or three men are standing about the door. Morris, the maid, has got out; so have I; and I am holding out my hand to Elizabeth, when I hear her give one piercing scream, and see her with ash-white face and starting eyes point with her forefinger:

"There he is! - there! - there!"

I look in the direction indicated, and just catch a glimpse of a tall figure, standing half in the shadow of the night, half in the gaslight from the hotel. I have not time for more than one cursory glance, as I am interrupted by a cry from the bystanders; and, turning quickly round, am just in time to catch my wife, who falls in utter insensibility into my arms. We carry her into a room on the ground-floor : it is small, noisy, and hot; but it is the nearest at hand. In about an hour she re-opens her eyes. A strong shudder makes her quiver from head to foot.

"Where is he?" she says in a terrified whisper as her senses come slowly back. "He is somewhere about, somewhere near. I feel that he is!"

I

"You saw him!" she says in trembling hurry, sitting up, and clinching her hands together. "I know you did. pointed him out to you: you cannot say that it was a dream this time."

"I saw two or three ordinary-looking men as we drove up," I answer in a commonplace, matter-of-fact tone. "I did not notice any thing remarkable about any of them. You know, the fact is, darling, that you have had nothing to eat all day, — nothing but a biscuit; and you are overwrought, and fancy things."

66

Fancy!"echoes she with strong irritation. "How you talk! Was I ever one to fancy things? I tell you, that, as sure as I sit here, as sure as you stand there, I saw him -him-the man I saw in my dream, if it was a dream. There was not a hair's breadth of difference between them; and he was looking at me, looking"

She breaks off into hysterical sobbing.

"My dear child," say I, thoroughly alarmed, and yet half angry, "for God's sake do not work yourself up into a fever! Wait till to-morrow, and we will find out who he is, and all about him: you yourself will laugh when we discover that he is some harmless bagman."

Why not now?" she says nervously. "Why cannot you find out now, this minute?”

"Impossible! Everybody is in bed. Wait till to-morrow, and all will be cleared up."

The morrow comes, and I go about the hotel, inquiring. The house is so full, and the data I have to go upon are so small, that for some time I have great difficulty in making it understood to whom I am alluding. At length one waiter seems to comprehend.

"A tall and dark gentleman, with a pronounced and very peculiar nose? Yes: there has been such a one, certainly, in the hotel; but he left at grand matin this morning; he remained only one night."

"And his name?"

The garçon shakes his head.

"That is unknown, nonsieur: he did not inscribe it in the visitors' book."

"What countryman was he?"

Another shake of the head. "He spoke German; but it was with a foreign accent."

"Whither did he go?"

That also is unknown. Nor can I arrive at any more facts about him.

IV.

A FORTNIGHT has passed: we have been hither and thither: now we are at Lucerne. Peopled with better inhabitants, Lucerne might well do for heaven. It is drawing towards eventide; and Elizabeth and I are sitting, hand in hand, on a quiet bench under the shady linden-trees, on a high hill up above the lake. There is nobody to see us: so we sit peaceably, hand in hand. Up by the still and solemn monastery we came, with its small and narrow windows, calcu

lated to hinder the holy fathers from promenading curious eyes on the world, the flesh, and the devil, tripping past them in blue gauze veils: below us grass, and green trees, houses with high-pitched roofs, little dormer-windows, and shutters yet greener than the grass; below us the lake in its rippleless peace, calm, quiet, motionless as Bethesda's pool before the coming of the troubling angel.

"I said it was too good to last," say I doggedly, "did not I, only yesterday? Perfect peace, perfect sympathy, perfect freedom from nagging worries: when did such a state of things last more than two days?"

Elizabeth's eyes are idly fixed on a little steamer, with a stripe of red along its side, and a tiny puff of smoke from its funnel, gliding along, and cutting a narrow white track on Lucerne's sleepy surface.

"This is the fifth false alarm of the gout having gone to his stomach within the last two years," continue I resentfully. "I declare to Heaven, that, if it has not really gone there this time, I'll cut the whole concern!"

Let no one cast up their eyes in horror, imagining that it is my father to whom I am thus alluding: it is only a greatuncle by marriage, in consideration of whose wealth and vague promises I have dawdled professionless through twenty-eight years of my life.

