to, and the day before the marriage a large, the one they longed for most. Would I could shoal of fish arrived off the coast. Llanaber was in a state of excitement, boats were pushed off, fishermen took hurried farewells of their wives and families, sails and cordage strewed the beach, nets hung up to dry were carefully taken down and stowed away in the boats, and the shore was one scene of noise and bustle. No one was more busy and omnipresent than Hugh Griffiths; the excitement did him good, and he worked with a will at the task of preparation. Richard Owen was not there, but still he was to be of the expedition, for Maggie knew her duty as a fisherman's wife better than to entice her husband from his work; he had, however, deputed a friend to get his boat ready, and at the last moment he stepped into her, pushed off, and the little fleet stood out to sea. Any stranger visiting Llanaber that afternoon would have been surprised to find the village tenanted entirely by women, all the able men being of the expedition, for it was essentially a fishing village. No enterprising tourist had yet discovered it-no guide-book manufacturer had yet described it; it had never been hung upon the walls of the Royal Academy, and it did not possess an hotel. As the evening closed in, many of the wives and daughters assembled on the beach to welcome the men home; but, as they stood, the weatherwise shook their heads and pointed to a heavy, pall-like looking cloud which was spreading rapidly over the heavens. The wind, which throughout the day had been but a summer breeze with occasional gusts, rose, and howled as it dashed across the ocean, raising long dangerous waves in its course. Would the boats never come in sight? was the thought of all, as with eager eyes they strove to pierce the fast-thickening gloom. As the darkness deepened the excitement became painfully intense; not a woman there but had someone she loved upon the sea. The wind increased, and the huge waves rolled heavily in with a dull booming sound, like distant thunder. The old church clock struck ten, and still the female population of Llanaber, heedless of the cold piercing wind and drifting spray, stood striving to pierce the blackness. Each face was a study; there were the hopeful and the despairing, and, ever and anon, when a moment's lull in the uproar of the tempest made comparative silence, the piteous wail of some desponding wife or mother rose in the night air, and chilled the hearts of those who, although they restrained outward emotion, showed by their quivering faces and inflamed eyes the dread which had taken possession of them. A cry! Oh, the joy of that heart-cry! The boats were safe! through the haze and blinding spray their eyes discerned the dark boats tossing on the waves; but yet it was dangerous landing. One touched the beach, and in a moment her crew were on the shore vigorously hauling her up out of reach of the waves. All the women rushed to that boat, in the hope it was describe the scene, the passionate rejoicing of those whose husbands and lovers were restored to them, the weary sigh of those whose fate was as yet undecided. One by one the boats came in, and Maggie, who throughout the earlier part of the excitement had been calm and collected, could no longer restrain her feelings, as wildly she asked for tidings of Richard Owen. One boat alone was missing-and that was his! The fishermen stood before the beach and peered through the darkness. "There!" cried several together, as suddenly the missing boat, borne upon the crest of a huge wave, appeared. Down-down it sank into the deep trough of the sea, and, with distended eyes, Maggie watched for its reappearance. She saw it again, but it was for a moment only; another wave came curling over it, and with one heartrending cry Richard Owen's boat disappeared. "Oh! save him! save him!" cried Maggie, but no one moved. The Llanaber fishermen were no cowards, but it was certain death to venture into the sea. Hugh Griffiths was standing near Maggie; she ran to him and seized his arm convulsively. Hugh, Hugh! you will not let Richard perish? save him!" 66 Hugh hesitated for a moment, then, seizing a rope, he hurriedly fastened it round his waist, and without a word plunged into the boiling ocean. No words can give an idea of the agonizing suspense of the next few minutes, then the men on the beach, who held the other end of the rope, slowly hauled it in. Maggie strove to watch the process, but she could not, and she covered her face with her hands; she heard a cry, but it told her of no good news. She looked up, and saw the rope pulled in without anyone attached to it! Hugh, in his haste, had either fastened it insecurely or some sharp rock had severed it. Everyone turned their eyes upon Maggie. She seemed petrified as this last hope was taken from her. What was that left by the receding wave? Several stout men rushed to the water's edge and dragged up Richard and Hugh, their hands tightly clasped together-dead! one shriek, the first she had uttered, Maggie flung herself upon the shore by the side of her lover. Slowly and solemnly the church clock proclaimed midnight. With Another day dawned, it was to have been "Maggie Pugh's Wedding-day." INSTRUCTION IN ART.