spirit, or a regard to the community, is deficient in the most material part of virtue.-Hume's Essays.

The richest genius, like the most fertile soil, when uncultivated, shoots up into the rankest weeds; and, instead of vines and olives, for the pleasure and use of man, produces to its slothful owner the most abundant crop of poisons.-Hume's Essays. From law arises security; from security, curiosity; and from curiosity, knowledge. The latter steps of this knowledge may be more accidental, but the former are altogether necessary.-Hume's Essays.

Anne Boleyn, when she was led to execution, called one of the Privy Council, and said Commend me to the king; and tell him, that he hath been ever constant in his course of advancing me. From a private gentlewoman he made me a marchioness; from a marchioness, a queen; and now that he hath left no higher degree of earthly honour, he intends to crown my innocency with martyrdom.

James I. having made an excellent declaration to his Parliament, concluded thus:-"I have now given you a clear mirror of my mind. Use it, therefore, like a mirror; and take heed how you let it fall, or how you soil it with your breath."

In answer to Cardinal Evereux (who had, in a grave argument of divinity, introduced many witty ornaments of poesy and humanity), he said :-" These flowers are like blue, yellow, and red flowers in corn, which make a pleasant show to those that look on; but they hurt the corn."

Sir Foulke Greville, afterwards Lord Brooke, when some members of the House of Commons were speaking in favour of precedents, observed:-- "Why do you stand so much upon precedents? The times, hereafter, will be good or bad. If good, precedents will do no harm; if bad, power will make a way where it finds none.'

Archbishop Grindall used to say, that the physicians in England were no good for curing particular diseases, but had only the power of their church-to bind and loose.

Cosmo, Duke of Florence, was wont to say of perfidious friends, that we read that we ought to forgive our enemies, but nowhere that we ought to forgive our friends. Sir Henry Wotton considered critics to be the brushers of great men's clothes.

Mr. Bettenham, reader of Gray's Inn, compared wealth with manure; for, when it lay in a heap, it was of little use; but, when spread, it was the cause of much fruit.

Of the Gothic language, the only monu.

ment remaining is a copy of the Gospels, somewhat mutilated; which, from the silver with which the characters are adorned, is called the Silver Book. It is now preserved at Upsal, and, having been twice published before, has been, some years since, reprinted at Oxford, under the inspection of Mr. Lye, the editor of Junius. Whether the diction of this venerable MS. be purely Gothic, has been doubted: it appears, however, to exhibit the most an

cient dialect now to be found of the Teutonic race; and the Saxon, which is the origin of the present English, was either derived from it, or both have descended from some common source.

B.

THE HEART ONCE LOST AND
TWICE WON.

(Concluded from page 295.)

Theresa, bounding one evening into the "HE is come, my mother!" exclaimed cottage with a long-unaccustomed lightness of heart and step. Though eager to spring down the path and meet him, had bethought her of her aged parent, yet, amid all the forgetfulness of joy, she and returned, that she, too, might share hurried out, and three horsemen were the happiness of their meeting. They riding up the valley-one much in advance of the others.

"Mother, it is a stranger!" with difficulty articulated Theresa, and, sick at heart, clung to her arm for support.

The rider was full in sight, when, with a shriek that roused her daughter, Ursuline exclaimed: "Now the blessed saints be good unto us, but it is my old masterI should know him amid a thousand !"

The words were scarcely uttered, when the horseman dismounted at a rough part of the road, and, flinging his bridle to his attendants, approached alone. He was a tall, stately, and austere-looking man, seemingly about fifty, and one who appaUrsuline rently knew the place well. dropped on her knee; he raised her kindly, and, following the direction of her look, turned and clasped Theresa in his arms.

"My child! my sweet child!" and he gazed long and earnestly on her beautiful face.

"Your father, the Baron von Haitzinger," murmured Ursuline. But as our explanation will be more brief than one broken in upon by words of wonder, regret, and affection, we will proceed to it; holding, that explanation, like advice, should be of all convenient shortness. So much good luck had the Baron von Haitzinger had during the first thirty years of his life, that fortune seemed under the necessity of crowding an inordi

nate portion of evil into a small space, in order to make up for lost time. The same day brought him intelligence of his wife's desertion, and of his attaintment as a traitor; and further, that this accusation had been chiefly brought about by the intrigues of his former partner. A price being set on a man's head, usually makes him very speedy in his movements; and the baron fled from his castle with the rapidity of life and death, but not unaccompanied. Wrapt in his mantle, he bore with him their only child, a little girl of two years old. As boys, he and the Count von Hermanstadt had often hunted in the forests around Aremberg; his own foster-sister had married one of the dependants of the family; and to the care of Ursuline, now a widow, he resolved to intrust his Theresa. Never should she owe her nurture to her mother; no, she should grow up pure and unsophisticated as the wild flowers on the heath beside her dwelling. Ursuline gave the required oath of secrecy, and took the charge.