"You must not go," says Elizabeth, giving my hand an imploring squeeze. "The man in the Bible said, 'I have married a wife, and therefore I cannot come.' Why should it be a less valid excuse nowadays?"

"If I recollect rightly, it was considered rather a poor one even then," reply I dryly.

Elizabeth is unable to contradict this: she therefore only lifts two pouted lips (Monsieur Taine objects to the redness of English women's mouths, but I do not) to be kissed, and says, "Stay." I am good enough to comply with her unspoken request, though I remain firm with regard to her spoken one.

"My dearest child," I say with an air of worldly experience and superior wisdom, "kisses are very good things, in fact, there are few better; but one cannot live upon them."

"Let us try," she says coaxingly.

"I wonder which would get tired first?" I say, laughing. But she only goes on pleading, pleading, "Stay, stay."

"How can I stay?" I cry impatiently: "you talk as if I wanted to go! Ďo you think it is any pleasanter to me to leave you than to you to be left? But you know his disposition, his rancorous resentment of fancied neglects. For the sake of two days' indulgence, must I throw away what will keep us in ease and plenty to the end of our days?"

66

"I do not care for plenty," she says with a little petulant gesture. "I do not see that rich people are any happier than poor ones. Look at the St. Clairs: they have forty thousand pounds a year; and she is a miserable woman, perfectly miserable, because her face gets red after dinner."

"There will be no fear of our faces getting red after dinner," say I grimly; "for we shall have no dinner for them to get red after."

A pause. My eyes stray away to the mountains. Pilatus on the right, with his jagged peak, and slender snow-chains about his harsh neck; hill after hill rising silent, eternal, like guardian spirits standing hand in hand around their child, the lake. As I look, suddenly they have all flushed, as at some noblest thought; and over all their sullen faces streams an ineffable, rosy joy, a solemn and wonderful effulgence, such as Israel saw reflected from the features of the Eternal in their prophet's transfigured eyes. The unutterable peace and stainless beauty of earth and sky seem to lie softly on my soul. "Would God I could stay! would God all life could be like this!" I say devoutly; and the aspiration has the reverent earnestness of a prayer.

"Why do you say, Would God?"" she cries passionately, "when it lies with yourself? O my dear love!" (gently sliding her hand through my arm, and lifting wetly-beseeching eyes to my face,) "I do not know why I insist upon it so much-I cannot tell you myself—I dare say I seem

selfish and unreasonable; but I feel as if your going now would be the end of all things; as if"- She breaks off suddenly.

"My child," say I, thoroughly distressed, but still determined to have my own way, "you talk as if I were going forever and a day. In a week, at the outside, I shall be back; and then you will thank me for the very thing for which you now think me so hard and disobliging."

"Shall I?" she answers mournfully. "Well, I hope so." "You will not be alone, either: you will have Morris." "Yes."

"And every day you will write me a long letter, telling me every single thing that you do, say, and think?" "Yes."

She answers me gently and obediently; but I can see that she is still utterly unreconciled to the idea of my absence.

"What is it that you are afraid of?" I ask, becoming rather irritated. "What do you suppose will happen to you?

She does not answer: only a large tear falls on my hand, which she hastily wipes away with her pocket-handkerchief, as if afraid of exciting my wrath.

"Can you give me any good reason why I should stay?" I ask dictatorially.

"None-none: only

stay-stay!"

But I am resolved not to stay. Early the next morning I set off.

V.