-Next to mitigating the them from hunger, and protecting them from coldpoverty of helpless and infirm persons-relieving certainly, we should rank an effort to make all classes acquainted with the beautiful and curious manifestations of the human mind, and the lovely and interest ing works of men's hands. For this purpose, we must have the means of general and special instruction in art, in its broadest sense. WORKS OF THE CORAL Though some species of corals are found in all climates, they abound chiefly in the tropical regions. In particular, the larger and more solid kinds seem to have chosen those climates for their habitation: while the more tender and minute occur in the colder seas. INSECT. the work which these animals have commenced, and note the contrast between the silent and unmarked labours of working myriads, operat ing by a universal and long-ordained law, and the sudden effort of a power which, from the rarity of its exertion, seems too many to be especially among the miraculous interpositions of the Creator. It is the volcano and the earthquake that are to complete the structure which the coral insect has laid; to elevate the mountain and form the valley, to introduce beneath the equator the range of climate which belongs to the temperate regions, to collect the clouds which fertilize the earth, and to cause the springs to burst forth and the rivers to flowthis is the work of one short hour. These animals vary from the size of a pin's head, or even less, to more than the bulk of a pea; and it is by the persevering efforts of creatures so insignificant, working in myriads, and working through ages, that the enormous structures in question are erected. Enormous they may well be called, when the great Coral Reef of Australia, alone, is a thousand miles in length, and when its altitude is between one and two thousand feet. It is a mountain ridge that would reach almost three times from one extremity of England to the other, with the height of the Scottish mountains. And this is the work of insects so very minute, and but a small part of what they have done. The whole of the Pacific Ocean is crowded with islands of the same architecture, the produce of the same insignificant creatures. An animal barely possessing life, scarcely appearing to possess volition, tied down to its narrow cell, and ephemeral in existence, is daily and hourly creating the habitations of men, of animals, and of plants. It is founding a new continent; it is construct-production of calcareous earth proceeding daily ing a new world. These are among the wonders of the Creator's mighty hand; such are among the means which He uses to forward His ends of benevolence. Yet man looks down on the myriads of beings equally insignificant in appearance, because he has not discovered the great offices which they hold, and the duties which they fulfil in the great order of Nature. It is no more than the truth, that the coral insect is creating a new continent. Navigators now know that the Great Southern Ocean is not only crowded with these islands, but that it has many submarine rocks of the same nature, rapidly growing up to the surface, where, at length overtopping the ocean, they are destined to form new habitations for man to extend his dominion. They grow and unite into circles and ridges, and ultimately they become extensive tracts. This process cannot cease while those animals exist and propagate. It must increase in an accelerating ratio, and the result will be that by the wider union of such islands, an extensive archipelago, and at length a continent must be formed. This process is equally visible in the Red Sea. It is daily becoming less and less navigable, in consequence of the growth of its coral rocks, and the day may come when one plain will unite the opposed shores of Egypt and Arabia. Let us here admire the wonderful provision which is made, deep in the earth, for completing man. If the coral insect was not made in vain, neither was it for destruction that God ordained the volcano and the earthquake. By means so opposed, and so contrasted, is one single end attained, which is the welfare and happiness of If man has but recently opened his eyes on these important facts, his chemistry is still unable to explain them. It scarcely need be said that the corals all consist of calcareous earth, of lime united by animal matter. The whole appears to be the creation of the animal. It is a secretion by its organs. Not only is the in this manner, but by the actions of myriad tribes of shell-fishes who are forming their larger habitations in the same manner and from the same material. It is this which forms the calcareous beds of the ocean; it is this which has formed those enormous accumulations, in a former state of the world, which are now our mountains. These are the productions of the inhabitants of an ancient ocean. All the limestone of the world has been the produce of animals, and if an insect has constructed the great submarine mountain of Australia, the thousand tribes and myriads of individuals which inhabited the submarine mountains of the world could just as easily have formed them in preceding ages, and