Years and years of exile had passed over the baron's head; his wife died-that was some comfort; and at length a new emperor, together with the indefatigable efforts of his friend, Von Hermanstadt, procured the establishment of his innocence, the repeal of his banishment, and the restoration of his estate. His first act was to throw himself at the feet of his gracious sovereign; his second, to depart in search of his child.

We have stated it was the baron's wish that Theresa should be brought up in ignorance and simplicity; but, as usually happens, when our wishes are fulfilled, he was disappointed, and somewhat dismayed, on finding that she could not even read; and that instead of French, now the only language tolerated at Vienna, and which alone he had spoken for years-his exile having been alleviated by a constant residence at Paris-his child was unable to greet him save in the gutturals of her native German. Aghast at the ridicule the result of his experiment might entail upon him, he hurried to his family estate : here, having engaged a French governess and a professor of singing, he resolved to keep Theresa in perfect seclusion for two years longer. Somewhat reluctantly, Ursuline accompanied them; for her dread of their secret being discovered almost overcame her distress at the bare thought of her foster-child.

"The baron will kill us if he hears of your marriage; and yet I did it for the best: I thought he must be dead; and I knew you ought to marry none but a noble. Who could have thought Count Adalbert would have proved so falsehearted?"

Such were the constant lamentations of the old nurse, whenever they were alone:" but the secret she had to keep was too much for her; and six weeks after leaving their cottage, Ursuline was safe from Von Haitzinger's anger, in the grave.

The two years passed, and Theresa was to accompany her father to Vienna. The Baron von Haitzinger, who had never quite recovered the shock of finding that his daughter could only speak German, and could neither read nor write, was utterly unprepared for the sensation she produced on her introduction into society. Theresa, at twenty, more than realized the promise of seventeen; yet it is singular how much the character of her beauty was changed. She had been a glad, bright, buoyant creature, with a cheek like a rose, a mouth radiant with smiles, and the golden curls dancing in sunny profusion over the blushes they shaded. Now her hair and her eyes were much darker, her cheek was pale, and the general cast of her face melancholy and thoughtful; her step was still light, but slow-it was urged on no longer by inward buoyancy; and if a painter, three years before, would have chosen her as a model for the youngest of the Graces, he would now have selected her for the loveliest of the Muses; so ethereal, so intellectual was that sad and expressive countenance. Her father was charmed with the ease and self-possession of her manner-the perfection of beautiful repose: true, it was broken in upon by none of the flatterings of girlish vanity, none of the slight yet keen excitements of a season given to gaiety.

The countess was wholly indifferent to the scene that surrounded her -to its pleasure and its triumph: she had a standard of her own by which she measured enjoyment; and found what was here deemed pleasure by others, to be vapid and worthless and now, more than ever, the image of Adalbert rose present to her mind. She compared him with the many cavaliers about her; and the comparison was, as it ever is, in favour of the heart's earliest idol. Even when unconsciously yielding to the influence exercised by light, music, and a glittering crowd, Theresa would start back, and muse on what might be the fate of Adalbert at that very moment; for, with a confidence belonging to youth and woman, she admitted any suggestion rather than the obvious one of his inconstancy. Two or three brilliant conquests cost her a sleepless night and a pale cheek; but as her father always acquiesced in a prompt refusal, she gradually became happy in the belief that he did not desire ber marriage.

One evening all Vienna was assembled

at a réunion given by the French ambassador. Dazzling with jewels, and looking her very loveliest, Theresa was seated beside the lady who accompanied her, when her eye suddenly rested on Adalbert. A dense crowd was between them, but the platform on which he was standing enabled him to see over their heads; and he was evidently gazing on her. With a faint cry, she had half started from her seatfortunately she was unobserved; and again sinking back in her chair, she endeavoured to collect her scattered spirits from their first confusion of surprise and delight. Her astonishment had yet to be increased. The baron appeared on the scene, greeted the stranger most cordially, and, arm-in-arm, they descended among the throng. At intervals she caught sight of his splendid uniform; it came nearer and nearer ; at last they emerged from a very ocean of velvet and plumes, and her father addressed her :

"Theresa, my love! I am most anxious to present to you the nephew of my oldest friend, Prince Ernest von Hermanstadt."

