LONG ages ago, when the whole of Northern Europe was sunk in barbarism and dark idolatry, a young and beautiful maiden was found at sun-rise upon the rugged coast of Norway. There she stood, and looked wistfully over the retiring waves, which had left their fringes of silvery surf at her small naked feet.

The night had been stormy, and a vessel lay wrecked among the rocks. All the crew had perished but that gentle lady. The savage people gathered about her, wondering much at the rare fashion and the richness of her flowing garments, and at her fresh and delicate beauty; but most of all at the sweetness and dignity of her demeanour.*

It was this maiden who became the wife of Regnar, the young Prince of Norway; she was of equal birth with him, being a king's daughter, but obliged to flee from the usurper of her father's throne. The Princess Gurith (for so she was called) was not an idolater, yet for nearly a year after her marriage few persons but her husband knew the name of her religion. They soon learned, however, that in her it was pure and peaceable, gentle and easy to be entreated, full of mercy and good fruits, without partiality and without hypocrisy and so she was loved by all, and might have been happy, had not Queen Temora, the widow of the king's eldest son, visited the court of Norway. Now, this Temora was very beautiful, but proud and revengeful, and so skilled in magic, that by many she was named the Sorceress. Temora was queen, in her own right, of the far Orkney Isles; and, notwithstanding her husband's sudden death, she had cherished the hope to reign in Norway also; for Regnar, then the younger

See the Embellishment, illustrative of the above, page 33.

brother, though now the heir, had wooed her, when, from ambition, she preferred the elder prince.

When Temora came to court, hiding her fiery passions with a smiling face, and saw the beauty of the innocent Gurith, and the influence she had won in the hearts of those around her, she devoted her to ruin. It is said that she went at midnight, far up among the hills, into the depths of a black pine forest, where stood a rude but famous temple of the idol Woden (the ruins are now scattered about the place), and there sprinkling her own blood upon the altar, vowed to accomplish a deep and horrible revenge. From that hour she left no way untried to reach her ends. At first, she sought, under the mask of friendship, to introduce into the heart of Gurith some dark suspicion of her husband's faith, and so, at length, to break that gentle heart; but the young princess was above suspicion; love, and her perfect confidence in him she loved, were as a breast-plate of adamant to her, from which every weapon that was aimed against it, fell off, not only blunted, but leaving no trace to show where it had struck. Thus Temora was confounded and perplexed, for she had judged the princess by her own principles and feelings.

Still, notwithstanding all these deep devices, the guileless Lady Gurith grew in favour and tender love with all who knew her, and the sorceress inwardly cursed herself, when she beheld the effect of Gurith's presence upon the barbarous Norwegians; an effect far more grateful to her woman's heart than the most awful influence of her own magic spells. When Gurith came forth into the banquet-hall, they met her with a reverence only next to adoration. Their brutal manner caught for the time somewhat of her gentleness; their fierce disputings stopped; their coarse jests and roars of laughter sounded more faintly; the very minstrels touched their harps more lightly, and turned their war-songs to some plaintive lay, such as a gentle woman loves to hear. But the secret of this influence was a mystery to the consummate artfulness of Queen Temora she could not comprehend that simple humility and unaffected kindness can win their way to the most savage bosom.

For instance, after a battle, when the wounded were brought home, a band of warriors came forward to the terrace, on which Gurith and Queen Temora sat, surrounded by their ladies. They had brought the richest spoil, and laid it at the feet of the two princesses. Temora snatched at once a coronet of gems, and placed it with a haughty smile upon her head. They that stood by shuddered as they saw her

her face.

bright eyes flashing, and the rich blush of pleasure on her cheek; for a few dark drops clung in the threads of yellow hair upon her brow, and then trickled down There was human blood upon that coronet.-Gurith had scarcely looked upon the glittering baubles set before her; she had seen a wounded soldier fall exhausted at the gate, and she flew to raise him. They that stood by smiled with tender and admiring love, as they beheld her hands and garments stained with blood, for she had torn her long white veil to staunch the blood, dressing the wounds of the dying man with her own soft hands, and then as other wounded soldiers were brought from the field, she had forgot her rank, and the feebleness of her sex, to administer also to their relief. It was in such instances as these that the character of Gurith was discovered; was it strange that she should seem almost a being of a higher order to the untutored savages? But soon Temora began to fear that Gurith was herself an enchantress, for every withering spell of witchcraft had been tried in vain against her. She had met at midnight with the weird women in their murky caverns; there they sung their charmed rhymes together, and held their horrid incantations. Gurith was still unharmed, still lovely, still happy in the love of her husband, and of all the people.