THIS time it is not a false alarm: this time it really has gone to his stomach, and, declining to be dislodged thence, kills him. My return is therefore retarded until after the funeral and the reading of the will. The latter is so satisfactory, and my time is so fully occupied with a multiplicity of attendant business, that I have no leisure to regret the delay. I write to Elizabeth, but receive no letters from her. This surprises and makes me rather angry, but does not alarm me. "If she had been ill, if any thing had happened, Morris would have written. She never was great at writing, poor little soul! What dear little babyish notes she used to send me during our engagement! Perhaps she wishes to punish me for my disobedience to her wishes. Well, now she will see who was right." I am drawing near her now. I am walking up from the railway station at Lucerne. I am very joyful, as I march along under an umbrella, in the grand, broad shining of the summer afternoon. I think with pensive passion of the last glimpse I had of my beloved, her small and wistful face looking out from among the thick, fair fleece of her long hair, — winking away her tears, and blowing kisses to me. It is a new sensation to me to have any one looking tearfully wistful over my departure. I draw near the great glaring Schweizerhof, with its colonnaded, tourist-crowded porch: here are all the pomegranates as I left them, in their green tubs, with their scarlet blossoms, and the dusty oleanders in a row. I look up at our windows. Nobody is looking out from them they are open; and the curtains are alternately swelled out and drawn in by the softly-playful wind. I run quickly up stairs, and burst noisily into the sittingroom. Empty,- perfectly empty! I open the adjoining door into the bed-room, crying, "Elizabeth, Elizabeth!' but I receive no answer. Empty too! A feeling of indignation creeps over me as I think, " Knowing the time of my return, she might have managed to be in-doors." I have returned to the silent sitting-room, where the only noise is the wind still playing hide-and-seek with the curtains. As I look vacantly round, my eye catches sight of a letter lying on the table. I pick it up mechanically, and look at the address. Good heavens! what can this mean? It is my own, that I sent her two days ago, unopened, with the seal unbroken. Does she carry her resentment so far as not even to open my letters? I spring at the bell, and violently ring it. It is answered by the waiter who has always specially attended us.

"Is madame gone out?"

The man opens his mouth, and stares at me.

"Madame! Is monsieur, then, not aware that madame is no longer at the hotel?"

"What?"

"On the same day as monsieur, madame departed."

66

'Departed!' Good God! what are you talking about?" "A few hours after monsieur's departure- -I will not be positive as to the exact time, but it must have been between one and two o'clock, as the mid-day table d'hôte was in progress a gentleman came, and asked for madame” — "Yes: be quick!"

"I demanded whether I should take up his card; but he said 'No,' that was unnecessary, as he was perfectly well known to madame; and in fact, a short time afterwards, without saying any thing to any one, she departed with him."

Elizabeth has no brother; but the remark brings back to me the necessity of self-command. Very probably," I answer, speaking with infinite difficulty. What sort of looking gentleman was he?"

66

"He was a very tall and dark gentleman with a most peculiar nose, not quite like any nose that I ever saw before, and most singular eyes. Never have I seen a gentleman who at all resembled him."

I sink into a chair, while a cold shudder creeps over me as I think of my poor child's dream, of her fainting fit at Wiesbaden, of her unconquerable dread of and aversion from my departure. And this happened twelve days ago! I catch up my hat, and prepare to rush like a madman in pursuit.

"How did they go?" I ask incoherently. "By train? driving? walking?'

66

They went in a carriage."

"What direction did they take? Whither did they

go?"

He shakes his head. "It is not known."

"It must be known!" I cry, driven to frenzy by every second's delay. "Of course the driver could tell. Where is he? where can I find him?"

"He did not belong to Lucerne, neither did the carriage: the gentleman brought them with him.”

"But madame's maid," say 1, a gleam of hope flashing across my mind: "did she go with her?"

"No, monsieur; she is still here: she was as much surprised as monsieur at madame's departure."

She

"Send her at once!" I cry eagerly; but, when she comes, I find that she can throw no light on the matter. weeps noisily, and says many irrelevant things: but I can obtain no information from her beyond the fact that she was unaware of her mistress's departure until long after it had taken place; when, surprised at not being rung for at the usual time, she had gone to her room, and found it empty, and, on inquiring in the hotel, had heard of her sudden departure; that, expecting her to return at night, she had sat up waiting for her till two o'clock in the morning; but that, as I knew, she had not returned, neither had any thing since been heard of her.

Not all my inquiries, not all my cross-questionings of the whole staff of the hotel, of the visitors, of the railwayofficials, of nearly all the inhabitants of Lucerne and its environs, procure me a jot more knowledge. On the next few weeks I look back as on a satanic and insane dream. I can neither eat nor sleep; I am unable to remain one moment quiet; my whole existence, my nights and my days, are spent in seeking, seeking. Every thing that human despair and frenzied love can do is done by me. I advertise, I communicate with the police, I employ detectives; but that fatal twelve-days' start forever baffles me. Only on one occasion do I obtain one tittle of information.

