die; I spent last night with him, and never more shall be afraid when that bad woman tells me BOGY's Near. R. A. C. TYRANNY IN ITALY.* "Why, let us give The blessing of our souls, and wish them strong To bear it to the height where prayers arrive, When faithful spirits pray against a wrong; To this great cause of Southern men, who strive In God's name for man's rights, and shall not fail!" Mrs. Browning's "CASA GUIDI WINDOWS." It is certainly a curious contradiction, that while the study of History is acknowledged to be not only a legitimate, but an indispensable branch of female education, Politics--which so soon as they pass the limits of the immediate present become history-are, we fear by a majority of persons, considered altogether out of a woman's province; as beyond the power of her faculties properly to observe, or of her understanding to comprehend. Be it remarked, however, that we claim for the term "Politics" a wide and comprehensive sense that we understand it to include discussion on the thoughts and the emotions, the wrongs and the sufferings, the doings and the darings, which upheave society all over the world; sometimes surging away old landmarks, and establishing new slowly and safely, and at others doing similar work, but with the turbulent resistless force of an earthquake or volcano "Events that happen all over the world!" we can fancy some youthful reader exclaiming, "Surely even a statesman's knowledge must fall far short of such a cognisance." Undoubtedly. And no human being ever had a perfect knowledge of universal history; but this is no reason that we should not study history to the extent of our capacities and our opportunities. While as in History so in Politics, the more general information we obtain, and the more widely our sympathies are extended, the more exact and precise, and the less prejudiced, will be our impression of events and circumstances in which we may take an especial * TWO LETTERS TO THE EARL OF ABERDEEN, ON THE STATE PROSECUTIONS OF THE NEAPOLITAN GOVERNMENT. By the Right Hon. W. E. Gladstone, M.P. for the University of Oxford. Ninth Edition. (Murray.) THE NEAPOLITAN GOVERNMENT AND MR. GLADSTONE: A Reply to Two Letters recently addressed to his Lordship by the Right Hon. W. E. Gladstone. By Charles Macfarlane.-(Routledge and Co.) interest, or to which we may devote our particular attention. 66 It is trite to talk of the defects of general education and though there are signs of improvement abroad, it is only by the aid of a more thoughtful and largely-informed race of teachers and governesses than are at present by any means abundant, that any great advance can be made; thus there are few thoughtful women of cultivated minds who do not look back with lamentation and regret to the misdirected years of very early youth. How common is the exclamation, Everything worth knowing I have taught myself!" or "How ignorant I was when I left the schoolroom!" Surely this should not be-and only is-because the dry acquirement of apparently unconnected facts is falsely called knowledge. Nine times out of ten in the present condition of society an Englishwoman owes her best wisdom, when not acquired through personal suffering, to the happy circumstances of her domestic life-to the influence of some superior female friend, or to the conversation of an intellectual and highminded father, husband, or brother. By degrees new lights dawn upon her; and she might return to her very school-books for a while to derive from them infinite profit. She would find a meaning in school-book histories she never found before; revelations that would explain seeming mysteries; and suggestions pertinent to many contemporaneous events. Is the history of Britain, for example, usually or often read by Englishwomen in the right spirit? Do they know or realise how infinite is their debt to those political reformers and poli tical martyrs, whose names gleam like jewels on the page of history, but who, it is to be feared, are little more than names to "young-lady readers." They have learned the parrot lesson about Magna Charta, that it "laid the foundation of English liberty," but do they understand the miserable serfdom of the English People, crushed beneath the heel of any knave or fool who chanced to wear the crown, before the Barons brought John to bay at Runnymede like a hunted wolf, whose fangs withdrawn? Do they remember that the simple, natural rights which man holds from his Maker-freedom to go from place to place for instance-were made things of sale and purchase; that Justice, shaping itself ever since were to be Alfred's time to forms of permanency, was de- | ing liberty, security, freedom to do all things layed, withheld or accorded, precisely as the but ill, as a natural condition of existence, they rival bribes weighed down the regal scale: that too often forget that it is so only by the past women and orphans were wronged, robbed, and struggling and striving of those very pooppressed; and that no right but the might of litical heroes and martyrs who seem so illthe strong hand was recognised in the land? favoured to their minds. Serene in the proThose olden Barons, too, those gauntletted tection of laws that are mightier than the virsoldier chieftains, were among the