By a mere chance, the sorceress at length discovered what she felt convinced to be the secret of Gurith's hidden strength. There was a chamber, in a small lonely tower that joined the palace, to which the young princess retired, not only at stated periods every day, but often, very often, at other times. There she would sometimes remain shut up for hours, and no one dared to break upon her privacy; even her husband humoured her wishes, and had never, since his marriage, visited that chamber. If sometimes she entered it mournful, dispirited, and with downcast looks, she never failed to come forth from her retirement with a new spirit, calm and smiling, and all the fair beauty of her face restored. This, then, was the chamber where those spells were woven which had baffled all the skill of the sorceress.

Not long after the queen had made the discovery of the chamber, the aged king, her father-in-law, while visiting the Princess Gurith, was struck with blindness. Temora began to rejoice, for an opportunity, well suited to her own dark purposes, had at last occurred.

There was a solemn festival held in honour of the goddess Freya. In the midst of the rejoicing, the sorceress, (her yellow hair streaming upon her shoulders, and her rich robes all rent,) rushed into

the hall. With frantic cries she bade the feasting cease, and, seizing from an aged scald the harp that he was striking, she tore away the strings, and then, in sullen silence, she sat her down before the idol's image. Again she rose, and with a dagger's point scratched a few rough characters upon the altar. The priests had gathered round her, and when they saw those letters, they also shrieked aloud with horror; they fell before the idol, and bowed their faces to the ground, howling, and heaping dust upon their heads. Upon this, with a fixed and dreamy stare, Temora arose, and, beating upon a sort of shapeless drum, commenced a low and melancholy chant.

She told them, that the nation had cause to mourn that heavy calamities had fallen upon them, that the gods had sent a curse among them. A monster had been cast up by the treacherous waves, and none had known their danger. Their king, their prince, nay, she herself, had been deceived; for that fearful monster had come among them in a human form, even as a beautiful maiden. They had cherished her, and now the judgment had fallen upon them: it had begun with the kinghe was struck with blindness-where would it fall next? with prophetic glance she could foresee. But here the drum dropt from her hands; at once her frantic violence was stilled: she sunk upon the ground, and her long hair fell like a veil over her stern features.-She had said enough. As she began, a smothered sound of cursing arose on all sides; now the whirlwind of furious passion burst forth, and knew no bounds. The tumult spread far and wide among the people. Led by the wizard priests, they rushed to the palace, and demanded that their king should come forth to them. Now the poor old king, being in his dotage, and almost governed by the priests, had been persuaded, and tutored, to think, and to answer, just as they suggested. Led by the sorceress, he came forth, sightless and trembling, and his few faltering words confirmed all that the artful Temora had declared.

All this time, Prince Regnar had been absent. He came in from hunting just when Temora had brought his father forth. Horror-struck, he soon perceived the purpose of the fiend-like woman; but in vain he sought to quell the furious tumult; his father was totally under the dominion of the priests, and when a cry was raised, demanding, as their victim, the young and innocent Gurith, the king's assent was given. As for the princess, she was not to be found. Two persons, however, who at once had guessed the place of her re

66

treat, met at the door of her mysterious chamber. For once that door was scarcely closed. It opened at the gentle touch of Reguar, but there was something arrested him. "Stop, stop," he whispered, holding the door firmly with one hand, while he thrust forth the other to prevent Temora from advancing. Stop but a little while. Let us not disturb her yet." Temora obeyed. Curiosity for a time mastered her vengeance. She wished to hear distinctly the words which were pronounced in that chamber; but what were the words that fell upon her ear? The low, sweet voice of Gurith, breathing forth prayers to the God she worshipped; pleading for her worst enemy, praying that He, whose favour is life, would give a new spirit, and sweet peace of mind, and every blessing to her sister Temora! The voice of Gurith ceased, and Regnar entered softly. Temora had sunk upon the step where she had stood; she did not enter, though at last that chamber stood open before her; but with still greater astonishment than that with which she had listened, she gazed upon its inmate. Gurith had not heard the light step of her busband. She was kneeling, with both her hands covering her face. The tears that trickled through her fingers too well betrayed the anguish that had stopped her voice in prayer. And this, then, was the secret of the mysterious chamber. Gurith had trusted to no spell but that of innocence her strength had been in the confession of her utter weakness to Him, with whom she held her high and spiritual communion, to Him whose strength is made perfect in the weakness of his children. To him who hath borne our griefs and carried our sorrows, whose gracious invitation is to the weary and the heavy laden, she had gone in every time of trial; and from the foot of his cross, where she ever laid the burden of her griefs, she had brought forth into the world that sweet and holy cheerfulness which passed even the understanding of the wretched Temora. Struck to the heart, the sorceress slunk silently away. Some feelings of remorse had seized upon her, and now she would have gladly stopped the tumult. Alas! she had no power to calm the storm which she had raised. The frantic multitude had burst the palace gates. Regnar was overpowered, and they were dragging their meek and innocent victim to the altar of the horrid idol, when suddenly, and it seemed miraculously, a higher power interposed and stopped their blind fury. The aged monarch fell dead into the arms of his attendants-the excitement of the last few hours had proved too much for his feeble frame. Instantly, and

