he had loved, Raleigh found solace for the heaviness of many of his prison hours. His great work, the "History of the World," owes its existence to this season of solitary thought and research. Its first volume, dedicated to his friend Prince Henry, and comprising a period of 4000 years, which intervenes between the Creation and the Macedonian war, appeared in 1614.

Whether the early death of this illustrious prince, who was a model of every virtue, depressed the mind of Raleigh, or whether his own variable health discouraged the prosecution of so laborious a design, we know not; but it was never completed. How solemn and eloquent are the closing sentences of this history: "It is death alone that can suddenly make a man to know himself. He telleth the most proud and insolent that they are but abjects. He humbleth them at the same instant, making them cry, complain and repent, yea, even to hate their forepassed pomp and happiness. He taketh the account of the rich, and proveth him to be but a beggar, having interest in nothing, save the gravel that filleth his mouth. He holdeth a glass before the eyes of the most beautiful, making them see and acknowledge their deformity and rottenness. Oh! most eloquent, just and mighty death! He, whom none could advise, hast thou persuaded; what none hath dared, thou hast done; whom all the world hath flattered, hast thou despised and cast out of the world. Thou hast drawn together all the far-stretched greatness, all the pride, cruelty, and ambition of men, covering all with but those two narrow words-Hic jacet."

This passage possibly suggested to the poet, Young, his impressive lines, "Earth's highest wisdom ends in Here he lies, And dust to dust, concludes her noblest song."

There was yet an episode in the tragedy to be exhibited by the remarkable man whom we contemplate. It was suggested to James, always needy and rapacious, that his intimate knowledge of the South American climes might enable him to put valuable mines of gold in possession of the crown. A prejudice that had resisted all the lights of truth, was parried by the love of money. Buckingham, then the

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chief favourite, having his own love of gain stimulated, used his arts of persuasion to forward the design. Cecil and Carr, having paid the debt of nature, were not at hand to prevent the captive from once more breathing the pure air of heaven, and tasting the sweets of liberty. By a crisis which could scarcely have been anticipated, a strange and sudden transition, he was brought forth from the gloomy recesses of his prison-house, made admiral of the fleet destined to this expedition, and invested with the title of Governor of Guiana. He took with him his eldest son, a noble youth, of high promise and dauntless bravery.

But the cup of freedom and hope which he grasped with the ardour of an impulsive and unsuspicious nature, was poisoned for his lip. He had never, yet learned the humbling lesson that his frame was unequal to the promptings of his spirit. Slow years of imprisonment had undermined his vigour, and unfitted him for the contrast and hardship of a storm-tossed voyage. Long ere his approach to the South American coast, he was a sufferer from sickness, and on the arrival of the ships at Guiana, lay powerless in his bed. Great was his surprise, at finding the Spaniards in arms, ready to repel them as foes, and heart-rending his grief, at the fall of his noble son, who conducted the landing in person.

He re

Every subsequent attempt on the part of Raleigh to reach the neighbourhood of the mine, proved abortive. turned to England, a sad-hearted mourner, and was immediately remanded to prison. From literature and science, he had heretofore found solace in the gloom of his lonely cell. But the illusion was now stripped from life, and he only sought strength from that faith which teacheth man how to die.

The pretext which James needed for his destruction, was found in the aspect of his relations with Spain. He was bent on bringing about a marriage between the Infanta and Charles, his eldest surviving son. To this end, he afterwards allowed the departure of the Prince and Buckingham in disguise, to enact that costly and solemn farce of courtship, which was eventually frustrated by the former having fallen in love on his way

1

to Madrid, with Henrietta Maria at Paris; as the negotiations of Warwick for the nuptials of Edward of York, and a Princess of France, had been nullified a century before, by the young king's surrendering his heart to a lady nearer home. But it was deemed expedient to conciliate the Spanish Court, and James did not scruple to do so, by announcing that he had Raleigh in his power, and inquiring their pleasure respecting him. His efforts in earlier years to humble the pride of Spain and advance the glory of England were fresh in their remembrance, and his recent enterprise to Guiana was viewed with indignation. Philip, therefore, lost no time in demanding exemplary and immediate punishment. In less than a fortnight after the expression of these wishes had reached James, Sir Walter Raleigh was no more.

