enemy. They rolled together, and blood flowed
in a stream from the Wolf's head. His friends
raised a lament, and prayed the King to put
an end to the contention; so the combat
ceased, and Reineke remained victorious.

Reineke was then surrounded by his friends,
and those who, yesterday, were his accusers,
now brought flutes and trumpets, to make
music before him, and display their love. For it
is so among animals. Nobel the King declared
that Reineke had freed him from all attaint,
and, calling for the great seal, made him on
the spot High Chancellor. In glory, Reineke
returned to Malepartus, followed by a long
train of admirers, to delight Dame Ermelyn
and his two children. In a dark chamber,
Greremund remained to pour oil on the
wounds of the forgotten Isegrim.

So the Fox came to honour. From readings
in "Buffon," we deduce, however, an
important fact, that Foxes, after all, form but a
small group in the great picture of the world.

SHADOWS.

THE SHADOW OF PETER CAREWE.

THE Lyffe of Sir Peter Carewe, late of
Mohonese Otrey, in the countie of Devon,
Knyghte, whoe dyed at Rosse, in Irelande, the
27th of November, 1575, was read to the
Society of Antiquaries of London, November
29th, 1838. At that reading, the yawning
must have been terrific— the sleep profound.
This "Lyffe"— "collected by John Vowell, al's
Hoker, of the Cetie of Excester, Gent., partly
upon the credyble reporte of others, and
partly which he sawe and knewe hyme selffe"
occupies fifty-eight quarto pages of the
twenty-eighth volume of the "Archæologia."
The world might have remained profoundly
ignorant of the doings of Sir Peter Carewe,
but for the exhumation of this MS. of John
Vowell; and in truth this "Lyffe " might have
shared the common fate of antiquarian
discoveries— a digging-up, and a re-interment—
had there not been some lasting and general
interest in the narrative. The early history
of Peter Carewe is a remarkable example of
ancient educational discipline. His story
comes unbidden before us, when we think that
"wisdom doth live with children round her
knees"— loving, and beloved. What was the
daily life of a child in the days of Henry the
Eighth? Shadow of Peter Carewe, instruct us!

About the year 1526, there is stir in the
household of Thomas Hunte, draper, and
Alderman of Exeter. Peter, a son of the
worshipful Sir William Carewe is expected to
arrive, in charge of a faithful servant of the
house, from Mohones Otrey. He is to lodge
with Thomas Hunte, and daily to attend the
grammar-school of the city. " Wife," says the
alderman, "this is a heavy charge; the boy, I
am given to know, is pert and forward. He
is the youngest son, and his father looks to
his learning to bring him to some advancement.
Sir William is a hard man. This is a heavy charge."

The boy comes on horseback, the servant
having a leading rein, greatly to Peter's
annoyance. They stop at the draper's threshold.
It is a mean wooden house; but well stocked
with West of England stuffs. "Welcome,
young sir," quoth the draper's wife. "I
am commanded by Sir William," says the
servant, "to require you to keep a close eye
upon my young master. You are to stand in
the place of his father, Master Hunte. He
must have no rude companions; he must go
straight from your house to the school, and
from the school to your house. If he be
truant, flog him!" With this solace was
Peter Carewe confided to the alderman.

We see the shadow of poor Peter in the
grammar-school. One Freer is master; he
is counted to be a very hard and a cruel
master. Daily is that unhappy boy lacerated;
no stripes can move him to learn. He sits
doggedly with the open page of "Syntaxis " before
him; but he will make no agreement between
the nominative case and the verb. The noon-
tide meal of John Hunte is by him neglected;
he is off to the pleasant fields that lie around
the city. He hath a book of ballads in his
vest, which tells of the "actes and faits" of
chivalry— of the knight's prowess, and the
lady's love. Hunte in vain lectures— Freer
in vain flogs. At last "he would never keep
his school, but is daily truant, and always
ranging." On a certain day good Thomas
Hunte is seriously alarmed the boy has been
missing through a summer's morning, noon,
and eve. The alderman hath sent abroad to
seek him, and, as twilight approaches, goes
forth himself. Behind a buttress of the city-
wall is Peter hiding. "Oh, varlet!" cries the
furious draper, "have I caught you?" "Not
yet," replies the truant. The boy climbs the
wall— he looks out from the top of the highest
turret: "Let me be! Keep down! If you
press upon me, I will surely cast myself head-
long over the wall, and then I shall break my
neck; and thou shalt be hanged, because
thou makest me to leap down."

In a few days after, there is a strange sight
in the streets of Exeter. Sir William Carewe
has once more sat in the draper's best room.
The boy stands trembling before him. No
word is spoken between father and son; a
servant is in the back-ground, with a chain
and a collar. "Bind him," is the one brief
command. Through the streets of Exeter is
the rebellious boy carried about, as one of his
father's hounds; "and they lead him home to
Mohones Otrey, like a dog." The degradation
does not end, when the boy enters the house
of his ancestors in this bestial guise. Does
the pitying mother intercede for her youngest
child? If she does— and we see a dim shadow
of a lady kneeling before a silent husband—
that intercession is bootless. Peter Carewe
abides in a filthy outhouse, coupled to a hound.

Violent remedies must necessarily be brief.