Adalbert, or Ernest, bowed most admiringly, it is true, but without the slightest token of recognition. Faint, breathless, Theresa sought in vain to speak.

"You look pale, my child," said her father; "the heat is too much for you. Do, Ernest, try to make your way with her to the window, and I will get a glass of water."

Theresa felt her arm drawn lightly through the arm to which she had so often clung, and the prince with some difficulty conveyed her to the window. There they stood alone for some minutes, before the baron could rejoin them; yet not by word or sign did her companion imply a previous knowledge. His manner was most gentle, most attentive; but it was that of a perfect stranger.

Theresa drank the glass of water, and, by a strong effort, recalled her presence of mind. She looked in Prince Ernest's face -it was no mistake; every feature of that noble and striking countenance was too deeply treasured for forgetfulness. Her father, by continually addressing her, shewed how anxious he was for her to join in the conversation. At last she trusted her voice with a few brief words: the prince listened to them eagerly, but, it was evident, only with present admiration. They remained together the rest of the evening, and the Prince von Hermanstadt handed her to the baron's carriage.

"What do you think of my young favourite?" asked her father, as they entered their abode. "But I hate unnecessary mysteries, so shall tell you at once, that in Prince Ernest you see your destined

husband: you have been betrothed from your birth. This, however, is no time to talk over family matters, for you look fatigued to death."

The next day, and the next, saw Ernest a constant visitor; and Theresa in vain sought to hide from herself the truth, that she felt a keen pleasure in observing how much more suitable her new self was to her former lover. Then they had nothing, now they had so much, in common with each other; they read together, they talked together; and Hermanstadt was delighted with the melancholy and thoughtful style of her conversation.

The summer was now advancing, and Haitzinger proposed visiting the castle. Thither the whole party adjourned; the two elder barons-for Ernest's uncle had now joined them-leaving the young people almost entirely to themselves. Here Theresa could not but perceive that Ernest grew daily depressed; sometimes he would leave her abruptly, and she would afterwards learn that for hours he had been wandering alone.

One evening, while walking in the old picture-gallery, Theresa turned to the window to admire the luxuriant growth of a

parasitic plant, whose drooping white flowers hung in numberless fragrant clusters. Ernest approached to her side, and they leant from the casement-both mute with the same emotion, though from different causes. Suddenly he broke silence, and Theresa again listened to the avowal of his love. But now the voice was low and broken, and he spoke mournfully and hopelessly; for in the same hour in which he owned his passion for the countess, he also acknowledged to her his marriage with the peasant.

Ernest had, in truth, been spoiled by circumstances; his conquests had been too easy, and he had mistaken vanity and interest for love. But a deep and true feeling elevates and purifies the heart into which it enters. His passion for Theresa brought back his nature; and he now bitterly deplored the misery he must have caused the young and forsaken creature, whose happiness he had destroyed by such thoughtless cruelty. "The sacrifice I now make may well be held an atonement."

He turned to leave the gallery as he spoke, but Theresa's voice arrested his steps.

"I have long known your history, Prince Ernest-long looked for this confession. Your wife is now in the castle; I will prepare her for an interview-from her you must seek your pardon."

She was gone before Von Hermanstadt recovered his breath. It would be vain to say what were his thoughts during the

The prince obeyed the summons mechanically-as in dreams we obey some strange power. A sharp angle in the walk brought him, before he was aware, to the place; and there, as though he had just parted from her, stood his wife, leaning for support against the old oak. She wore the scarlet cap broidered with fur, the grey stuff dress, and the plaited apron: her beautiful profile was half turned towards him.

"Theresa!" he whispered; when, starting at the face, which was now completely given to view, he exclaimed, "Is it possible?" for he saw instantly that it was the countess before him.

66 Yes, Adalbert-or Ernest-by which name shall I claim you?" And the next moment she was in his arms.

Confession and forgiveness followed, of course; though the Baron von Haitzinger resolved that he would give no encouragement to his grand-daughters being brought up in unsophisticated seclusion, as it rarely happens that two experiments of the same kind turn out well. Still it is but justice to state, that Theresa never had any further occasion to regret that her husband's heart was once lost and twice won.