ABOUT the centre of a deep winding and woody lane, in the secluded village of Aberleigh, stands an old farm-house, whose stables, out-buildings, and ample yard, have a peculiarly forlorn and deserted appearance; they can, in fact, scarcely be said to be occupied, the person who rents the land preferring to live at a large farm about a mile distant, leaving this lonely house to the care of a labourer and his wife, who reside in one end, and have the charge of a few colis

and heifers that run in the orchard and adjoining meadow, whilst the vacant rooms are tenanted by a widow in humble circumstances and her young family.

The house is beautifully situated; deep, as I have said, in a narrow woody lane, which winds between high banks, now feathered with hazel, now quickly studded with pollards and forest trees, until opposite Kibe's Farm it widens sufficiently to admit a large clear pond, round which the hedge, closely and regularly set with a row of tall elms, sweeps in a graceful curve, forming for that bright mirror, a rich leafy frame. A little way farther on the lane again widens, and makes an abrupter winding, as it is crossed by a broad shallow stream, a branch of the Loddon, which comes meandering along from a chain of beautiful meadows, then turns in a narrower channel by the side of the road, and finally spreads itself into a large piece of water, almost a lakelet, amid the rushes and willows of Hartly Moor. A foot-bridge flung over the stream, where it crosses the lane, which, with a giant oak growing on the bank, and throwing its broad branches far on the opposite side, forms in every season a pretty rural picture.

Kibe's Farm is as picturesque as its situation; very old, very irregular, with gable ends, clustered chimneys, casement windows, a large porch, and a sort of square wing jutting out even with the porch, and covered with a luxuriant vine, which has quite the effect, especially when seen by moonlight, of an ivy-mantled tower. On one side extend the ample but disused farm buildings; on the other the old orchard, whose trees are so wild, so hoary, and so huge, as to convey the idea of a fruit-forest. Behind the house is an ample kitchen garden, and before a neat flower court, the exclusive demesne of Mrs. Lucas and her family, to whom indeed the labourer, John Miles, and his good wife Dinah, serve in some sort as domestics.

Mrs. Lucas had known far better days. Her husband had been an officer, and died fighting bravely in one of the last battles of the Peninsular war, leaving her with three children, one lovely boy and two delicate girls, to struggle through the world as best she might. She was an accomplished woman, and at first settled in a great town, and endeavoured to improve her small income by teaching music and languages. But she was country bred; her children too had been born in the country, amidst the sweetest recesses of the New Forest, and pining herself for liberty, and solitude, and green fields, and fresh air, she soon began to fancy that

her children were visibly deteriorating in health and appearance, and pining for them also; and finding that her old servant Dinah Miles was settled with her husband in this deserted farm-house, she applied to his master to rent for a few months the untenanted apartments, came to Aberleigh, and fixed there apparently for life.

We lived in different parishes, and she declined company, so that I seldom met Mrs. Lucas, and had lost sight of her for some years, retaining merely a general recollection of the mild, placid, elegant mother, surrounded by three rosy, romping, bright-eyed children, when the arri val of an intimate friend at Aberleigh rectory caused me frequently to pass the lonely farm-house, and threw this interesting family again under my observation.

