mons to the presence of the Lady of the hall. Leaning on the arm of her grandson, she followed the groom of the chambers to the state saloon. In the ante-room through which they passed all the servants and tenantry of the Wendover estates were assembled, who saluted them with profound obeisance as they proceeded to the saloon; at the upper end of which, clad in the deepest mourning, and supported by pillows, sat the fast fading shadow of the Hon. Leonora St. Manry, reposing as it were on the awful threshold of that new and untried state of existence to which she was rapidly passing.

When her visitors were announced, she arose from her crimson velvet fauteuil, and taking the weeping Aggy by the hand saluted her by the name of "Cousin Agnes;" and leading her into the ante-room, she presented her to the assembled tenants and dependents as the heiress of Wendover hall, and their future lady.

My time here is short," she added, " I have survived my last descendent; and when I am gone, the law of entail will vest the succession to the land of Wendover in the person of my cousin Agnes Durrant, widow, the grandaughter and representative of my father, the late Lord Wendover's only brother, the Hon. Josuline Wendover. The heiress of the hall had never heard so much of her pedigree before, and now it was too late in the day, as she afterwards observed, to be of much importance, unless for the sake of her youthful descendent, George Durrant. The Hon. Mrs. St. Manry, before she died, exacted a promise from him, that he should take the name and arms of Wendover. She expressed much satisfaction that her cousin had given a suitable education to the heir of their ancient house. And old Aggy has lived to see the boy for whose support she tilled the market garden of Woodfield called to the House of Peers by the style and title of Lord Wendover, of Wendover.

LINES WRITTEN IN WINTER.

OH! she is beautiful-this Earth of ours!
In all her varying aspects:

Whether flowers,
Scattered profusely by the hand of Spring,
Adorn her breast, when trees are blossoming,
And on whose leafy branches sweet birds sing;
When all is fresh and verdant, and the breath
Of the soft gale bears not a taint of death.—
Whether bright Summer, crowned with sunny beams,
Views her own image in the crystal streams,
And lights the Jucid waters with her smile,
Twining a many-coloured wreath the while

Of corn-flowers and blue harebells,-pansies bright
And purple fox-gloves-daisies purely white,
With eglantine and myrtle sprigs between,
And, crowning all, the beauteous lily queen;
The which, to make their tints more beautiful,
She bathes in gentle showers, and 'midst the lull
When rain-drops cease to patter on the leaves,
A syren strain of melody she weares,

Set to a dreamy tune, and filleth up
To overflowing, Nature's nectar-cnp,

Whence the bee sips, and laden with the sweets
Flies homeward: while from all the green retreats
Unnumbered voices rise her name to bless,
And swell the hymn of praise and thankfulness:-
Whether staid Autumn, in her sober dress

Of russet, leadeth o'er the laughing plain
Ceres the bountiful, who giveth grain
To glad the heart of man, and she who bears
The juicy apples and the luscious pears:—

Whether old Winter comes with hoary locks,
And breathes upon the waters, till like rocks
Of adamantine hardness they become;

Nor longer through their channels chafe and foam
As untamed steeds, but motionless and clear,

Like crystal mirrors, silver-edged appear;
While all the vales, and all the plains below,
Are hidden by a covering of snow;
Dazzling the gazer, as a robe o'er which
Diamonds are sprinkled; pure, and chastely rich
Is Earth's attire; to me, she seemeth now
Like a fair statue, round whose marble brow
Is wreathed a chaplet of "pale, glist'ning pearls,"
While in the sculpture of her flowing curls,

So finely wrought to seem like silky hair,

Are scattered precious stones, and gems most rare;
Her graceful form, which scarce the drapery shrouds,
Gleams through, as doth the moon through fleecy clouds;
A blue pavilion stretcheth over head,

Whence from a blazing carbuncle, is shed

A flood of radiance, and the scattered beams
Flash round about her, e'en as sunset gleams

Illume the pinnacles and crags of mist,

Until they seem like ruby isles, on waves of amethyst.

Oh! she is beautiful.-this Earth of ours!

Whether she smiles through sunbeams, or through showers;
In tempest, or in calm, by day, by night-

She is surpassing beautiful!—the flight

Of time, who worketh changes, cannot mar

Her loveliness, nor human strife, nor clemental war.

Chatham.

H. G. ADAMS.

THE NORMAN FISHERMAN;

OR THE

FAMILY POINT OF HONOUR.

A TRUE NARRATIVE.

From the French of Felix Davin

THE little village of St. Germain, situated on the coast of La Manche, presents a primitive type of the maritime Norman population in its ancient simplicity. Its inhabitants are small landed proprietors, although most of the men follow the trade of fishermen. The cottages, which are at the same time little farmhouses and fishing cabins, are built of uncemented blocks of chalk cut from the cliffs; with the same material are formed the enclosures of their land. All the buildings are separate from each other; and this, with their singular enclosures, gives a picturesque wildness to the scattered village. Each of these detached homesteads shelters perhaps several families of the immediate descendents of the patriarch of the house, who is looked up to with feudal attachment by all as the lawgiver of his own roof. Most of the men, in their youth, have been forced to obey the marine conscription, and they are found to be the best sailors in the French navy. On their return, they marry, and bring up their children with as strict a sense of honour and family pride as if they had belonged to the Norman William's chivalry, who invaded England.

