with or reference to Burton. The bottles
have nothing to do with the brewers.

Thus ends my experience of how beer in
general, and pale ale in particular, is brewed
for Sir John Barleycorn at Burton-on-Trent.

THE BOY MAHOMET.

THEY feign that Mahomet, the three years' child,
Would often wander, when the day was young,
Within a quiet valley, where the grass
Kept its Spring greenness always fresh and bright
Under the smooth, broad shadow of the rocks,
From whose cold chambers and dark hidden cells
Infinite rivulets came bubbling out
With a continual music, and passed on
(Weaving a silver net-work as they went)
Beneath old trees, through mingled gleams and glooms,
Into the caverns on the farther side.

The grave and gentle sweetness of the place
Pleased that young child; for, in his lightest sports,
Those who observed him closely could perceive
A hint of something awful and afar—
A depth beneath the surface—a veiled lamp
Burning down long, rich avenues of dark,
Like that prodigious meaning which looks through
The empty eyes of statues. Oftentimes
When his loud play-mates sought him he would be
Lying beneath some tree's far-reaching dusk,
Deep in this glen; and, on a certain day,
Two angels found him there.

                                               Upon a crag
These angels had descended recently,
And down the slope side of the mountain came
Towards the boy, who, undisturbed by fear,
Received them as two bright dreams that had lost
Their way from out the Paradise of sleep;
And soon they floated over him and lull'd
His spirit with the fanning of their wings,
Until he slumbered. Then, with painless touch,
One of those angels opened the child's breast,
And took the heart out, and between his hands
Wrung forth all drops of bitterness and sin,
All black clouds lurking in that haven of red,
And filled it with the light of his own looks,
With living fire and radiance, till it glow'd
A deep interior crimson: all which time
The second of the angels sang this song:

          "The cloud is slumbering in the sky,
               The bird is sleeping on the tree,
           And the winds go pausing by
               With a murmur like the sea;
           And the sea itself is calm,
               And the beast is in its lair:
           Sleep thou, too, beneath the balm
               Dropping from the heavens bare!

          "Day is young within the East,
                And the night, not wholly gone,
           Lingers still about the West,
                Where the white stars mock the dawn.
           Drowsy sounds are in the place,
               And a constant whispering:
           Sleep, fair child, and dream a space!
                I am watching while I sing!

          "As the sun, with lips eternal,
                Drinks the darkness when he rises,
           And with sudden light supernal
                All the mountain peaks surprises;
           As the moon-dawn cleanses heaven
                From the sad stains of the night;
           So we wring the dusky leaven
                From thy heart, and make it bright.

           Unto Asia, sunk in shame,
                Be a radiance seen afar!
           Be an orb of fire and flame!
                Be a glory! Be a star!
          Be a crescent moon, whose sphere
               Keeps dilating! Be a sun!
          Now thy heart is close and near
               In thy breast; and all is done."

And while the song yet murmured in the air,
Those angels rose on their sustaining wings,
And, like two doves moving in circles, went
Higher and higher through the golden blue
Of morning, till they vanished like white clouds
That die into the wiudy plains of space.

Then up rose Mahomet as from a dream,
And felt those angels in his heart, and knew
They were no dream; and on his visage lay
That brightness which proclaimed him through the land
A king of men—the Prophet of Allàh.

IN PRESENCE OF THE SWORD.

DOUBTLESS I ought to be ashamed to own
that I have spent many a pleasant hour in
the Old Bailey. The Central Criminal Court
is indeed a Yarrow of mine, a scene dear to
the memory for its association with the
crudities of youth. The civic royalty of the
corporation of London is acknowledged in
the City theatre of melodramas, by the existence
of a civic box, by name the City Lands'
Box, whereof every member of the City
Lands Committee has a key. A friend and
common councilman, and City Lands
Committee-man, used many years ago to open for
me with his key that box, and therein,
victualled with a few sandwiches, I, a sallow
boy, would take my seat quite early in the
morning, and remain until the Judges rose
for dinner. I had a taste for tournaments
and Champions of Christendom; but there
were no mailed knights abroad except on
Lord Mayor's Day. By the degenerate nature
of the times, therefore, I was reduced to
the necessity of worshipping such men in
brass as could be found at the Old Bailey.
Out of Astley's there was nothing for me,
but to witness the encounters of opposing
champions in horsehair helmets, and to hang
intent over the tournament of tongues. I
knew the gentlemen of the Old Bailey Bar
better, indeed, than I knew the horses and
the actors (may I be excused for mentioning
the horses first) at the Amphitheatre, to
which stronghold of chivalry it was my own
opinion that I was allowed to go too seldom.
I had my cherished knights among the
barristers. The boldest were the best. I
liked to see the character and credit of a
witness gallantly hacked to pieces; to observe
what sparks of fun could, by a well steeled
barrister, be struck out of hard villanies, at