He was condemned on the old arraignment, which even in all its freshness was deemed too weak by his most crafty and malignant persecutors. But now, after fifteen years of oblivion had gathered over it, and when his appointment to the honours of Admiral and Governor would seem equally to cancel all previous accusations, it was drawn forth from mouldering darkness, and made to bear the weight of his scaffold.

To the victim, death was deprived of bitterness. The love of a Redeemer cheered his penitent soul, and in the serene hope of immortality he triumphed over the injustice of man. In the exercises of devotion he found comfort, and poetry, which he had loved from youth, sang to him, even on the last verge of life. His closing meditation on the vanity of the world, commencing, "Go, soul, the body's guest," shows in the boldness and melody of its numbers, a mind at ease. We select only one stanza:

"Tell fortune of her blindness,
Tell nature of decay,
Tell friendship of unkindness,
Tell justice of delay;
And if they aught reply,
Then give them all-the lie."

He requested a short respite that he might arrange his affairs for the benefit of his bereaved family. This was denied him. Therefore, with a steadfast faith, he looked above terrestrial things. On the

night previous to his execution, he calmly took leave of his beloved wife and only son. He then drew up in a few words a justification of his conduct in points where it had been aspersed; and bending over the Holy Scriptures, seemed absorbed in their study. On one of its blank leaves the following lines were found traced-his last on earth:

"Even such is time, that takes on trust
Our life, our joys, our all we have,
And pays us but with age and dust;
Then in the dark and silent grave,
When we have wander'd all our ways
Shuts up the story of our days.

But from this earth, this grave, this dust,
The Lord shall raise me up, I trust."

It was scarcely nine in the morning of Oct. 29th, 1618, when he was summoned to execution. He saluted with the grace

ful courtesy that had ever distinguished him, those who were near, and ascended the scaffold firmly and with a pleasant countenance. The Christian heroism that marked his deportment affected every be holder. Though enfeebled by long sickness, he spoke with a clear voice and impressive eloquence. He asserted his innocence of the charges made against him, and closed his speech with the most touching pénitence in the sight of God, and confidence in his mercy.

"I trust He will not only cast away all my sins from me, but receive me with everlasting life."

He poured out his whole soul in deep devotion, and rising from his knees, clasped his hands, and exclaimed, "Now I go to God." After some conversation with the executioner, he requested the people to pray with, and for him, and again knelt in silent communion with his Maker. Then divesting himself of such garments as might impede the fatal stroke, he laid his head upon the block. His lips still moved inaudibly, breathing the last earthly thoughts into His ear, before whose face he was so soon to stand. Then he gave the signal, the axe twice descended, and all was over.

Thus was cut off, at the age of sixty-six, one of the greatest men of his times. Whether we regard him as a scholar, cour tier, statesman, or naval commander, husband, father, or friend, philosopher, poet, captive, or Christian, we find traits both

striking and admirable. Yet, his character, unless by some modern writers, seems scarcely to have received justice from historians. Hume is evidently prejudiced, probably from his partiality to the House of Stuart, and his desire to exculpate in some measure, the unprincipled conduct of James. He designates as a tissue of falsehoods the account of his voyage to Guiana, yet admits that he never attentively perused what he condemns,

The jealousy of many of his contemporaries, and the malignity of Cecil, magnified his faults, and concealed his virtues. The hostility of the reigning monarch, and the adversity of the last fifteen years of his life, throw a shadow over his fame for those who consider favouring fortune as the criterion of greatness.

Yet both his deeds and motives sustain a favourable comparison with other distinguished men of thate period, who have shared more liberally in the praise of posterity. Less exquisitely intellectual, but more impulsive than his illustrious contemporary, Lord Bacon, he was also less infected with that artifice of courts, which blinds to truth, and makes expediency the pole-star of its course, If during any part of his career as a courtier, he might have been too little critical in balancing means with ends, it was according to the unscrupulous character of an age in which venality triumphed.

In the gayest and most tempted periods of his life, moral and religious precepts of force and beauty, are incorporated with his writings. How decided, for instance, was his reprobation of the evils of war, though impelled by his position and chivalrous spirit, to test the nature of military enterprise.

