single chamber. There was straw spread on
a rude worm-eaten bedstead, and Gottlieb,
wasted and ragged, lay on the straw: half
covered by the patched gown of the nurse.

This was a great sorrow for Dorel. But
when at last, after their few first words, he
asked her for pardon, she bent over him, and
said, "He who sees all things knows that I
have nothing to pardon. You have made me
sorry because you were blind. A year ago,
if you had turned into the right course, we
might both have been happy. I never have
thought hardly of you, Gottlieb; I have
loved you more dearly than you know. I
knew you loved me in the bottom of your
heart. I bought your cottage with my money
—only my mother and the justice knew of
that; and if you had come and said to me,
'I will defy God no more and put aside my
stubbornness;' on that day I would have
given you back the house and would have
become your wife. But it was not to be."

"Now I see all," he said. "Alas, my heart,
and now it is too late."

"No! not too late," said Dorel. "Still in
good time. Gottlieb, with you dies all my
happiness in this world. I shall work alone
until the end. But you will leave me, now,
a holy memory and a blessed hope, Gottlieb.
I will close your eyes to-day. Hereafter may
you be sent to open mine!"

The sacrament was brought, and Gottlieb
died and Dorel closed his eyes.

Years still ran on, and Dorel's mother died,
and her brothers and sisters married away
from her. She was left to the last, quietly
working at her lace pillow, alone in the old
house.

MOTLEY.

Before a world of tremulous green baize,
    Whose slightest motion made us leap and start,
And nudge with elbows eloquent (in ways
    That boys drive expectation to the heart;
Unlike the etiquette of later days
    Which misses oft its aim from too much art,)
Each other's aching ribs, in pleasure's search
We sat, three youngsters fresh from school and birch.

The curtain of the mysteries before us
    Hung with a solemn sense of all it knew;
The gallery gods and chandelier flamed o'er us,
    Like an Olympus glorious to the view.
We heard the frequent nectar pop, and chorus
    Shrilling aloud, impatient for its due.
Time and the fiddlers, in dumb concert playing,
Seemed for our special wretchedness delaying.

Sudden the tinkling of a mystic bell
    Proclaimed the preparations were complete,
And through the green baize sent a shuddering spell
    That took us for the time half off our feet;
The curtain curled, and with a gradual swell
    Rose. Ah! who shall say what sight did greet,
As orchestra and gallery ceased their wrangles,
To gaze on glory, gorgeousness, and spangles?

A glittering lady with a silver wand,
    Which (oh, how gracefully!) she softly sway'd
To music, with the smallest whitest hand,
    Stood in the opening of an emerald glade.
Behind her, brightly grouped, a fairy band,
    Each inclination of her arm obey'd.
And like a gliding lustre forth did flow,
Or like a wizard top spun on tiptoe.

Her mortal enemy, a mighty dragon.
    Too base his beastly entrance to announce.
Surprised her. In one claw he clutched a flagon,
    The other held her tightly by the flounce
(Threatening to leave her soon without a rag,
    In spite of our low-muttered wrath and frowns),
Then drew her quickly to his loathsome cavern,
Stored grim with evil spirits like a tavern.

But her good genius rising on a shell
    As Aphrodite rose (yet far more fair),
Dissolved the power of the magician fell,
    And sent him shivering down to sulphurous air.
Then all those ladies, issuing from the bell
    Of many a drooping flower, enring'd her there,
Like human leaves round some angelic rose,
They linked their arms and quivered on their toes.

She gazed, and gazed direct upon us three,
    With worlds of unintelligible meaning;
Above them like a silver-seen birch tree
    (Horrible simile!), in beauty leaning—
Leaning towards us wistfully, while we,
    All bashfulness from boyish ardour weaning,
Shadowed the pit in answer, clapping red,
Till the masks entered, and her figure fled.

Oh wondrous length of nose! Oh breadth of cheek
    Whose bloom all mortal rivalry defies!
Capacity of mouth, and body sleek!
    Oh hugeous head, and monstrous goggle eyes!
The tickle of late laughter sure is weak
    To that which your appearance first bids rise.
Lord! how we laughed! Meantime, demeanour
     solemn
Marked the great pate upon the puny column.

Fair Rosamond, embowered by royal Harry,
    Upon the balcony her flower-pots waters.
A broad Scotch colonel, intent to marry.
    (Whose claymore each unseen opponent slaughters),
Fired with impatient love, no more can tarry,
    But hopes to take by force this worst of
     daughters,
He scales her window stealthily on the sea-side;
Sagacious Harry wooing her on the side.

She seizes, most alert, the colonel's ladder,
    And flings him off to court the willing billow,
Whereon he falls; and, like some briny bladder,
    Floats, the while his men set up a hillo!
And drag him up the friendly beach, a sadder
    If not a wiser Gael. Down like a willow
Hangs his proud plaid. He, with a monstrous
     spoon,
Snuffs his wide nose, and sneezes to the moon.

Great Harry, underneath her balcony,
    Lutes to her softly a sweet serenade;
When, lo! the flower-pot that she waters free,
    Falls from its perch and fixes on his head!
A right reward of naughty majesty
    Caught in its trap. But what more need be said?
Clown, Harlequin, and Pantaloon in station,
Startle us all by wondrous transformation.