means, that they must bestir themselves for the improvement of the people amongst whom GOD has placed their lot.

What we desire to see are not only pecuniary efforts though these are essential-but also personal exertions, and a kindly interest for the welfare of the people. We admit that there are many bright examples. There is a vast amount of good done in a quiet unostentatious manner, and GOD will reward those who do it. Still when we consider the enormous means of the country, the wealth, the talent, the leisure, the various advantages of the higher classes, and when we contrast with them the misery, the ignorance, and demoralization of so many of the lower, we feel that no further proof is needed that infinitely more might be done than is done, and that until the country, both government and individuals, is roused to a sense of the necessity of ten times greater exertions than any that have been made hitherto, the nation cannot be considered from week to week in a secure condition.

We feel that in thus strongly urging upon the rich, the educated, and influential, the need of exertion on their part, we may appear to speak as if the blame rested solely on them, and as if we thought that the poor were not equally responsible. But we desire to make no such comparison. On the contrary, we maintain that all classes alike need amendment. If the rich are self-indulgent, so also are the poor, in at least an equal degree. Who can see the beer-shops and gin-palaces which overspread both town and country; who can witness or read the accounts of the scenes which are continually taking place in those dens of iniquity; who can glance at the narratives of the criminal cases that are brought before our magistrates and our judges, without being convinced that the vice and ungodliness of the lower classes has arrived at a pitch, such as England, perhaps, has never before witnessed? But it is superfluous to enlarge on this painful subject. Our sole object in adverting to it is to show that, while we have to thank GOD for hitherto preserving us from revolution, we have no right to count on exemption from its horrors, unless we bestir ourselves diligently to remedy the enormous evils which exist. We may boast of the best constitution in the world, of the purest Church, of the noblest aristocracy, the most enlightened gentry, the most respectable middle classes, and even of the most industrious peasantry; we may survey with pride the spectacle which has been so recently witnessed, of our beloved Queen, whose personal character we so highly and justly respect, congratulating our nobles and our representatives on the suppression of outrage, the attachment of the nation to its laws, and on the proud place which England occupies as arbitress amongst the nations of the

earth. Still with such horrible depravity existing in our streets; while the plague-spot of unchecked demoralization still rankles in the heart of our great and wealthy cities-yes, and we fear in our rural districts also-we have no right to hope that we shall for ever continue exempt from the scourge of revolution, which is but one form of punishment which an offended GOD, sooner or later, inflicts on a nation which disregards His laws.

THE FRATRICIDE.*

As we left this very rural university, we met an individual in the street whom we were not surprised to see thus stalking about listlessly in the dangerous heat and glare of noon, for we knew that he was one of those men for whom the flaming sunshine or the cool moonlight were alike, since wherever he went, the shadow of an awful crime was cast before him on his path by the light of his own sleepless conscience. It is strange that the fearful curse of Cain would seem to be self-imposed by most of those who have committed the same crime; and this man is assuredly a fugitive and a vagabond on the face of the earth, solely, as it were, by the retribution of his own will. The details of his history are well known and very striking.

Long ago, when the Turks were still in quiet possession of the country, he lived in this village with his father and his only sister. The old man was very aged; and to the instinctive hatred which the Greeks seem at all times to have felt towards these their bitter enemies, he added all the rancour, which a long life of compulsive submission to an abhorred yoke and to continued insult could not fail to produce. His son shared these feelings with all the strength of a fierce, proud spirit; not so his daughter, the gentle gazelle-eyed Daphné. Doubtless, like a true Greek, she deplored her country's slavery, and her Helenic blood boiled within her when her father had to crouch before a detested tyrant, or she herself to shrink trembling from some fierce Moslem's gaze; but the eyes of the young Achmet, the only son of the village Aga, were very mild and gentle; they never turned on her but with a gaze both eloquent and timid-his voice at least was soft and low, and that voice had told her that he loved her better than anything on earth; and Daphné, though she knew that to love him was to love persecution and misery and death perhaps, yet learned to feel for him so deep and passionate a tenderness, that country, father, friends, and home, all lost their hold on her young heart, and left him reigning there alone.

* From a pleasing and interesting volume, entitled "Wayfaring Sketches among the Greeks and Turks." Chapman and Hall.

Not less profound was the attachment felt for her by the young Moslem; but carefully, in trembling, did they conceal it from all eyes, knowing too well that the disclosure would probably insure their mutual destruction-for Daphné had but to look on that vindictive old man and stern, unyielding brother, to feel sure they never would allow their blood to flow unarrested in the veins of one allied to their country's foe.

