ment, and began to cry out with all his might and main, "Oh! good people, help! help! run and help the poor fisherman who is drowning." He roared out so, that at last the miller, who lived not far off, came running with I know not how many of his men. Gabriel spoke with a gruff voice, the better to imitate that of Lazarus, and weepingly related that the fisherman, after diving and catching a good deal of fish, had gone again, and that as he had been above an hour under water he was afraid he was drowned; they inquiring what part of the river he had gone to, he showed them the stake and place. The miller, who could swim very well, rushed in towards the stake, and found the corpse, but being unable to extricate it from the stake, rose up again and cried out, "Oh! yes, he is dead sure enough, but I cannot get him up by myself:" upon which two others stripped, and got the body out, whose arms and limbs were lacerated by the nets, which (as they thought) had entangled him, and caused his death. The news being spread abroad, a priest came, the corpse was put in a coffin, and carried to a small church, that it might be owned by the family of Gabriel.

The dreadful news had already reached Pisa, and the unfortunate wife, with her weeping children, came to the church, and there beholding her beloved husband, as she thought, she hung over him, wept, sobbed, tore her hair, and became almost frantic, insomuch that the by-standers were moved to tears. Gabriel, who was a most loving husband and father, could scarce refrain from weeping, and seeing the extreme affliction of his wife, came forward, keeping Lazarus' hat over his eyes, and his handkerchief to his face, as it were to wipe away his tears, and approaching the widow, who took him, as well as others, for Lazarus, he said, in the hearing of all the people, "Good woman, do not give way to such sorrow, nor weep so, for I will not forsake you; as it was to oblige me, and afford me pleasure, that he went a fishing to-day against his inclination, methinks it is partly to me he owed his death, therefore I will ever be a friend to thee and thine; all expenses shall be paid, therefore return home and be comforted, for while I live thou shalt never want; and should I die, I will leave thee enough to make thee as comfortable as any of thy equals." Thus he went on, weeping and sobbing, as if regretting the loss of Gabriel, and really agonized by the distress of his widow. He was inwardly praised by all present, who believed him to be Lazarus. The poor widow, after the funeral was performed, returned to Pisa, much comforted by

the promises of him whom she considered as her neighbour Lazarus. Gabriel, who had been long acquainted with the deceased's ways, manners, and mode of living, entered Lazarus' house as if the master of it; without uttering a syllable ascended into a very beautiful room that looked over a fine garden, pulled out of the dead man's coat he had on a bunch of keys, and opened several chests, and finding some smaller keys, he opened several desks, bureaus, money-chests, and found, independent of trunks filled with cloth, linen, and jewels, which the old father the physician and brothers of the deceased had left, nearly to the value of two thousand gold florins, and four hundred of silver. He was in raptures all the night, and began to think of the best means to conceal himself from the servants, and appear as the real Lazarus. About the hour of supper he came out of his room, weeping; the servants, who had heard the dreadful situation of the widow Santa, and that it was reported that their master had partly been the cause of the accident, were not much surprised at seeing him thus afflicted, thinking it was on account of Gabriel. He called the servant, and desired him to take a couple of loaves, two bottles of wine, and half his supper to the widow Santa, the which the poor widow scarcely touched. When the servant returned, Gabriel ordered supper, but ate sparingly, the better to deceive the servants, as Lazarus was a very little eater; then left the room without saying a word, and shut himself up in his own room as the deceased used to do. The servants thought there was some alteration in his countenance and voice, but attributed it to the sorrowful event that had occurred. The widow, after having tasted of the supper, and considering the care that had been taken of her, and the promises made by Lazarus, began to take comfort, parted with her relations, who had come to condole with her, and retired to bed. Gabriel, full of thought, could not sleep a wink, and got up in the morning at Lazarus' usual hour, and in all things imitated him. But being informed by the servants that Santa was always in grief, weeping and discomforted, and being a fond husband, and loving her tenderly, he was miserable upon hearing this, and determined to comfort her. Thus resolved, one day after dinner he went to her, and found a cousin of hers with her. Having given her to understand he had some private business with her, the cousin, knowing how much she was indebted to him, and her expectations, left the room, and departed, saying he begged she would be advised by her worthy neighbour.