it is evident such was the case, as the mountains are made of shells. Mrs. Sigourney says of the coral insect— "Toil on toil on! ye ephemeral train, Who build in the tossing and treacherous main; Your columns the fathomless fountains lave, THE most ignorant have sufficient knowledge to detect the faults of others; the most clear-sighted are blind to their own. SCENES IN THE LIFE OF A NINE DAYS' QUEEN. BY J. B. D. them that she is to derive a wonderful strength and resignation in the days of trial which are to visit her in the future. Poor child! Had they but left her to her books, to her studies, to the acquisition of that knowledge she so dearly loved, how different might have been her fate! It is a genial autumn day in the year 1551. In a deep bay window of the old baronial mansion of Henry Grey, Marquis of Dorset, at Broadgate, in Leicestershire, sits a fair girl of some fourteen summers. Scarcely more than a child in years, her face bears the sweet simplicity of expression that one would look for in a child, mingled with an air of gravity rarely to be met with in faces so youthful. That she is versed in all womanly accomplishments, the lute and the needle-work near her Two years later came an eventful day in the plainly indicate. And, indeed, no gentle lady life of the Lady Jane -the ninth of July, 1553. of her time is more skilled with her lute, or Six weeks previously she had been married to more expert with her needle than she. But still higher accomplishments are hers. Within a comparatively recent period it has become the fashion in England-a fashion which seems to have been instituted by this young girl's grand-uncle, Henry VIII.-for the daughters of the nobility and gentry to be educated in the learned languages. And the little Lady Jane Grey has acquired great skill in other tongues than her own; for she can speak and write fluently not only French and Italian, but Latin and Greek also, and besides, has a smattering of Hebrew and Arabic. At this very moment, she is so deeply absorbed in the study of a quaintly-bound copy in Greek of the "Phædo" of Plato, that she does not hear the merry clamour of a hunting party in her father's park, nor has she heard the steps of the scholarly looking gentleman, who, unannounced, for the house is deserted by all but the fair student, has come to the window, and now gazes in upon her with a benign expression of admiration and pride. And Roger Ascham-for it is that genial, kind-hearted, simple-minded old pedagogue, the aforetime tutor of the Princess Elizabeth as well as of the Lady Jane-has good reason to admire and to be proud of his former pupil. The great-grand-daughter of an English king, and, in certain contingencies, the heir to the English crown, the fair maiden has no ambitious dreams, no aspirations for power other than that to be derived from the acquisition of knowledge. "All the sport in the park," she declares to her old tutor, when he enters and inquires why she is not out hunting with the rest of the household, "is but a shadow to the pleasure I find in Plato." And she curiously mingles with her study of the pagan philosopher a deep love for the sacred Scriptures, with the subline doctrines of which she has already imbued her whole nature. Her patience, her gentleness, her sweetness of temper, her charming gravity of demeanour, her unaffected piety, are graces that have come to her from their reverent study. And it is from Guilford Dudley, the fourth son of John Dudley, the ambitious and intriguing Duke of Northumberland. This marriage had been accepted by her as an act of obedience to her parents, for she had not loved her youthful husband, handsome though he was. She took her wedding with this boy of seventeen as she would have taken any other duty imposed upon her, "bowed her sweet head, and went with him, a child like herself, to church." After the ceremony, she had entreated to be permitted to return home with her mother, till she and her young husband were of riper age. As the bold, bad, ambitious schemer, her husband's father-already plotting in the event of the death of Edward VI., which could not be long delayed, to secure the crown to the Lady Jane, and thus pave the way for his family's future greatness-had so far accomplished his ends as to bring about the marriage, he had made no objection to the maiden wife's request, and it had been granted to her. On the sixth of July, King Edward had died, but not before the artful Northumberland had induced him to sign certain papers, which, setting aside the right of his sisters, Mary and Elizabeth, left his crown as a legacy to the Lady Jane. Three days subsequently, on the ninth of July, 1553, two ladies, having taken boat at Chelsea, land at Sion House, the residence of the Duke of Northumberland. One of them is the young wife of Guilford Dudley. She has come here in obedience to a request from her husband's father, to await a message of the highest moment from the King. She is not yet aware that Edward has been dead these three days. Presently the great lords of the Royal Council come dashing in. The Earls of Arundel and Pembroke fall on their knees, and are the first to kiss Lady Jane's hand as queen. Shocked at this