In a village a few miles from Lucerne, the peasants, on the day in question, saw a carriage driving rapidly through their little street. It was closed: but through the windows they could see the occupants, -a dark gentleman, with the peculiar physiognomy which has been so often described; and on the opposite seat a lady, lying, apparently, in a state of utter insensibility. But even this leads to nothing.

O reader! these things happened twenty years ago. Since then I have searched sea and land; but never have I seen my little Elizabeth again.

BITS OF A GAME OF CROQUET. ANTICIPATING Goldsmith's oft-quoted line, the unknown inventor of croquet might have said, as the highest commendation of his work, that it was a game –

"For bashful swains and whisp'ring lovers made."

To enjoy it thoroughly, the player must do any thing and every thing but play. I hold, indeed, that one of its rules ought to be: No player who does not chat, flirt, or make love during the progress of the game shall be allowed to continue in it, but shall be held to be ignorant of its first principle. Flat heresy this, in the ears of croquet-maniacs, I know; but expressing, if you please, the frank opinion of what any experienced reporter would be perfectly justified in describing as a "large and influential majority." Therefore, speaking as I do, well within the rights of an alwaysto-be-respected majority, I do not feel called upon to offer any sort of apology for the fact, that at Mrs. Somerweather's latest lawn-party, at which croquet was played for several consecutive hours, persistently if not enthusiastically, not a single "scientific player" was present: at all events, I can safely certify that not one of them exhibited the slightest inclination or capacity for playing the game scientifically; and I distinctly remember how glad we all were that it was so. Looking back to the occasion, I have at this moment not the least doubt in my mind, that, had any specially ill-gifted individuals been in that particular assemblage, their sense of the demands of the game would have been outraged infinitely; and their suffering might even have become Dantesque in its intensity, without evoking the least sympathy or recognition. I confess I myself never saw the shining hours of a bright summer's afternoon more studiously "improved;" by which I mean, so great an amount of delightful, innocent flirtation and serious lovemaking got through in so brief a space. Parties at the Somerweathers' are always delightful; but this particular lawn-party will be remembered by at least half a dozen couples as long as pleasant memories are worth recalling. It is a matter of course that people who get a reputation for giving "delightful parties" must be themselves delightful. The Somerweathers are eminently delightful hosts. Their pleasure is the pleasure of their guests, and it is absolutely certain that they are never left unpaid for their charming hospitality. I declare, the thought of the pair strongly impels me to sketch them here, if for no other reason than to encourage others. Mrs. Somerweather is a little plump woman, as fresh as an opening rose, and as simple and natural in her beauty as a spring violet, a description of her which entirely satisfies my mind, though I can imagine it may fail to convey equally precise ideas to the mind of anybody not knowing the lady as well as I do, and, moreover, not having the advantage of seeing her with my admiring eyes. Somerweather is one of the best fellows breathing; and you might poll a whole county without coming upon a man so universal a favorite with women, or half so chivalrously fond of them. He, I know, married absolutely for love; and, for my own part, I would disbelieve any one who affirmed, even on oath, that he had ever for a single moment regretted having done so. wife, I am equally sure, loves him with all her heart, honors him with all her might, and seeing him so very great a favorite with the women about him is just a little, the very tiniest bit, jealous of him. Not half enough, understand me, to give either herself or him a moment's serious pain or uneasiness; but just as much as she can tell him,

His

"Besides several other things? " "Exactly."

enough assured to

On which he gives her back her kiss, and both laugh right merrily.

Though not a brunette as to complexion, Mrs. Somerweather has dark-brown hair, light green-brown eyes, shaded by nearly black lashes; and her belief is, that, if ever trouble comes to her in regard to her husband's liking for any other woman, that that other woman will inevitably be a blonde; and it does not shake her conviction in the least when Somerweather assures her that his preference is unalterably fixed on "black women."

Now, at the lawn-party I have spoken of, the prettiest girl present was Miss Renvil, a very blonde of blondes; and, haunted by her fatalistic belief, Mrs. Somerweather, do what she would, could not refrain from closely watching the bearing of her husband towards this young lady. To my eyes, two things appeared as plain as the clear blue sky over the whole party that Somerweather was extremely taken with Miss Renvil, and never for a moment thought of concealing the fact, any more than I, or anybody else of the party who looked admiringly on the charming girl, would have thought of doing. Mrs. Somerweather saw with her own eyes, however; and her conclusions and mine were not the same. It does not matter under what circumstances I overheard the following conversation: "You really appear to be greatly impressed by Miss Renvil," remarks Mrs. Somerweather.

