stuffed into her mouth that it might help to stifle her agony, knelt Lady Isabel. The moment's excitement was well-nigh beyond her strength of endurance. Her own child; his child; they alone around its death-bed, and she might not ask or receive from him a word of comfort, of consolation!

Mr. Carlyle glanced at her as he caught her choking sobs; just as he would have glanced at any other attentive governess. Feeling her sympathy, doubtless; but nothing more: she was not heart and part with him and his departing boy. Lower and lower bent he over that boy, for his eyes were wet.

"Don't cry, papa," whispered William, raising his feeble hand caressingly to his father's cheek. "I am not afraid to go. Jesus is coming

for me."

"Afraid to go! Indeed I hope not, my gentle boy. You are going to God; to happiness. A few years; we know not how few; and we shall all come to you."

"Yes, you will be sure to come: I know that. I shall tell mamma so. I dare say she is looking out for me now. Perhaps she's standing on the banks of the river, watching the boats?"

He had evidently got that picture of Martin's in his mind, the Plains of Heaven. Mr. Carlyle turned to the table. He saw some strawberry juice, pressed from the fresh fruit, and moistened with it the boy's fevered lips.

"Papa, I can't think how Jesus can be in all the boats! Perhaps they don't go quite at the same time? He must be, you know, because he comes to fetch us."

"Oh yes.

"He will be in yours, darling," was the whispered, fervent answer. He will take me all the way up to God, and say, 'Here's a poor little boy come, and you must please to forgive him and let him go into heaven, because I died for him!' Papa, did you know that mamma's heart broke?"

A caress was all the reply Mr. Carlyle returned. William's restlessness of body appeared to be extending to his mind. He would not be put off. "Papa! did you know that mamma's heart broke ?"

"William, I think it likely that your poor mamma's heart did break, ere death came. But let us talk of you; not of her. Are you in pain ?"

"I can't breathe; I can't swallow. I wish Joyce was here." "She will not be long first."

The boy nestled himself in his father's arms, and in a few minutes appeared to be asleep. Mr. Carlyle, after a while, gently laid him on his pillow, watched him, and then turned to depart.

"Oh, papa, papa!" he cried out, in a tone of painful entreaty, opening wide his yearning eyes, "say good-by to me!"

Mr. Carlyle's tears fell upon the little up-turned face, as he once more caught it to his breast.

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My darling, papa will soon be back. He was not going to leave you for more than an hour. He is going to bring mamma to see you." "And pretty little baby Anna?"

"And baby Anna, if you would like her to come in. I will not leave my darling boy for long: he need not fear. I shall not leave you again to-night, William, when once I am back."

"Then put me down, and go, papa."

A lingering embrace; a fond, lingering, tearful embrace, Mr. Carlyle holding him to his beating heart. Then he laid him comfortably on his pillow, gave him a teaspoonful of strawberry juice, and hastened away. "Good-by, papa," came forth the little feeble cry.

It was not heard. Mr. Carlyle was gone. Gone from his living child -for ever. Up rose Lady Isabel, and flung her arms aloft in a storm of sobs.

"Oh, William, darling! in this dying moment let me be to you as your mother!"

Again he unclosed his wearied eyelids. It is probable that he only partially understood.

"Papa's gone for her.”

"Not her! I-I" Lady Isabel checked herself, and fell sobbing on the bed. No; not even at that last hour when the world was closing on him, dared she say, I am your mother.

Wilson re-entered. "He looks as if he were dropping off to sleep," quoth she.

"Yes," said Lady Isabel. if he requires anything."

"You need not wait, Wilson. I will ring

Wilson, though withal not a bad-hearted woman, was not one to remain for pleasure in a sick-room, if told she might leave it. She, Lady Isabel, remained alone. She fell on her knees again, this time in prayer. In prayer for the departing spirit, on its wing, and that God would mercifully vouchsafe herself a resting-place with it in heaven.

A review of the past then rose up before her. From the time of her first entering that house, the bride of Mr. Carlyle, to her present sojourn in it. The old scenes passed through her mind, like the changing pictures in a phantasmagoria. Why should they have come, there and then? She knew not.