sudden announcement of the death of Edward, whom she had loved with a sister's love-the companion of her sports and of her studies-she swoons and falls upon her face. Being brought to herself again, she shrinks from the honour which her scheming father-in-law has procured for her. She pleads the prior claims of the two princesses, as well as her own dislike of, and unfitness for the station they would thrust her into. Referring to the tragic fate of Katherine and of Anne Boleyn "Would you," she exclaims, "have me the third victim from whom this fatal crown may be ravished, with the head that wears it? But in case it should not prove fatal to me, and that all its venom were consumed, if Fortune should give me warrantees of her constancy, should I be well advised to take upon me those thorns which must lacerate, though not quite kill me?" Thereupon the great lords assure her that she is queen by Edward's will, according to the act which vested the succession in the King. Those stout warriors, Pembroke and Arundel, swear by their souls to shed their blood, and give their lives, to maintain her rights. Then the Lady Jane stands up before them with a queenly dignity and firmness, saying she had never dreamt of such greatness being thrust upon her; but, inasmuch as she had been called upon to reign, she prayed for grace to act as might be best for God's glory and His people's good. Presently the Lord Treasurer brings to her the Royal crown, which he wishes her to try on. "It will do," says she, quietly putting aside the glittering toy. She is told that another crown will have to be made. "For whom?" she asks". "For the Lord Guilford," they reply, since he is to be crowned with her as King. Great is the surprise of the new Queen. For once in her life she breaks into a honest bit of wrath. "The crown," says she to her young husband, "is not a plaything for boys and girls. I can make you a duke-none but Parliament can make a man a king." Guilford begins to cry, and goes whimpering to his mother, declaring that he wants to be a king, and not a duke. The Queen is firm; and, a 'ter a stormy scene, the duchess takes her boy away, declaring that he shall not live with such an ungrateful wife. Heralds, meanwhile, proclaim to the people of London the death of Edward, and the succession of Lady Jane. An ominous silence greets the announcement. One solitary voice only is heard. An unlucky vintner's boy has the foolhardiness to express his disapprobation. The next day he is to lose his ears for his youthful temerity. Yet, with the royal treasury, the fleet and the army at his disposal, Northumberland has no fear of failure. His ambitious plottings seem to be crowned with success. Seven months have passed since the great lords of the English council fell on their knees before the fair daughter of Henry Grey, and acknowledged her to be their rightful sovereign. To-day, the twelfth of February, 1554, she is a prisoner in the Tower, and, with her youthful husband, is to die. Nine days only had the illusion of sovereignty lasted. A sturdy sense of honesty, and a love of right, rather than affection for that princess, had gathered the English people around the standard of Mary, the eldest daughter of Henry VIII., and the lawful heir to the throne. Fearing and hating Northumberland more than they feared and hated the papacy, they had been deaf to the appeals of Ridley in favour of Jane, as the representative of the English church, and to his denunciations of Mary as the restorer of the papal supremacy. After an almost bloodless struggle, Northumberland had succumbed to the popular enthusiasm, disbanded his forces, and, with tears of grief running down his cheeks, had proclaimed the Princess Mary Queen. After a nine days' reign-days of anxiety and distress, in which she suffered much from apprehension, but more from the childish anger of her husband and the imperious temper of his mother-the Lady Jane had gladly descended from the throne upon which she had been forced by the ambition of others. Convicted of treason, Northumberland, the unprincipled author of her misfortunes, had paid the penalty of his crime on the scaffold. She, too, the dethroned summer queen, had, with her husband, been sentenced to die. Long hesitating to sign the warrant for their execution, Mary had at last yielded to the influence of the Spanish minister, and reluctantly consented to her cousin's death. Feckenham, the new Dean of St. Paul's, had been directed to bear to her the announcement of her doom, and to see what could be done to save her soul. His tidings had been received with a smile; his arguments to shake her faith with gentle patience, and the remark that, since she had now only a few hours to live, she needed them all for prayer. She neither courted nor feared death, but had no desire of longer life, if it was to be obtained at the sacrifice of her faith. Ignorant of her father's arrest and imprisonment, she had addressed to him an affectionate letter, ending in these words: "Thus, good father, I have opened unto you the state wherein I stand-my death at hand; to you, perhaps, it may seem woful; yet to me there is nothing can be more welcome than from this rule of misery