"More than impressed," replies Somerweather: "I am greatly charmed with her. Aren't you?"

"There may not be exactly the same reasons for me to be charmed with her."

"Precisely the same, because she's charming."

"We don't see out of the same eyes."

"Comparison would be all in my disfavor, obviously," says Somerweather, with a gallant bow.

"A very pretty compliment; but a pity to waste it on your wife, is it not?"

"It is wasted only if she declines to accept it."

"And affords a tolerably strong proof of vanity if she does not," returns Mrs. Somerweather, half laughing, and a little in spite of herself.

"The composition of a pretty woman's character would not be complete without having in it a grain or two of vanity," he says.

"Men say that," she retorts.

"Because they are men, and, being so, are more just to her than she is to herself."

"If they would be less just, and more a good many other things, how much happier they would sometimes make her!" She half believed this, but only half.

"Stone-blind to the merits of all women but one, for example."

"As they expect her to be to the merits of all men but one."

"Not if they are reasonable men."

"All men are reasonable: it's their chief fault." "But least objectionable when their reasoning coincides with that of their wives?"

"And most to be admired when not used at all."

66

Possibly: I have not compared notes."

There is a little pause, during which she looks inquiringly in his face, which is calm, and has its habitual look of half-smiling gravity. He purposely keeps his eyes from meeting hers. Suddenly, as if with a plunge, she resumes the broken course of their conversation.

"To speak plainly," she says, "you have fallen in love with Miss Renvil?"

"Very much," he answers quite freely.

"And you say that to me, without gracing the confession by even so much as a moment's hesitation!"

"The most graceful way of answering a question quickly put is to answer it quickly," he replies.

"You confess you love Miss Renvil?" she demands with short breath.

"Like a daughter," he answers gravely.

66

Somebody else's daughter: that's understood."

"Not quite clearly. I meant, like a daughter of my own,"

he says.

66

gray

elders' bore bad

Oh! pray don't!" she cries. "Miss Renvil is turned one-and-twenty, and you are not yet two-and-thirty." "Please observe how I'm getting." "Doesn't in the least mend your case characters before yesterday." She can hardly help smiling herself as she says this. Somerweather laughs heartily. "Besides," she continues, not to be diverted by any means from the point at issue, "I'm not much over twenty." "Not much over eight-and-twenty, that is to say," he remarks.

"At all events, I shall not be thirty for a long time to come."

"Probably, not for three or four years, at least, with the absolute security that the registry of your birth will not at any time confront you, either at evening parties or at morning calls."

"It is not a question of my age, however," she says, determined to give no unnecessary latitude to the discussion, "but of your confessed love for Miss Renvil. I am really to understand, then, that you love her?"

"Excuse me, my darling," he says, with quite a forensic air; "but I fail to understand you completely. In saying 'you love her,' do you state a belief or ask a question?" "Both."

"Extremely feminine as to method, but not logical: sentence first, inquiry afterwards; execution some other time. Hush, dear! Here comes Frank Chester, who has just told me that he is engaged to her."

"To-to - Lottie Renvil!"

Somerweather, as it were, snatches her up from the gar den-seat on which they have been conversing, and carries her out of ear-shot of Frank Chester and his friend Spalding, who lounge by at the moment.

Frank Chester is a manly, handsome young fellow, a lieutenant in the Guards, and will be a baronet if he outlives his father. Dick Spalding is a banker's son; and I have heard it confidently asserted of him, that he is by no means such a fool as he looks, — which I believe does not

I fancy I shall recover,

Dick Spalding, laughing.

with time and care," replies

"Don't hurry the cure, whatever you do you might, after all, prefer not to recover, you know.”

"A thousand thanks for the suggestion. But, I say, old fellow, you in love!"

"At least, don't be abusive, if you can't be accurate,” remarks Frank. "I never said I was in love!"

“Well, then, we'll say you are not in love.”

"No, I sha'n't," says Frank; "but you may, if the tranquillity of your too-expansive soul requires you to make any such momentous statement."