The young lovers succeeded, however, in keeping their attachment secret, till they found means to bring matters to a crisis. Some suspicions had, it appears, long rankled in the mind of the son, but the father himself had never dreamt that a few soft whispered words had made his child already a renegade to her country, till one fatal morning, when he called for her as usual to bring him his pipe when he rose, and for the first time was unanswered. When this seemingly trifling circumstance occurred, her brother, who was seated beside him, started up as though moved by some strong impulse, and flew into the inner room, where she ought to have been, but he found that she was not there. It required but a moment to complete his search, still ineffectual, round the little garden and vineyard, whose limits she had never dared to pass before, and he then returned to his father's presence to announce her disappearance with so perfect a conviction of the truth that his furious rage knew no bounds. He scrupled not to communicate his fears to the father, and the bitter tidings were as the falling of a thunderbolt to the wretched old man-with a cry of rage and horror he bid his son go forth to seek her, and tear her living or dead from their detested enemy. The infuriated man required no second bidding; he dashed from the house, mounted his horse, and was soon careering through the village seeking the smallest indication of the route the fugitives had taken. This for some time seemed a vain attempt: Achmet Aga was known to be absent, but none could tell whither he had gone: at length a sufficient clue was given him by an old woman, who had passed the night on the plain, gathering herbs by moonlight, the necessary ingredient of some infallible remedy. She said that she had been greatly terrified by a vision which had passed her-she had first seen a whirlwind of dust approaching, and as she knew, according to a popular superstition in Greece, that each one of these eddies, which the wind sometimes raises in fantastic circles along the road, contains a demon, who wreaths himself in them that he may dance therein unseen, she crouched behind a bush, and made the sign of the cross incessantly, whilst a huge black horse, bearing a double burden, flew past her at a furious pace. The outraged brother only paused to ask in which direction they had gone, and when she had pointed to the road which led to Marathon, he vanished from her sight, still faster than the ghostly horseman of the night before.

When he reached the village of Marathon, it was already late in the evening; but he had no difficulty in ascertaining that Achmet Aga had arrived that day, and had retired within a Turkish tower belonging to his father, which stood in an isolated position at some little distance. Thither he instantly repaired. It was surrounded by a high wall, but this the Greek, young and active, scaled in a moment, and dropped lightly and noiselessly within the garden which it enclosed. The first sight which met his eyes was his sister, who, in her fancied security, had come to enjoy the cool evening air beneath the shade of the mulberry trees, and was standing alone, evidently waiting for some companion. There was one near her, however, whom she dreamed not of; her brother silently approached her, and as he did so, he unslung the carabine that was strapped ready-loaded on his shoulder. At the sound of his footstep close to her, Daphné started, and looked round to meet his fierce eyes, fixed on her with so stern and resolute a gaze, that in one terrible look she read and knew her doom. The extremity of terror has generally the effect of paralysing the faculties altogether; and this was the case with poor Daphné. She stood as though transfixed, her great eyes riveted on her brother, and mechanically following his every movement with a sort of dreadful fascination. Vainly would she have striven to use her powerless limbs in flight; her bloodless lips refused even to utter a cry, and some invisible power seemed to hold her there before him, who now deemed himself but the instrument of her country's just revenge. Calmly, not a muscle of his stern countenance moving, not a moment's dimness moistening his angry eye, her brother raised the musket to his shoulder, adjusted it, took aim, and fired! A few steps only separated those children of the same parent, and the shot could not fail; the ball went straight to her heart, and with one single groan-but a groan that was never forgotten by him who heard it-Daphné fell lifeless to the ground.

He did not wait to look on her: rushing from the spot, he once more leaped the wall, mounted his horse, and fled, as men fly who bear with them the knowledge of a deed like this. He rested not till he reached home, and stood once more by his father's side. Unconsciously to himself, he seemed to have longed for the old man's commendation of this atrocious act, as a relief to the sharp sting which, in spite of every effort, pierced him now. He knew not human nature when he cherished such a hope. It is true he had but done the old man's bidding: but he went forth at the command of the patriot; he returned to tell the father he had slain his child! Dreadful, therefore, was indeed the punishment of the fratricide, for the father cursed him with all the energy of his despair, and then turned away to weep, and lament, and refuse all food, until he drooped and died; and thus was the miserable man left alone with so heavy a remorse; and it has been to him as the

avenger of blood. It has tracked his steps and haunted his pillow, and dried up the sources of joy and hope within him, till he seems to be daily growing into the image of the phantom that pursues him.

A TALE OF THE TIME OF KING JOHN.

CHAP. III.

In those days joy was a dream that passed away as quickly as it came. The land was distracted by commotions. The cruelty, injustice, and rapacity of John had alienated from him the hearts of all his barons, his crimes had brought upon him the vengeance of the See of Rome, who threatened to lay the whole kingdom under an interdict, and to such a state was the country reduced that none were safe except those who were protected by strong walls from the power of their enemies. At this distance of time, when we have imperfect records of the history of those days written by partial historians, generally by the monks who were all opposed to the king, it is impossible to understand completely how far he was guilty of the crimes laid to his charge; but that the land was in a most unhappy state, that none were safe from oppression, and that the innocent suffered perhaps more than the guilty, there can be no doubt; and greatly as the Lady Elfira rejoiced that her lord was returned to protect her in these troublous times, she knew that safety was nowhere to be found but in the keeping of One, Whose hand would be over her in whatever trials He had appointed for her and hers. She felt that, come what might of earthly trial, she should be well because she was in His hands; but her grief was bitter, it was deeper than we can well conceive who may enjoy to the full the privileges of the means of grace, when she heard that the pope, who then ruled as spiritual sovereign over all Europe, had cut off this isle from communion with the Christian Church, and that the curse was gone forth against this land. And this sorrow, too, she must bear alone, for the noble baron her lord would little brook to see the rights and privileges of his country trampled on by a faithless monarch, and had joined the now numerous host who had taken arms against their king. Sorrow in her case seemed to follow sorrow, the miseries of the land appeared to increase day by day, and she could scarce wonder, though she deeply grieved, that her liege lord should raise his hand against him who had been appointed by God to rule as sovereign; but she deeply felt it, and much she feared the curse of GOD would light on a household, whose head was guilty of such a crime.