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"There is no profession," says he, "so unprosperous as that of war. Beside the envy and jealousy of men, the spoil, famine, and slaughter of the innocent, devastations and burnings, and a world of miseries laid on the labouring man; it is so hateful to God, that with good reason did Moulac, the Marshal of France, confess, that were not the mercies of God infinite, and without restriction, it were in vain for those of his profession to hope for any portion of them, seeing that the cruelties by them permitted and committed were also infinite."

In the darkness of the destinies of Sir Walter Raleigh, and in the loneliness of his prison-house, the truesman was unveiled. The first half century of his life was brilliant with adventurous effort, and a soaring fame. Through its remaining years he walked in solitude and sorrow. It was then that serious meditation allied him to higher natures, and repentant piety brought him nearer to his God. I In the detaching of his mind from the vanity of earthly things, and the Christian heroism of his death, we see the fruits of this discipline. And doubtless that philosophy which estimates, the changes of time by their influence on eternity, must accord the preference, not to the period of restless ambition, and envied splendour, but to these fewer, sadder years, when he walked humbly and trustfully with his God. 716975 916.02 922.

JEFFERY'S DESCRIPTION OF AN ENGLISH WOMAN OF FASHION. Have you any idea what sort of a thing a truly elegant English woman of fashion is? I suspect not; for it is not to be seen almos* out of England, and I do not know very well how to describe it. Great quietness, simplicity, and delicacy of manners, with a certain dignity and self-possession that puts vulgarity out of countenance, and keeps presumption in awe; a singularly sweet, soft, and rather low voice, with remarkable elegance and ease of diction; a perfect taste in wit and manners and conversation, but no loquacity, and rather languid spirits; a sort of indolent disdain of display and accomplishments; an air of great good nature and kindness, with but too often some heartlessness, duplicity, and ambition. These are some of the traits, and such, I think, as would most strike an American. You would think her rather cool and spiritless but she would predominate over you in the long run; and indeed is a very bewitching and dangerous creature, more seductive and graceful than any other in the world; but not better nor happier, and I am speaking even of the very best and most perfect.-Lord Cockburn's Life of Lord Jeffery.

ཝཱ དཙྪཱནཱཉྩ

FALSEHOOD could do little mischief if it did not gain the credit of truth.

ST PAST TIMES.

OLD Acquaintance, shall the nights
You and I once talk'd together,
Be forgot like common things,-

Like some dreary night that brings
Naught save foul weather?
We were young, when you and I

Talk'd of golden things together,-
Of love and rhyme, of books and men;
Ah! our hearts were buoyant then
As the wild-goose feather!
Twenty years have fled, we know,

Bringing care and changing weather; But hath th' heart no backward flights, That we again may see those nights, And laugh together?

Jove's eagle, soaring to the sun,

Renews the past year's mouldering feather, Ah, why not you and I, then soar, From age to youth,-and dream once more Long nights together?

TO MY OLD CLOCK.

BY R. W. WEIR.

My ancient clock no longer tieks,
Or taketh note of time;

Its hands are still, its voice is mute,
The voice that once so resolute

Sent forth its hourly chime;
And stillness now is felt to be
Like distant surges of the sea.
My ancient monitor of worth!

Thy silence makes me sad;
That measured tick no more I hear,
But pulses beating in the air,
And weariness run mad;
The skeleton of time, sans breath-
The prelude, as it were, to death.

Come, ancient friend! no longer thus
In moody silence stand;

Cheer up! and let your wheels go round,
And gladden with your silver sound
Once more our little band;
Speak to our hearts, and to us say,
Thus, thus life's moments pass away.

BY WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT.

THE May sun sheds an amber light

On new-leaved woods and lawns between; But she who, with a simile more bright, Welcomed and watch'd the springing green, Is in her grave, Low in her grave.

The fair white blossoms of the wood
In groups beside the pathway stand;
But one, the gentle and the good,
Who cropp'd them with a fairer hand,
Is in her grave,
Low in her grave.

Upon the woodland's morning airs

The small birds' mingled notes are flung; But she whose voice, more sweet than theirs, Once bade me listen while they sung, Is in her grave, Low in her grave.

That music of the early year
Brings tears of anguish to my eyes;

My heart aches when the flowers appear,
For then I think of her who lies

Within her grave,

Low in her grave.