The two burst into a peal of good-humored laughter, which is broken by Spalding with,

"But, I say, Frank, tell us about her. Is she pretty?" To which question Frank answers, "Awfully!"

"Has she got any tin?"

"Lots."

66

Engaged, really engaged, you know?" "The tin?"

"What a fellow you are! I mean the girl, of course.” "Ten deep,- for the remainder of the season." "But, I say, you know what I mean."

"Exactly that's just what I mean.”

Again they have a hearty laugh, and again Spalding comes to the charge:

"Come, I say, old fellow," he cries, "no humbug! What's she like?"

"Herself— strikingly!" answers Frank, with pretended confidence.

"I'm not surprised at all," says Spalding.

"I don't know whether you ought not to be," remarks Frank, sententiously, "taking fashion into account, and the influences of cosmetical science."

"You've guessed it," cries Frank: " an heiress!

"But, hang it! that doesn't tell me what she's like in appearance."

"I'll tell you, then: a woman, if you press me for extreme accuracy of description; a rose, if metaphor is more congenial to your mind."

"A red rose or a white? There happens to be a difference between them, I suddenly remember," asks Spalding.

"Precisely the kind of difference there is between the young lady in question and all other young ladies in question. I hope all your doubts are now solved, and your perturbed spirit set at rest for several consecutive minutes."

"Overwhelmed with obligation, my dear fellow. I shall now be able to recognize her easily among ten thousand."

“Heiresses bien entendre: you'll no doubt frequently find yourself surrounded by the exact number required for the experiment. May you succeed as well in every thing you take in hand! Come and share a cooling drink with me, before dying happy and respected by all who don't know you as well as I do."

They go on towards the house, their jolly laughter ringing over the lawn like music. They are hardly out of my sight before my eyes rest upon a truly delightful picture: Mrs. Somerweather approaches in company with Miss Renvil, and—which is what makes the group most of all charming in my eyes - Mrs. Somerweather's arm lovingly

encircles the waist of the handsome blonde. I only hear these few words spoken by Mrs. Somerweather; but they are enough to tell me that the gathering cloud has altogether gone out of the sky of her happiness:

"Will you ever be able to forgive me, dear, and forget my folly?"

Miss Renvil's sole answer the best she could make, I think — is a hearty and affectionate kiss.

LEGENDS OF OLD AMERICA.

IN our present state of geographical knowledge, there seems to be some danger lest all the old travellers' stories which amused our youth should perish, and be forgotten. Yet there was always something pleasant, and even fascinating, in the fairy tales of travel which had struck the imaginations of our ancestors; and there is still a charm in any evidence which goes to show that Pliny and Polo and the author of Sindbad's voyages were not liars, but romantic enthusiasts, retailing a poetical and inferior kind of truth about facts which have since become familiar. It is fortunate, therefore, that the industry of bookworms, and perhaps the influences of national vanity, have kept alive some of the histories of discovery (valueless in themselves) which startled or amused our forefathers. Among these are the legends relating to American discoveries, with which this sketch is concerned; and we may, perhaps, account for their preservation by the fact that the more modern the history of a nation, or the more meagre it may be in details of ancient greatness, the more eagerness will be shown to collect and elucidate the smallest scraps of legend which can give importance to the memory of older generations. It is proposed, in this essay, to describe very shortly some of the principal stories about the pre-Columbian America, which, in the hands of Danish and American antiquarians, have acquired an exaggerated importance; their value lying, as it appears, midway between the indifference which they received at first, and the incredulity which afterwards prevailed as to the facts on which, undoubtedly, they were based.

The existence of a world in the West had, of course, been suspected long before the discovery of America. We may put aside the legend of the great island Atlantis which Plato heard from the Egyptian priests, and with which, in later times, were incorporated all the fantastic stories which were brought home by the first travellers among the negro tribes; but one or two of the stories which floated about in old times are curious enough to be still worthy of notice.

An ancient German chief was reported to have sent as a choice present to the Consul Metellus certain Indians, who, losing their course, and being battered up and down with contrary winds, were shipwrecked in the North Sea, and taken alive. Some commentators will have it that these were some of our own British ancestors so be-painted and disguised with woad as to be mistaken for eastern savages. However this may be, the story reminds us of another, told in modern times by Bembo, the Venetian historian, with reference to the then recent discoveries of Columbus.