early demur- tuous and beloved Monarch who is called their rers at the Pope's absolute authority, and so head, young English women do not quite helped, softly and unconsciously, to lay the deep readily understand the horrors of despotism, or foundation of the Reformation. And yet, if the anguish, and agonies, and iniquities which their great doings, which shine with a living are passing in other parts of the world; though glory the more closely we examine them, had while pondering on some one-sided view of the stopped short at the point of "endeavour," had past, or revelling in a clever historical novel, never met with the crown of success, how they feel their sympathies aroused-even if misloosely would their names and their deeds have directed-and almost sigh because they see no been strung together-how many would have scope for heroism or romance in the matter-ofdropped unnoticed off the thread of history- fact present. They who could be Flora Macwhile for a time at any rate rebel and traitor donalds and Countess of Nithsdales if there would have stood for hero and patriot! were but the opportunity! Again: it is, probably speaking, within compass to say that five out of six school-girls, when finishing the prescribed course of history," are warm partizans of the Stuarts, though with notions so crude on all that concerns the quarrel of King and Parliament, that a deliberate argument on the subject is well-nigh out of the question. Be thankful, dear young readers, that you are little likely to be called on to take part in such tragic heroisms; but if you want a study more stirring than school-book histories, and demi-semi-historical novels, something not told to you by dead men, but passing at this day and hour, there are scenes enacting just on the other side of the Alps, well worth a good deal of your attention, and it may be a little of your enthusiasm. "Charles the First was so fond of his wife and children; Strafford? yes, but the king was so sorry: and it was very dreadful for James the Second to find his own daughters turn against him; and Hampden ought to have paid the ship money; and how could the king help it; and Oliver Cromwell was a horrid brute; and the Puritans spoke through their noses, and shut up the theatres, and the dancing-masters died of starvation; and Henri's daughter, Charles' widow,' lived on the charity of the Grand Monarque, and the sun never shone in England till Charles the Second came back-Cavaliers were handsome men wearing plumed hats night It would lead us very far beyond our limits to and day-Parliamentarians had roundheads, give even the most rapid retrospect of these sallow complexions, and generally squinted- events; and moreover, the sources whence full King Charles' statue at Charing Cross-oak- | particulars may be derived are easily accessible. leaves Charles Edward Culloden-Flora | We desire rather to draw our readers' attention Macdonald." to the subject, to ask them to think and investigate for themselves, and to give at least the aid of their generous sympathy to a noble cause. Not very long ago, we fear that, in the thick darkness of ignorance which prevailed as to Italian affairs, there was a notion, too generally prevalent even in circles that ought to have known better, that "the Italians were a sanguinary, revolutionary set"-so "degraded and false," they could "not be trusted"-that they needed to be 'kept down by the military authorities"-that they were "incompetent to govern themselves;" with a long list of similar etcetera, founded alike on ignorance and prejudice. School-girls-and for that matter school-boys too-generally know a vast deal more about ancient Rome than modern Italy. How they can chatter about Romulus and Remus, the Forum, Tarquin, and Coriolanus! But how little they know of the Middle Age Republics, Napoleon in Italy-or the aggressions and oppressions of the last thirty-five years, and the desperate struggles which from time to time have been made by the Italians for national independence! Dear reader, is not this a specimen of the débris left in the young mind after a superficial course of English history-assisted, alternated, and illustrated by Scott's and other so-called historic novels? But there is a little more to learn before we comprehend the teaching of the Axe, the Commonwealth, the Restoration, and the Revolution. We must look for purer devotion than Strafford's, and wiser heroism than Flora Macdonald's, womanly though this was. Until English women more generally appreciate the blessings of their birthright, and comprehend their obligations to the true heroes of the past-the brave and persevering reformers who have, from time to time, with the soldier's sword, the scholar's pen, or the tongue of the orator, swept away abuses, and bequeathed to us a Constitution to grow with our growth-they cannot in the mass take a deep interest in the political events which are passing around them. Accept We can scarcely imagine anything more fortunate, so far as the establishment of a correct opinion in England is concerned, than that Mr. Gladstone, a Conservative Member of Parliament, should have stepped forward, and, animated by a generous zeal that is yet tempered by the clearest judgment, should, in his celebrated |