William slept on silently: she thought of the past. The dreadful reflection, "If I had not-done as I did how different would it have been now!" had been sounding its knell in her heart so often, that she had almost ceased to shudder at it. The very nails of her hands had, before now, entered the palms with the sharp pain it brought. Stealing over her more especially this night, there, as she knelt, her head lying on the counterpane, came the recollection of that first illness of hers. How she had lain, and, in her unfounded jealousy, imagined Barbara the house's mistress. She dead; Barbara exalted to her place, Mr. Carlyle's wife, her child's stepmother! She recalled the day when, her mind excited by certain gossip of Wilson's-it was previously in a state of fever bordering on delirium-she had prayed her husband, in terror and anguish, not to marry Barbara. "How could he marry her?" he had replied, in his soothing pity. "She, Isabel, was his wife: who was Barbara? Nothing to them." But it had all come to pass. She had brought it forth. Not Mr. Carlyle; not Barbara; she alone. Oh the dreadful misery of the retrospect !

Lost in thought, in anguish past and present, in self-condemning repentance, the time passed on. Nearly an hour must have elapsed since Mr. Carlyle's departure, and William had not disturbed her. But-who was this, coming into the room? Joyce.

She hastily rose up, as Joyce, advancing with a quiet step, drew aside

the clothes to look at William. she observed. "Why-oh!"

"Master says

he has been wanting me,"

It was a sharp, momentary cry, subdued as soon as uttered. Madame Vine sprang forward to Joyce's side, looking also. The pale young face lay calm in its utter stillness; the busy little heart had ceased to beat. Jesus Christ had indeed come, and taken the fleeting spirit.

Then she lost all self-control. She believed that she had reconciled herself to the child's death, that she could part with him without too great emotion. But she had not anticipated it would be quite so soon; she had deemed that some hours more, would at least be given him; and now the storm overwhelmed her. Crying, sobbing, calling, she flung herself upon him; she clasped him to her; she dashed off her disguising glasses; she laid her face upon his. Beseeching him to come back to her that she might say farewell; to her, his mother; her darling child, her lost William.

"Do

Joyce was terrified; terrified for consequences. With her full strength she pulled her from the boy, praying her to consider; to be still. not, do not, for the love of Heaven! My lady! my lady!"

It was the old familiar title that struck upon her fears and induced calmness. She stared at Joyce, and retreated backwards; after the manner of one receding from some hideous vision. Then, as recollection came to her, she snatched her glasses up and hurried them on.

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My lady, let me take you into your room. Mr. Carlyle is come; he is but bringing up his wife. Only think if you should give way before him! Pray come away!"

"How did you know me?" she asked, in a hollow voice.

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My lady, it was that night when there was an alarm of fire. I went close up to you to take Master Archibald from your arms; and, as sure as I am now standing here, I believe that for the moment my senses left me. I thought I saw a spectre; the spectre of my dead lady. I forgot the present; I forgot that all were standing round me; that you, Madame Vine, were alive before me. Your face was not disguised then: the moonlight shone full upon it, and I knew it, after the first few moments of terror, to be, in dreadful truth, the living one of Lady Isabel. My lady, come away! we shall have Mr. Carlyle here."

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Poor thing! She sank upon her knees, in her humility, her dread. Oh, Joyce, have pity upon me! don't betray me! I will leave the house; indeed I will. Don't betray me while I am in it!"

"My lady, you have nothing to fear from me. I have kept the secret buried within my breast since then. Last April! It has nearly been too much for me. By night and by day I have had no peace, dreading what might come out. Think of the awful confusion, the consequences, should it come to the knowledge of Mr. and Mrs. Carlyle. Indeed, my lady, you never ought to have come."

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Joyce," she said hollowly, lifting her haggard face, "I could not keep. away from my unhappy children. Is it no punishment to me, think you, the being here?" she added, vehemently. "To see him—my husbandthe husband of another! It is killing me."

"Oh, my lady, come away! I hear him; I hear him!"