to aspire to that heavenly throne with Christ my Saviour, in whose stedfast faith (if it may be lawful for the daughter so to write to the father) the Lord continue to keep you, so at last we may meet in heaven." The day before the fatal one assigned for her death she had passed in prayer, and in reaiing a copy of the Testament in Greek. The book is still preserved, and on a blank leaf at the end we find written a few last words to her sister: "I have here sent you, my dear sister Katherine, a book which, though it be not outwardly trimmed with gold, or the curious embroidery of the artfullest needles, yet inwardly is more worth than all the precious mines the vast world can boast of. It is the book, dear sister, of the law of the Lord-bis testament and last will, which he bequeathed to us wretches, which shall lead you to eternal joy." It is not yet light on Monday, the 12th of February. Already, in her chamber in the Tower, the Lady Jane is awake. Beneath her window she hears the carpenters at work at the scaffold upon which she is to suffer. Presently a messenger comes to her from her husband, requesting to take the last farewell which the Queen has granted to them. Bidding him to be of good cheer, she sends word back that there is no need of such parting. "Tell him," says she, with a look of saintly rapture, "that in a few hours we shall meet in heaven!" Then she looks out upon the green, and sees the archers and lancers drawn up, Guilford being led away to his death. An hour passes, and her quick ear catches the rumble of a cart. It is the cart containing the body of her husband. Spite of the tears and entreaties of her attendants, she goes to the window and bids a final adieu to the bleeding corpse of the illfated youth. With martyr-like self-possession, in which one sees the quaint pedantry of the age, she sits down and inscribes three sentences appropriate to the sad scene, in Latin, Greek, and English. And now the summons comes to her. Dressed in black, with a prayer-book in her hand, "a heavenly smile on her face, a tender light in her grey eyes," she passes modestly across the green through the files of troopers, and with a firm step mounts the scaffold. Turning to the spectators, she acknowledges in a few words her crime in having consented to the treason of Northumberland, and in not having absolutely refused the crown. "That device," she continues, “was never of my seeking, but by the counsel of those who appeared to have better understanding of such things than I. As to the procurement or desire of such dignity by me, I wash my hands thereof before God and all you Christian people this day." Then, wringing her hands, she adds: "I pray you all, good Christian people, to bear me witness that I die a true Christian woman, and that 1 look to be saved by no other means than the mercy of God, in the merits of the blood of his only Son, our Lord Jesus Christ. And now, good people, while I am alive, I pray you to assist me with your prayers." Then kneeling down, she repeats in a clear voice the penitential psalm-" Have mercy upon me, O God! after thy great goodness: according to the multitude of thy tender mercies, blot out mine iniquities." When the psalm is finished she stands up to have her dress adjusted. She unties her gown and takes off her head-gear. The veiled headsman offers to assist her, but she gently declines his help. Then she ties a kerchief around her eyes, and the executioner, kneeling at her feet, begs her forgiveness for what he is about to do. Whispering into his ear some kind words of pardon, she then says to him aloud, “I pray you despatch me quickly." Stooping to the block, she blindly feels for the place to lay her head. Her hand is guided by an attendant. Then, having adjusted herself properly, she utters her last words, "Lord, into thy hands I commend my spirit." The blow falls-it is but a single strokeand the gentle soul of the poor girl is at rest for all time to come. Thus passed away one whom not England alone, but all civilized nations, of whatever creed, have never ceased to love and lament. In the words of the quaint old Fuller, "She had the innocency of childhood, the beauty of youth, the solidity of middle life, and the gravity of age and all at eighteen. She had the birth of a princess, the learning of a divine, and the life of a saint, and yet suffered the death of a malefactor for the offences of her parents. GOING TO SLEEP. BY EMILY HUNTINGTON MILLER. Come hither, my baby, my darling, My lily, my wonderful rose ! The white-bosomed flowers in the garden Begin their soft petals to close; The bees have gone home from the clover, The swallows are under the eaves; And, down in the orchard, the robin Broods over her nest in the leaves. Come, baby-my beauty, my darling! And scarcely its laughter can keep. I kiss you, my lily, my sweet! Do you feel the cool wind coming softly, And see the young moon in the sky ? The clouds sailing over the sunset, The bats flitting silently by? Do you hear how the cattle are lowing, Along the green lane by the hill? And the brook running over the pebbles, With music that never is still ? Now, hush, while I sing to you, baby, To watch o'er the children they love. |