A French ship, sailing in the Narrow Seas, is said to have picked up a canoe built of osiers and bark: in this were seven swarthy men, whose faces were peculiarly broad, and tattooed, or stained, with a violet color; their dress was of fishes' skins; and their crowns were woven of reeds, and twisted in the shape of ears. "Flesh they ate raw, and they drank blood like wine." Six of them soon died; but the survivor is said to have lived for a long time in the retinue of the French king.

How legends of this kind originated, it is not easy to say. Some, perhaps, were mere impostures, and others created by the desire of believing in the Fortunate Islands "lying beyond the sunset," like the enchanted land which Irish fishermen have professed to see shining on the horizon west of Arran. Some may have had a real foundation. Many secrets of the sea must have become known to the bold sailors who traded between Carthage and the Tin Islands and Amber Coast. They certainly claimed some

knowledge of lands in the Atlantic, which, perhaps, were the Azores; and other discoveries may have been made "When the Phoenician sailors far astray Had brought uncertain notices away Of islands dreaming in the Middle Sea."

Their pilots were bold enough to explore the recesses of the ocean without compass or astrolabe; and fanciful writers have depicted the incidents of the possible voyage: "Ils continuaient dans l'Ouest durant quatre lunes sans rencontrer de rivages, mais la proue des navires s'embarrassait dans les herbes : des brouillards couleur de sang obscurcissait le soleil; une brise toute chargée de parfums endormait les équipages; et ils ne pouvaient rien dire, tant que leur mémoire était troublée.”

Wales was the home of other legends of this kind; and the bards were fond of singing of the famous voyages, which were called the "Three Disappearances." The first was the sailing of Merlin and his companions in the ship of glass; the second was the voyage of Gavran the discoverer, who went in the fifth century to search the western ocean for the "gwerdonau llion," the Green Islands famous in British songs; the third was the voyage of Prince Madoc, the hero of Southey's somewhat tedious epic. He sailed in the year 1170; and, after some time, came back with glowing accounts of the new world across the waters, so that many ships were fitted out to accompany his second voyage: they never were heard of again, and this was the "third disappearance." The question regarding the fate of Madoc's crews was once considered important enough to be discussed in councils of state. Queen Elizabeth's ministers are said to have debated whether a title to the Spanish Main might not be rested upon Madoc's occupation of the new world; but the claim was never prosecuted, either from its inherent absurdity, or (to borrow the historian's courtly phrase) " because the queen was not of that kind to put her scythe into another man's harvest."

Many attempts were made in the last century to find the lost Welsh tribe. In 1791 a Dr. Williams published a very learned inquiry into the discovery of America by his countrymen; and about the same time the subject received a full discussion in several numbers of the Gentleman's Magazine,

the source, as we may suppose, of Southey's inspiration. Some years previously, Mr. Binon, a gentleman of Glamorgan, penetrating to the junction of the Missouri and Mississippi Rivers, was fortunate enough, by his own account, to see the lost tribes again. If we might believe the traveller's tale, they recognized their common nationality, and showed him a castle and a church, and a roll of sacred books, which neither he nor they could read. Soon afterwards the French governor of Canada sent some priests to visit the same Indians; and they returned, with no fresh information, but with several of the Welsh Bibles which Mr. Binon had left with his friends. Several other expeditions were sent from Wales, of course without success. the course of one of these, the Missouri valley was thoroughly explored; and the travellers have left an interesting. account of the scenery, and of the great river, "here winding softly through the plains, and elsewhere forcing its way, and running furiously through hills and mountains full of mines."

In

The Irish claimed the merit of similar discoveries; and, as early as the tenth century, legends were current concerning a "Whiteman's-land," or Great Ireland over the Sea. These stories rested upon the vaguest rumors, and would hardly have been worth mentioning if so much importance had not been attached to them in the publications of the Society of Northern Antiquaries. One is amazed to see the precision with which the boundaries of these fabulous regions were laid down in the society's maps. All the lately confederated states are included in these boundaries, the coast-line running from the Potomac to the Rio Grande, the Rocky Mountains forming a substantial western limit. The northern frontier was fixed by the evidence of a very ancient saga, mentioning the capture by the Norsemen of certain Esquimau children, who spoke of a country to the south of their own, where the people "wore white dresses,