As soon as he was gone he shut the door, went into his room, and motioned her to follow; she, struck with the singularity of the case, and fearing for her honour, did not know what to do, whether she should or she should not follow; yet thinking of his kindness, and the hopes she had from his liberality, and taking her eldest son by the hand, she went into the room, where she found him lying on a little bed, on which her husband used to lie when tired; upon which she started and stopped. Gabriel, seeing her come with her son, smiled with pleasurable feelings at the purity of his wife's conduct; one word that he uttered, which he was in the habit of using, staggered the poor Santa, so that she could not utter a syllable. Gabriel, pressing the poor boy to his breast, said, "Thy mother weeps, unaware of thy happy fate, her own, and her husband's." Yet not daring to trust himself before him, though but a child, he took him into the next room, gave him money to play with, and left him there. Returning to his wife, who had caught his words, and partly recognized him, he double-locked the door, and related to her every circumstance that had happened, and how he had managed everything; she, delighted and convinced, from the repetition of certain family secrets, known to themselves alone, embraced him, giving him as many kisses as she had bestowed tears for his death, for both were loving and tenderly attached. After reciprocal marks of each other's affection, Gabriel said to her that she must be perfectly silent, and pointed out to her how happy their life would hereafter prove; he told her of the riches he had found, and what he intended to do, the which highly delighted her. In going out, Santa pretended to cry on opening the street door, and said aloud, that she might be heard by the neighbours, "I recommend these poor fatherless children to you, signor." To which he answered, "Fear not, good Mrs. Santa;" and walked away, full of thoughts on his future plans.

When evening came on, observing the same uniform conduct of his predecessor, he went to bed, but could not sleep for thinking. No sooner did the dawn appear than he rose and went to the church of St. Catherine, where a devout and worthy pastor dwelt, and who was considered by all the Pisanians as a little saint. Friar Angelico appearing, Gabriel told him he wanted to speak to him on particular business, and to have his advice upon a very important and singular case that had happened to him. The kind friar, although he did not know him, led him into his room. Gabriel,

VOL. I.

who well knew the whole genealogy of Lazarus, son of Basilio of Milan, related it fully to the friar, likewise the dreadful accident, adding, that he considered himself as a principal cause of it, making him believe it was he who induced the unfortunate man to go a fishing against his will; he represented the mischief which resulted from it to the widow and children of the deceased, and that he considered himself so much the cause of it, and felt such a weight on his conscience, that he had made up his mind, though Santa was of low condition, and poor, to take her for his wife, if she and her friends approved of it, and to take the children of the poor fisherman under his care as his own; bring them up with his own children, should he have any, and leave them co-heirs with them; this, he said, would reconcile him to himself and his Maker, and be approved by men. The holy man, seeing the worthy motives which actuated him, approved of his intention, and recommended as little delay as possible, since he would thereby meet with forgiveness. Gabriel, in order the more effectually to secure his ready co-operation, threw down thirty pieces of money, saying that in the three succeeding Mondays he wished high mass to be sung for the soul of the deceased. At this tempting sight the friar, although a very saint, leaped with joy, took the cash, and said, "My son, the masses shall be sung next Monday; there is nothing more to attend to now but the marriage, a ceremony which I advise thee to hasten as much as thou canst; do not think of riches or noble birth; thou art, thank Heaven, rich enough; and as to birth, we are all children of one Father; true nobility consists in virtue and the fear of God, nor is the good woman deficient in either; I know her well, and most of her relations.' "Good father," said Gabriel, "I am come to you for the very purpose, therefore, I pray you, put me quickly in the way to forward the business." "When will you give her the ring?" said the holy man. This very day," he answered, "if she be inclined." "Well," said the friar, "go thy ways, and leave all to me; go home, and stir not from thence these blessed nuptials shall take place." Gabriel thanked him, received his blessing, and went home. The holy father carefully put the cash in his desk, then went to an uncle of Dame Santa, a shoemaker by trade, and a cousin of hers, a barber, and related to them what had happened; after which they went together to Dame Santa, and used every possible argument to persuade her to consent to the match, the which she feigned great difficulty in consenting to, saying that it was merely for the advantage 17

of her children that she submitted to such a thing. I will only add, that the very same morning, by the exertions of the friar, they were married a second time; great rejoicings took place, and Gabriel and his wife laughed heartily at the simplicity of the good friar and the credulity of the relations and neighbours. They happily lived in peace and plenty, provided for and dismissed the old servants; were blessed with two more children, from whom afterwards sprung some of the most renowned men, both in arms and letters.1

HUMAN LIFE.

I walk'd the fields at morning's prime,
The grass was ripe for mowing:
The sky-lark sung his matin chime,
And all was brightly glowing.

"And thus," I cried, "the ardent boy,
His pulse with rapture beating,
Deems life's inheritance his joy-
The future proudly greeting."

I wander'd forth at noon:-alas!
On earth's maternal bosom
The scythe had left the withering grass
And stretch'd the fading blossom.

And thus, I thought with many a sigh,
The hopes we fondly cherish,
Like flowers which blossom but to die,
Seem only born to perish.

Once more, at eve, abroad I stray'd,

Through lonely hay-fields musing; While every breeze that round me play'd Rich fragrance was diffusing.