Periodicals.

THE TOWER OF LONDON.

BY W. H. AINSWORTH, ESQ. PART VIII.

[To borrow the snow-ball simile, the interest of this striking romance increases as the narrative glides onward. The chapters in the present Part detail a conspiracy, a secret visit, a prison escape, and an awful burning, relieved by the humour of the giants, and some feats in the Lions' Tower, which throw into the shade the Carter and Van Amburgh of our days. As usual, the Number is unsparingly illustrated with the antiquities of the Tower, as in the annexed view of

The Menagerie.]

It was then as now, (for the modern erection, which is still standing, though wholly unused, followed the arrangement of the ancient structure, and, indeed, retains some of the old stone arches,) a wide semi-circular fabric, in which were contrived, at distances of a few feet apart, a number of arched cages, divided into

Opposite the dens stood a wide semicircular gallery, defended by a low stone parapet, and approached by a flight of steps from the back. It was appropriated exclusively to the royal use.

The idea of maintaining a menagerie within the Tower, as an appendage to their state, was, in all probability, derived by our monarchs, as has been previously intimated, from the circumstance of the Emperor Frederick having presented Henry III. with three leopards, in allusion to his coat-of-arms, which animals were afterwards carefully kept within the fortress. Two orders from this sovereign to the sheriffs of London, in reference to a white bear, which formed part of his live stock, are preserved; the first, dated 1253, directing that fourpence a day (a considerable sum for the period) be allowed for its sustenance; and the second, issued in the following year, commanding "that for the keeper of our white bear, lately sent us from Norway, and which is in our Tower of London, ye cause to be had one muzzle and one iron chain, to hold that bear without the water; and one long and strong cord to hold the same bear when fishing in the river of Thames." Other mandates, relating to an elephant, appear in the same reign, in one of which it is directed, "that ye cause, without delay, to be built at our Tower of London one house of

And

forty feet long, and twenty feet deep, for our elephant; providing that it be so made and so strong, that, when need be, it may be fit and necessary for other uses. the cost shall be computed at the Exchequer." A fourth order appoints, that the animal and his keeper shall be found with such necessaries "as they shall reasonably require." The royal menagerie was greatly increased, by Edward III., who added to it, amongst other animals, a lion and lioness, a leopard, and two wild cats; and in the reign of Henry VI. the following provisions was made for the keeper: "We, of our special grace, have granted to our beloved servant, Robert Mansfield, esquire, marshall of our hall, the office of keeper of the lions, with a certain place which hath been appointed anciently within our said Tower for them; to have and to occupy the same, by himself, or by his sufficient deputy, for the term of his life, with

[We add the following characteristic details of a terrific

Combat with a Lion and Tiger, before Queen Mary; the combatant being Hairun.]

His homage rendered, the bearward proceeded to unfasten the door of the central cage, in which a lion of the largest size was confined; and, uttering a tremendous roar that shook the whole building, the kingly brute leaped forth. As soon as he had reached the ground, he glared furiously at his keeper, and seemed to meditate a spring. But the latter, who had never removed his eye from him, struck him a severe blow on the nose with his pole, and he instantly turned tail, like a beaten hound, and fled howling to the further extremity of the area. Quickly pursuing him, Hairun seized him by the mane, and, in spite of his resistance, compelled him to arise, and, bestriding him, rode him backwards and forwards for some time; until the lion, wearying of the performance, suddenly dislodged his rider, and sprang back to his

den. This courageous action elicited great applause from the beholders, and the Queen loudly expressed her approbation. It was followed by other feats equally daring, in which the bearward proved that he had attained as complete a mastery over the savage tribe as any lion-tamer of modern times. Possessed of prodigious personal strength, he was able to cope with any animal, while his knowledge of the habits of the beast rendered him perfectly fearless as to the result. He unloosed a couple of leopards, goaded them to the utmost pitch of fury, and then defended himself from their combined attack. A tiger proved a more serious opponent. Springing against him, he threw the bearward to the ground, and, for a moment, it appeared as if his destruction was inevitable. But the brute's advantage was only momentary. In this unfavourable position, Hairun seized him by the throat, and, nearly strangling him with his gripe, pulled him down, and they rolled over each other. During the struggle, Hairun dealt his antagonist a few blows with his fist, which deprived him of his