still without a murmur. When they took
me out of the air-pump and indulged me with
a tepid bath, I was very speedily as lively as
ever. They supplied me with necessaries—
moisture, warmth, and food. They were then
about to recommence their cruelties, when I
distinctly heard a sound of warning. It was
the dear old clock on its antique bracket.
The chimes tinkled their melancholy air,
closing on a minor third, and then the hour
struck boldly— Six! I stared around me;
it. was my own study-chamber. I had passed
the night in my arm-chair instead of between
the sheets as usual.

GREEN-BEARD AND SLYBOOTS.

IN the popular tales of Lithuania, the most
important personages are robbers, who
sometimes perform the functions assigned by the
inventors of our ordinary fairy-tales to ogres,
sometimes are characterised by cunning
rather than ferocity. The mere fact that a
person is a robber does not affect his moral
position in the least; he may conduct himself
well or ill in the predatory profession as in
any other. A virtuous robber will facetiously
display his shrewdness, a wicked
robber can sniff "fresh meat," and delights in
bloodshed even when unaccompanied by
profit.

On the authority of Herr August Schleicher,
who has made a collection of Lithuanian tales,
or rather judging from the tales themselves,
we should say, that virtuous as Lithuania
may be at the present day, it was once
inhabited by a people whose notions of property
were of the loosest. Nor does the talent
displayed by the clever and less sanguinary
marauders greatly excite our admiration;
inasmuch as it shines less by its own brightness
than by contrast with the vast expanse
of dulness by which it is surrounded. Ages
ago a little cunning clearly went a great way
in Lithuania.

That the Lithuanian Tom Thumb was as
disreputable as he was minute, might easily
be supposed; for the legendary hero of short
dimensions has not been remarkable for
moral punctiliousness in any quarter of the
globe. Like his western counterparts the
Slavonic mannikin, sits in the ear of the ox
that draws his father's plough, and by shouting
aloud urges the animal to proceed. Having
attracted the notice of a wealthy stranger,
who purchases him at an enormous price, he
persuades his new master to put him in the
cow-house, that he may guard the cattle, and
prevent them from being stolen. At night,
while he is seated in the ear of one of the
oxen, three thieves arrive, and though they
see nothing, they plainly hear a voice, directing
them to the best beasts, and offering a
partnership in future enterprise. The oxen
are taken away by the thieves and slaughtered
in the nearest field, and the Thumbling
still unseen— though, odd to say, the night is
not so dark as to impede the slaughter of the
animals— proposes to carry the entrails to a
neighbouring stream, and to wash them out.
When he is at some distance, he is heard
crying piteously: "I'm not the only one;
there are three men out there, roasting the
meat by the fire."

The thieves thinking that their comrade
has been caught, and is betraying them to
his captor, betake to their heels, whereupon
the acute dwarf hastens, not to his
master, but to his father, who immediately
proceeds to the field in a cart, and fetches
home the oxen left by the thieves. "Thus,"
says the historian, with great complacency,
"did he have his son again, together with
the purchase-money, and a load of butchers'
meat into the bargain?"

Enough of this dissertation on the ethical
views of ancient Lithuania. We will not
classify the robbers of this favoured land
according to their goodness or badness, but
consider whether they are grave or facetious,
scowling cut-throats or merry purloiners.
And from each of the two classes will we take
one specimen.

Let II Penseroso precede L' Allegro, all
the world over— even in Lithuania. We
begin with the thrilling tale of "Green
Beard:"

A certain merchant, who lived indefinitely
in a city, was considerably annoyed when his
daughter— a very charming young person—
swore, or rather vowed, that she would never
marry a man who was not blessed with a
green beard. In vain did he tell her the
story of Bluebeard in order to counteract her
absurd predilection. She simply replied that
"blue was not green," and he did not feel
himself justified in contradicting the truth of
the assertion.

However, not only the young lady's father,
but likewise the captain of a band of robbers
— four and twenty strong— who, as their
friends said, enlivened — as their enemies
said, infested a neighbouring forest, became
acquainted with her views on the subject of
beards. Possessed of this information—
whether through the medium of the milkman
or the baker we cannot say— the captain at
once called his band together, and asked the
collected assemblage whether they happened
to know any dye that would render beards
green. An unanimous shout of "Yes!"
followed the query, and was followed in its turn
by a recipe, universally commended for the
manufacture of the desired cosmetic. Why
the captain was less accomplished in practical
chemistry than any of his four and twenty
men, we do not pretend to inquire.

Having given his beard the required colour,
the gallant captain proceeded at once to the
city, and as he was altogether a fine,
well-looking gentleman, he was much admired by
the passengers, in spite of his green beard.
His conduct, when he reached the merchant's
house, was marked by the most rigid observance