The perfumed air, the hush of eve,
To purer hopes appealing,
O'er thoughts perchance too prone to grieve,
Scatter'd the balm of healing.

For thus "the actions of the just," When memory hath enshrined them, E'en from the dark and silent dust Their odour leave behind them.

BERNARD BARTON.

1 From Italian Tales of Humour, Gallantry, and Ro

mance.

POLISH SUPERSTITIONS.

A lady told my fortune by the cards in a very interesting and lively manner, and had talent enough to fix my attention in spite of good sense; she mentioned that the Polanders are universally addicted to the oracles of cards and dice, and are almost all fatalists, even in their more serious opinions. A gentleman of that nation, who was formerly in the habit of visiting at her house, once undertook to predict the fortune of one of her female relations by means of dice; he threw them in a particular way, with many strange ceremonies, and then remarked, that such and such occurrences would happen to her in such and such a time. He was extremely ridiculed, as what he had foretold came scarcely within the bounds of possibility, much less of probability; but the subsequent events faithfully verified his words. As there are some distinguished names both in England and Portugal mixed up in the above relation, I am not at liberty to mention the particulars, but at all events I must say that the Polander, if he was not actually an adept in the occult sciences, had at least a very keen and extended vision with regard to possible political events; the fate of the lady depended much upon the affairs connected with the Portuguese and English governments; and it appears to me not improbable that this wise man's mind foreboded the changes which have so lately taken place in the former, although they were then at a great distance. Among other superstitions to which the Polish nation is addicted, I may be forgiven for relating the following, as its elegance of fancy almost redeems its absurdity. Every individual is supposed to be born under some particular destiny or fate, which it is impossible for him to avoid. The month of his nativity has a mysterious connection with one of the known precious stones, and when a person wishes to make the object of his affections an acceptable present, a ring is invariably given, composed of the jewel by which the fate of that object is imagined to be determined and described. For instance, a woman is born in January; her ring must therefore be a jacinth or a garnet, for these stones belong to that peculiar month of the year, and express "constancy and fidelity." I saw a list of them all, which the Polander gave to the lady in question, and she has allowed me to copy it, viz. :

"January-Jacinth or garnet.-Constancy and fidelity in every engagement.

[John Struthers, born in East Kilbride, Lanarkshire, 18th July, 1776; died in Glasgow, 30th July, 1853. The son of a country shoemaker, he began the work of life at seven years of age as a herd-boy. Afterwards he learned his father's trade, and worked at it for some time. But from childhood onward he took advantage of the few opportunities his circumstances provided for improving his mind. In this sturdy endeavour to educate himself he was assisted by his own mother and by the mother of Joanna Baillie. In 1804 he published his principal poem, The Poor Man's Sabbath, which gave him some reputation. He was subsequently employed by a Glasgow publishing firm, and edited various historical and poetical works, besides acting as corrector of proofs for the press. He wrote essays biographical and social-which have not been published in a collected form-and maintained his claim to be identified as a poet by the production of occasional verses. At the age of seventy four he was obliged to resume his original craft, and earn a livelihood by shoemaking. The efforts of a few private friends helped to relieve his latter years of the most pressing difficulties. His memory is worth preserving as that of a representative of the best class of the Scottish peasantry, and as that of a poet who has left us some valuable pictures of national life.]

I passed the cot but yesterday,
'Twas neat and clean, its inmates gay,
All pleased and pleasing, void of guile,
Pursuing sport or healthful toil.

To-day the skies are far more bright, The woods pour forth more wild delight, The air seems all one living hum, And every leaflet breathes perfume. Then why is silence in the cot, Its wonted industry forgot,

The fire untrimmed, the floor uured,
The chairs with clothes and dishes spread,
While, all in woeful dishabille,
Across the floor the children steal?
Alas! these smothered groans! these sighs!
Sick, sick the little darling lies;

The mother, while its moan ascends,
Pale, o'er the cradle, weeping, bends;
And, all absorbed in speechless woe,
The father round it paces slow.
Behind them close, with clasped hands,
The kindly village matron stands,
Bethinking what she shall direct;
For all night long, without effect,
Her patient care has been applied,
And all her various simples tried,
And glad were she could that be found
Would bring the baby safely round.

Meanwhile, the little innocent, To deeper moans gives ampler vent, Lifts up its meek but burden'd eye, As if to say, "Let me but die, For me your cares, your toils give o'er, To die in peace, I ask no more."

