Can naught avail to save her, or to prove
Aught 'gainst the charge that says a guilty love
Has stained her, marked her as a thing to be
Doomed to slow death and endless infamy.

     And now they lead her forth. Through all the throng
A tremor passes as she steps along,
Without a word, a tear, while in her eyes
A strong, deep, tranquil spirit calmly lies.

     She knows the hour to plead with man is gone,
She knows that hope from earthly aid is flown,
Life is behind, Eternity before,
And as she nears the dark tremendous doer
Death holds the key to let her through, within
Her soul casts off all weakness, fear, and sin,
And these subdued, the tie that God has given,
Binding the denizens of earth and Heaven
In a communion man hath often riven,
But never God—that tie, that vital spark
Glows with transcendent radiance through the dark,
And light and glory shine where once was gloom,
Honour and life where a disgraceful tomb
But lately yawned.
                              

                                Before the pile she stands,
To Heaven she lifts her soul, her eyes, her hands:
"Hear me, Creator, for to Thee is known
My every act, my every thought, Thine own
Divinest teaching from my early youth
Hath kept my footsteps in the path of truth.
Hear me, my Saviour, Thou, the Man of Woes,
Whose life from its beginning to its close
Was one long course of suffering for that men
Having conceived an error turned their ken
With desperate resolution from the truth,
Till savage grown and destitute of ruth,
They craved Thy blood, Thou holy one and just,
Trampling Thine honour in the common dust.

     Hear me. Thou knowest that from this most foul,
Most loathèd charge, revolts my inmost soul.
Hear me, Saviour! hear me ere I die—
Not life I crave, but that from infamy
My innocent name be rescued—send a sign
To show this people I am truly Thine
Thine unpolluted."

                               Then her head she bowed,
And while a shudder thrilled the gasping crowd,
Advanced, and 'mid the flames in silence stood.

     The flames? the flames! behold what meets the
          gaze,
Down like a stricken creature drops the blaze,
The scattered brands divide to left and right,
And the first Roses greet the people's sight,
Red from the kindled brands, from the unkindled
          white!

NORWEGIAN ELK-HUNTING.

MY Norwegian carriole, with all its paraphernalia,
was carefully packed under the
supervision of the indefatigable Mr. B., who has
been styled the factotum of travelling Englishmen.
I presume my reader knows what a
carriole is; if not, the following short and
graphic description of a friend of mine may
possibly enlighten him: "A carriole is a vehicle,
licensed to carry one in front, on two wheels
and no springs; resembles a velocipede with a
dash of the spider in it. On a board behind, rests
the portmanteau, atop of which the 'skyts-gut,'
or postboy, perches, while the rods, guns, &c., are
strapped miscellaneously on the shafts, Ponto
occupying a snug bed underneath in a sort of bag."

I had determined on investing in a carriole
under the advice of an amiable gentleman residing
at Christiansand, who, to add to his other
sterling qualities, had been the introducer of sundry
philanthropic improvements into that town, and
was at the time taxing his abilities to the
utmost to procure for the public a cheap and
nutritious beverage in the shape of porter
brewed without malt. He was very sanguine
about it; but I have since heard that the
scheme had failed, and that, after a vain
attempt to transform it into vinegar, it was
undergoing a process whereby it was expected it
would eventually become blacking. Possibly,
it might shine under that name at last.

If quick travelling have a tendency to produce
insanity, verily the Norwegians ought to be the
sanest of all civilised people. It took us three
long hours doing the forty-two miles to
Eidsvold by the Norwegian Trunk Railway—a
memento of the late R. Stephenson's engineering
skill. I had with me a letter of introduction to a
Bönde (farmer) in Osterdal, who was to provide
me with a guide and pony to the Swedish frontier,
where report said bears, trout, reindeer, and elk,
abounded in their respective elements. My host
was a well-to-do man, and very hospitable. I
must stay two days with him before setting
out. He wanted me to pay a visit to his "sæter"
and his pastor. In my simplicity, I thought
a " sæter" had something to do with the clerical
profession, but found it was a châlet on the
mountains, where the cattle are sent during the
summer. A bear had killed one of his cows the
night before, and he intended lying out for it
the next few nights. "Would I come with
him?" I should rather think so. What lots
of pomatum-pots of the "real article" I would
take back as presents to my friends! So off
we started.

It was a pretty sight to see the "sæter" girl
(it wasn't she who was pretty) leading out her
cows and goats to the pasture, and singing to
them, and calling them by name. Sometimes
she would run away from them, and then a
hirco-bovine steeple-chase ensued as to which
would catch her, and the winner was rewarded
with a lump of salt. The bowls full of cream,
and the cheeses, were enough to make a
Londoner's mouth water. "I must taste them,"
said my host; and, without waiting for a reply,
or even getting a knife, he stuck his finger into
a soft cheese, and held it out to me to take a
bit off the end of it.

It was now getting late, so, loading both
barrels of my rifle, and also five of my revolver,
I followed him to the place where the remains
of the slaughtered cow lay. Old Bruin must
have been hungry; for certainly he had eaten
half of it.

Reader, have you ever gone out bear-hunting?
I strongly advise you—"Don't!" unless
you like lying flat on your stomach for a whole
night, without moving (or being able to smoke),
in the open air, with swarms of mosquitoes