Some years ago I took a walk through this village with a friend who lives in the environs, and fills the office of rural magistracy cailed Juge de Paix. It was Sunday; St. Germain had assuined that day an appearance more animated than usual. The men and women had just left church, and were gathered in little groups chatting with each other on their thresholds; they were all clad in their best, and their costume gave a most picturesque character to the wild straggling village. The men wore wide spreading hats of black beaver, the trousers and vest in one piece of the blouse form, the fulness of which was belted round the waist by a girdling of leather. Sometimes this was varied by the smart naval uniform of blue, worn by a mariner on leave of absence from the royal navy. While the women of St. Germain wear the demi cauchoise caps, tight boddices of coloured cloth, and ample petticoats striped with red and black.

After we had sauntered through the village, we came in sight of a distant cottage situated at the foot of a bold bluff promontory which jutted into the ocean. My friend stopped me when I drew ncar to it.

"Look well at that cabin," said he.

I saw nothing about it to distinguish it from the others, excepting that the situation was more bleak and lonely. When we entered the inclosure, he told me to notice a man who was leaning against the door-post smoking. This person was of the loftiest stature, with athletic proportions, his features were grand, but massive, and expressed integrity united with the utmost inflexibility. He was clad in the fishers' blouse and hat, and his thick black hair fell to his shoulders.

"Look well at that man," said my juge de paix to me as we approached him.

Our fisherman bowed his head gravely as we passed, but without raising his large hat.

We went into the house, passed through the entrance room, and entered a little inner sitting room, where a woman was feeding five or six children. She offered us seats and some Norman cider, and then returned quietly to the children. While we took the refreshment, my friend said to me

in a low voice,

"Look well at this little room."

I looked with all the eyes I had, wondering at these repeated injunctions. While I was glancing over the fishing nets, oars, boat hooks, and agricultural instruments with which the walls were hung, a passage door opened, and a wild head, with staring eyes and open mouth, was thrust into the room, a burst of maniacal laughter followed, and the head instantly disappeared. The woman, whose features seemed as fixed and imperturbable as those of the mariner we had left at the door, went on attending to her children without taking the least heed of the maniac's laughter, which really chilled my blood. After my friend had exchanged a few words with the woman, whose answers were as laconic as possible, he shook hands with her, and left the house.

"Well," said I, "there is certainly something very singular in the manners of the inhabitants of this solemn cottage. But what was I brought here to see?"

"The scene of some extraordinary events which took place about fifteen years ago," replied my friend; "I will tell you the story during my homeward walk, as you have seen most of the persons concerned in a narrative which will give you some idea of the characteristic qualities of the modern Norman peasant. I ought scarcely to say modern, because you see them here, notwithstanding the revolutions and mutations of our country, in the state they have remained in for several centuries.

"Fifteen years ago the father and head of this family was one Jean Lacape, an old man of seventy, as jealous of the good name of his children as if he had been a chevalier of twenty descents. He had three sons and a daughter; the eldest son, Jacques, was the athletic mariner smoking at the door, the second, Pierre, is dead, and the youngest, Philippe, is the madman whose head you saw just now, the girl is the

woman to whom we spoke. The second of these children, Pierre, had been corrupted by a douanier (custom officer) of profligate character. Desirous of sharing the pleasures to be found in great towns with his companion, Pierre walked off with him to Caen one fine night. Pierre become there a gambler and a drunkard, for as he was known to have some rights of inheritance from his mother, people in the town trusted him till he was involved in debt. The creditors wrote to his father, and threatened to put Pierre in prison. Now, as not one of the old man's ancestors or relatives in whatever degree had ever seen the inside of a prison, the honour of the family was not to be compromised by such an event; the old man, therefore, went to Caen, paid his son's debts, and preached him a rustic sermon on his extravagance. Drunkards have the gift of tears; and Pierre appeared so deeply affected by his father's kindness and remonstrances, that the old man returned to St. Germains convinced that his son was reformed.

Unfortunately he soon received new applications from the creditors of his prodigal son. A second time the old Norman made a sorrowful journey to Caen, and paid the debts of Pierre; this time he brought him home to St. Germains without exchanging a word with him on the way; when they arrived at the cottage, the father threw before Pierre a spade and some nets, saying,

"Choose with which of these you will get your bread, or, by St. Jean, my patron saint, it shall be the worse for you!"

Pierre chose the nets, and commenced the trade of a fisher; but he was oftener seen smoking and drinking at the cabaret than catching fish. About this time the mother died. The old fisher too had become infirm with the rheumatism, and seldom travelled farther than from the porch to his great chair by the fire side.

One morning when Jacques and Philippe, the eldest and the youngest sons, were out with the boat fishing, Pierre presented himself before the old man, who was warming himself by the fire in that very little room you have just been in.

"I am tired to death of being here," said the prodigal to his father, "give me my share of my mother's property, for I mean to go back to Caen."

"I forbid it," replied the father, "you have been there once too often, you will only dishonour your good name—you shall stay where you are." "I mean to go directly," repeated Pierre doggedly.

"Do then, accursed one," replied the old man, with true Norman energy, "but not a sous shalt thou take with thee!"

"Do you mean to rob me of my rights?" asked the son.

"Thou hast wasted double the property thou canst claim," said the old seaman" get out with thee!"

Words grew higher every moment till Pierre, whose ungovernable temper was irritated by the effects of drink, snatched the iron pipe with