But who is there with aspect kind, Where faith, and hope, and love are joined, And pity sweet? The man of God, Who soothes, exhorts, in mildest mood, And to the pressure of the case Applies the promises of graceThen lifts his pleading voice and eye Tc Him enthron'd above the sky, Who compass'd once with pains and fears, Utter'd strong cries, wept bitter tears-And hence the sympathetic glow He feels for all his people's woeFor health restored, and length of days, To the sweet babe he humbly prays; But 'specially that he may prove An heir of faith, a child of love; That, when withdrawn from mortal eyes, May bloom immortal in the skies;And for the downcast parent pair, Beneath this load of grief and care That grace divine may bear them up, And sweeten even this bitter cup, Which turns to gall their present hopes, With consolation's cordial drops. He pauses-now the struggle's done, His span is closed-his race is run, No--yet he quivers-Ah! that thrill! That wistful look-Ah! now how still

But yesterday the cot was gay,
With smiling virtue's seraph train!
There sorrow dwells with death to-day,
When shall the cot be gay again?

SELLING FLOWERS.

BY THE AUTHOR OF "EAST LYNNE. [Mrs. Henry Wood, born at Worcester 1820, died 1887. She won a high place among the most popular of our modern novelists. Her first work was Danesbury House, which gained the prize of £100 offered by the Scottish Temperance League for the best tale illustrative of the evils of drunkenness. Bast Lynne was her next work, and won enduring popularity for the author. After it came, Mrs. Halliburton's Troubles: The Shadow of Ashlydyat; The Channings; Roland Yorke; Mildred Arkell: Oswald Cray; George Canterbury's Will; Bessy Rane, and others. In 1866 Mrs. Wood became the pro

prietor of the Argosy magazine, to which she contributes largely. It is from that magazine (June, 1868) we take the following pathetic sketch-it would be unfair to call it a tale, it is so pitilessly true to the life led by many of the poor in the metropolis. Cheap editions of Mrs. Wood's novels have been published by Bentley and Son.]

On a certain day in the first week in April, 1867, there stood a man against the wall that bounds the north-west corner of the Regent's Park. It was a bitter cold day, in spite of the sun shining with full force and warmth on that particular spot, for the cruel north-east wind was keen and sharp, cutting its way into delicate frames. The man looked like a countryman, inasmuch as he wore what country people call the smock-frock; he was a tall, darkhaired man, about forty-five, powerfully made, but very thin, with a pale and patient face. Resting on the ground by his side was a high round hamper-or, as he called it, a kipe— containing roots of flowers in blossom, primroses chiefly, a few violets, and a green creeping plant or two.

The man was not a countryman by habit now: he had become acclimatized to London. He had been up by daylight that morning and on his way to the woods, miles distant, in search of these flowers. He dug up the roots carefully, neatly enveloped them in moss, obtained close by, tying it round with strips of long dried grass. It was nearly ten before the work was over and the roots packed, blossoms upwards, in the kipe, which was three parts filled with mould. Lifting it up, he toiled back to London with it and took up his standing on the broad pavement against this high wall-which seemed as likely a spot for customers as any other. The clock of St. John's Church oppo

site to him was striking twelve when he put down his load.

It was a pretty sight enough, and artistically arranged: the blue violets in the centre, the delicate primroses around them, the green creeping plants, drooping their branches gracefully, encircling all. Did the springflowers remind any of the passers-by of their spring? of the green lanes, the mossy dells which they had traversed in that gone-by time, and plucked these flowers at will? If so, they had apparently no leisure to linger over the reminiscence, but went hurrying on. The man did not ask any one to buy: he left it to them. The hours went on. At three o'clock he had not sold a single root. He stood there silently; waiting, waiting; his wistful face less hopeful than at first. He did not much expect gentlemen to purchase, but he did think ladies would. They swept by in numbers, well-dressed women in silk and velvet, and gay bonnets gleaming in the sunny day; some were in carriages, more on foot; but they passed him. Occasional glances were cast on the flowers; one lady leaned close to her carriage-window and gazed at them until she was beyond view; two or three had stopped with a remark or question; but they did not buy.

As the clock struck three the man took a piece of bread from his pocket and ate it, going over to the cab-stand afterwards for a drink of water. He had eaten another meal while he was getting up the roots in the morning, and washed it down with water from a neighbouring rivulet. Better water that than this.

"Not much luck this afternoon, mate, eh?" remarked a cab-driver, who had been sitting for some time on the box of his four-wheeled cab. "No," replied the man, going back to his post.

Almost immediately the wide path before him seemed crowded. Two parties, acquaintances apparently, had met from opposite ways. They began talking eagerly: of a ball they were to be at that night; of a missionary meeting to be attended on the morrow; of various plans and projects. One lady, who had a little girl's hand in hers, held out a beautiful bouquet.

"I have been all the way into Baker Street to get it," she said. "Is it not lovely? It was only seven-and-sixpence. I felt inclined to take a cab and bring it home, lest the hot sun should injure it."

A good deal more talking, the man behind standing unnoticed, and they parted to go on their several ways. But the little girl had