Partly coaxing, partly dragging her, Joyce took her into her own room, and left her there. Mr. Carlyle was at that moment at the door of the sick one. Joyce sprang forward. Her face, in her emotion and fear, was

of one livid whiteness, and she shook as William had shaken, poor child, in the afternoon. It was only too apparent in the well-lighted corridor. “ 'Joyce!" he exclaimed in amazement, "what ails you ?"

"Sir! master!" she panted, "be prepared. Master William-Master William

"

"Joyce! Not dead?"

"Alas, yes, sir!"

Mr. Carlyle strode into the chamber. turned back to slip the bolt of the door. thin face, at rest now.

"My boy! my boy! Oh, God!" he murmured, in bowed reverence, "mayst Thou have received this child to his rest in Jesus! Even as, I trust, Thou hadst already received his unhappy mother!"

THE COMET OF 1861.

SAID TO BE THAT WHICH APPEARED IN THE TIME OF CHARLES V.

BY CYRUS Redding.

WANDERER among the spheres

Cresting the brow of night,

Where didst thou hide in perish'd years

Thy strange awe-striking light?

Time has relentless driven

His hour-wing'd coursers by,
Trampling dead ages, since in heaven
Man saw thy mystery.

Tell of our sires' amaze

At thy portentous ray,

As with pale Superstition's gaze

They saw thee pass away—

And plague with red right hand,
Heralding human woe,

Delusive taught that thy command
Augmented ill below!

Then, wanderer, tell anew

Thy parted history,

Deep graves have hid from living view

All that could speak of thee!

Pilgrim of heaven! to me

Thou hast no ill portent,
But when thy errant course I see
Brighten the firmament,—

Thy glories do but prove,

Howe'er remote they shine,
Thou art a messenger of love,
A minister divine!

NOTES ON NOTE-WORTHIES,

OF DIVERS ORDERS, EITHER SEX, AND EVERY AGE.

BY SIR NATHANIEL.

And make them men of note (do you note, men?).—Love's Labour's Lost, Act III. Sc. 1.

D. Pedro. Or, if thou wilt hold longer argument,

Balth.

Do it in notes.

Note this before my notes,

There's not a note of mine that's worth the noting. D. Pedro. Why these are very crotchets that he speaks, Notes, notes, forsooth, and noting!

Much Ado About Nothing, Act II. Sc. 3.

And these to Notes are frittered quite away.—Dunciad, Book I.

Notes of exception, notes of admiration,

Notes of assent, notes of interrogation.-Amen Corner, c. iii.

XLII.—FREDERICK BARBAROSSA.

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THE reign of Frederick Barbarossa, related by a host of annalists, among whom may be named Otto of Freysingen, Radewig, Helmold, and Saxo the Scandinavian archæologist, is (not without good cause to show for it) pronounced by M. Eichhoff the most brilliant in the entire history of Germany, alike on account of its martial and chivalric character, and of its exalting influence on literature. The French historian of Literature in the North of Europe narrates with interest, therefore, how Frederick first of all put an end to the internal distractions of the country by assuring to the chief of the Guelfs, Henry the Lion, the tranquil possession of Bavaria and Saxony; how he established his supremacy Denmark, Bohemia, and Poland; and then turning his thoughts to Italy, meditated on the means of reconquering the power his predecessors had lost. Milan, the centre of the Lombardic league, had made itself independent; he attacked Milan, harassed it without remission during several successive campaigns, and ended by destroying the reconquered city, by the right and in the character of a vainqueur impitoyable. Rome, in her turn, entered the lists, at the voice of Alexander III., a pontiff held in respect for his virtues and courage; all Italy arose,-and the Lombard cities revived from their ashes, and confronted the conqueror anew. vain all men of science gave their imperial protector their sympathy; in vain the support of the German clergy gave an appearance of legality to his cause; fortune abandoned him, his troops became discouraged, Henry of Saxony refused him aid. Frederick eventually has to submit, and humble himself before the Pope, but it is only that he may avenge himself elsewhere, and regain his ascendancy by martial exploits: he "attacks his vassal, pursues him to extremity in the face of obstacles without number, and finally compels him to suffer the dismemberment of his vast domains. The imperial power thus consolidated by a more equal partition of provinces, he resumes in the south of Italy the authority he

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