The first time that I saw them was on a bright summer evening, when the nightingale was yet in the coppice, the briarrose blossoming in the hedge, and the sweet scent of the bean fields perfuming the air. Mrs. Lucas, still lovely and elegant, though somewhat faded and careworn, was walking pensively up and down the grass path of the pretty flower court; her eldest daughter, a rosy bright brunette, with her dark hair floating in all directions, was darting about like a bird; now tying up the pinks, now watering the geraniums, now collecting the fallen rose leaves into the straw bonnet which dangled from her arm, and now feeding a brood of bantams from a little barley measure, which that sagacious and active colony seemed to recognise as if by instinct, coining long before she called them at their swiftest pace, between a run and a fly, to await with their usual noisy and bustling impatience the showers of grain which she flung to them across the paling. It was a beautiful picture of youth, health, and happiness; and her clear gay voice, and brilliant smile, accorded well with a shape and motion as light as a butterfly, and as wild as the wind. A beautiful picture was that rosy lass of fifteen in her unconscious loveliness, and I might have continued gazing on her longer, had I not been attracted by an object no less charming, although in a very different

light, and the exceeding delicacy of her smooth and finely grained complexion, so pale, and yet so healthful. Her whole face and form had a bending and statuelike grace, increased by the adjustment of her splendid hair, which was parted on her white forehead, and gathered up behind in a large knot-a natural coronet. Her eyebrows and long eyelashes were a few shades darker than her hair, and singularly rich and beautiful. She was plaiting straw rapidly and skilfully, and bent over her work with a mild and placid attention, a sedate pensiveness that did not belong to her age, and which contrasted strangely and sadly with the gaiety of her laughing and brilliant sister, who at this moment darted up to her with a handful of pinks and some groundsel. Jessy received them with a smile-such a smile! -spoke a few sweet words in a sweet sighing voice; put the flowers in her bosom, and the groundsel in the cage of a linnet that hung near her; and then resumed her seat and her work, imitating, better than I have ever heard them imitated, the various notes of a nightingale who was singing in the opposite hedge; whilst I, ashamed of loitering longer, passed on.

The next time I saw her, my interest in this lovely creature was increased tenfold -for I then knew that Jessy was blinda misfortune always so touching, especially in early youth, and in her case rendered peculiarly affecting by the personal character of the individual. We soon became acquainted, and even intimate under the benign auspices of the kind mistress of the rectory; and every interview served to increase the interest excited by the whole family, and most of all by the sweet blind girl.

Never was any human being more gentle, generous, and grateful, or more unfeignedly resigned to her great calamity. The pensiveness that marked her charater arose as I soon perceived from a different source. Her blindness had been of recent occurrence, arising from inflammation unskilfully treated, and was pronounced incurable; but from coming on so lately, it admitted of several alleviations, of which she was accustomed to speak with a devout and tender gratitude. "She could work," she said, "as well as ever; and cut out, and write, and dress herself, and keep the keys, and run errands in the house she knew so well without making any mistake or confusion. Reading, to be sure, she had been forced to give up, and drawing; and some day or other she would shew me, only that it seemed so vain, some verses which her dear brother William had written upon a group of wild

flowers, which she had begun before her misfortune. Oh, it was almost worth while to be blind to be the subject of such verse, and the object of such affection! Her dear mamma was very good to her, and so was Emma! but William-oh she wished that I knew William! No one could be so kind as he! It was impossible! He read to her; he talked to her; he walked with her; he taught her to feel confidence in walking alone; he had made for her use the wooden steps up the high bank which led into Kibe's Meadow; he had put the hand-rail on the old bridge, so that now she could get across without danger, even when the brook was flooded. He had tamed her linnet; he had constructed the wooden frame, by the aid of which she could write so comfortably and evenly; could write letters to him, and say her ownself all that she felt of love and gratitude. And that," she continued with a deep sigh, 66 was her chief comfort now; for William was gone, and they should never meet again-never alive

Old

-that she was sure of-she knew it." "But why, Jessy?" "Oh, because William was so much too good for this world, there was nobody like William! And he was gone for a soldier. General Lucas, her father's uncle, had sent for him abroad-had given him a commission in his regiment-and he would never come home, at least they should never meet again-of that she was sure -she knew it."

This persuasion was evidently the master-grief of poor Jessy's life, the cause that far more than her blindness faded her cheek, and saddened her spirit. How it had arisen no one knew; partly, perhaps, from some lurking superstition, some idle word, or idler omen which had taken root in her mind, nourished by the calamity which in other respects she bore so calmly, but which left her so often in darkness and loneliness to brood over her own gloomy forebodings; partly from the trembling sensibility, and partly from the delicacy of frame and of habit which had always characterised the object of her love-a slender youth, whose ardent spirit was but too apt to overtask his body.

However it found admittance, there the presentiment was, hanging like a dark cloud over the sunshine of Jessy's young life. Reasoning was useless. They know little of the passions who seek to argue with that most intractable of them all— the fear that is born of love; so Mrs. Lucas and Emma tried to amuse away these sad thoughts, trusting to time, to William's letters, and, above all, to William's return to eradicate the evil.

These letters came punctually and gaily,