which it was agreed on both sides that the union would take place on his paying down Rs. 400 to the girl's family. He said that of that amount he had already paid Rs. 350 into the hands of the girl's mother, and had only kept back the balance until the marriage knot was tied. His doing so had displeased the brother, who had refused to sanction the marriage till the remaining Rs. 50 were paid. The girl's mother, however, was not of the same mind with her son. She had consented

to the union at once, on the understanding that the balance was to be paid after the foolsajya, or the honeymoon; and it was with her consent that he was allowed to carry off the girl to his own house.

This defence was altogether unsupported, though an attempt to compromise the case privately was made by Soobudhra Dabea, which the court refused to permit. The young Lochinvar, being convicted of the offence he was charged with, was sentenced to one year's imprisonment with labour, the labour being redeemable by a fine of Rs. 50.

"Our English judges," exclaimed Zeeluk, seems to have very poor ideas of knighthood and chivalry. If we had the French or the Spaniards for our masters, they would certainty not have punished me for what I have done."

"Did you not know before that the English are a race of shopkeepers who insist on cash payment for goods removed ?"

LOVE.

LOVE! What is love? The passing joy
Of an idle hour,

When two have met in a summer bower,
A girl and boy.

Playfellows, they, whom nought could sever,
The girl and the boy;

From childhood, whether in grief or joy,
True partners ever.

She has shed full many a tear-
For he was away,

And slowly, slowly, day after day,
Dieth a year.

Changes many have taken place,
In that one long year-

Changes in both, and in more, I fear,
Than form and face.

She is fairer, more manly he;
A womanly grace,

Of the girlish charms that used to be
Has ta'en the place.

Not as of old they meet again:
She hath timid grown,

And he at her feet is kneeling down,
Nor pleads--in vain?

Nought is there left to live for now:
They have drained the cup
Of life to the dregs, nor can fill it up
Again for aye.

Love! What is love? The passing joy
Of an idle hour,

When two have met in a summer bower,

A girl and boy.

W. T. G.

TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS.

By ALFRED HENRY BROMILOW.

No. V.
"DOUGLAS."

THIS tragedy was written by John Home, who thereby incurred the censure of the elders of the Scotch kirk, of which he was a clergyman. It is a beautiful performance, and is superior to the "Merope "of,Maffei, or of Voltaire, which in subject it somewhat resembles. David Hume and the poet Gray were equally charmed with it. The play was suggested by the ballad of Gil, or Childe Morrice, and was originally acted in Edinburgh in 1756. At this representation an enthusiatic North Briton stood up in the pit, and, looking round, filled with triumph, he exclaimed: "Weel, lads, what think ye of Wully Shakespeare now ?"

THE beams of the mist-obscured moon fell upon the towers of Lord Randolph's castle. Around the massive building was a deep ditch, over which a drawbridge hung-the only means of communication with the mansion. It was necessary, in those times of feud and bloodshed, to have a warder constantly on the alert in the watch turret to give an alarm in case strangers approached. Extra precaution of this kind was being taken at the present, as an invasion by the rude Danes was dreaded.

Behind the ancient dwelling was a forest of pine-trees, intermingled with old oaks and firs, which grew so thickly as to appear in the distance one heavy mass of timber. And into the solitary paths of this dismal park, though the hour was late, strolled the Lady Randolph. She was still sorrowing over the loss of her first husband, Douglas, and over the death of his son, and her firstborn. Well might she, suffering beneath so heavy a load, address the weeping trees; well might she apostrophise the sighing breeze and the half-hidden moon that, in the death-like silence, seemed to commiserate the unhappy lady; well, indeed, might she call upon the spirit of Douglas, and fain believe that his ghost haunted each gnarled oak.

These lamentations were broken upon by Lord Randolph, who complained bitterly of her ladyship's conduct; for, although, as he said, when he married her he did not expect a display of flowing love, still he had hoped for companionship, kindness, and decent affection. However, he was off to the camp, where each warrior, having heard of the landing of the Norsemen on their shores, were eagerly awaiting the order for the fray.

After his lordship had taken his leave, Anna, the lady's maid, presented herself, and strove, but in vain, to console her mistress. Some few vows had been spoken when Lady Randolph, to ease her own

bosom, told her maid the story of her sorrows. Her brother had, in battle, saved young Douglas; the wounded but brave youth came to Balarmo, and wooed her; but, alas! between the houses of Douglas and Malcolm a deadly feud existed, so that it was necessary for the two lovers to be married in private.

Young Douglas was called to the field, and Sir Malcolm, Lady Randolph's father, finding out who his visitor was, compelled his daughter to take an oath never to be the bride of a Douglas. In three weeks the sad news came that Douglas had been slain; and, before the grief for his death had subsided, the lady found herself "as ladies wish to be who love their lords."

The matter had to be kept secret, and, at length, on the night the child was born, it was given to a nurse, who, in taking it to her home, stumbled into the Carron, that was swollen, and of neither nurse nor child had the lady since heard. Not that, in marrying Lord Randolph, she had forgotten Douglas or her child, as, indeed, her second marriage had added to her sorrows.

As they were narrating these details, Lady Randolph caught sight of the figure of Glenalvon, who was gliding amid the trees, and, having a distaste to him, she retraced her steps to the castle.

Glenalvon, Lord Randolph's heir, held some parley with Anna, and then found himself alone. He had not failed to notice how Lady Randolph shunned him, but his passion for her, monstrous though it was, was not to be shaken by her insolence. Already had she once fallen into his hands, and been rescued by her husband, while he escaped unknown, poor reward for the peril he had encountered. that defeat should not dishearten him. The present was a favourable hour; no kinsmen nigh to defend her, no brother at hand to assert her honour, he would to it at once, and the man who stood in his way should to him be a Dane.

But

There was a loud clatter in the galleries, leading to the court, into which Lord Randolph and Norval, disordered and with bloody swords, accompanied by her ladyship and Anna, rushed screaming and terrified.

It would appear that, as Lord Randolph was proceeding to the camp, he had been set upon by a band of ruffians, from whose ferocity he had been saved by the valour of young Norval. This Norval was a total stranger, and gave his history as that of one who had been brought up on the hills, tending sheep; but ever having had a desire to follow the profession of arms, he had left his wild cot, and the first act of valour he had been able to perform had secured Lord Randolph's deliverance from death.

Both lord and lady praised him, and remarked the superior cast of countenance, and more dignified manners than it was common to find in shepherds. As a reward Lord Randolph gave the hero a position of trust in the troop. The lady threw many looks upon the well-chiselled features and the clustering curls that fell so profusely over his high forehead.

"Oh, would," said the lady to herself, "would that my Douglas had lived! My son, like that brave youth, would have been handsome, and, in the paths of glory, would have struck out for immortal fame."

Henceforth the lady would consider the youth as her own, and her lord would that evening prepare a feast in his honour; and on the morrow, ere the bright orb of day climbed over the eastern hills, they should set out together for the camp, in which the young warrior had expressed so many earnest wishes to dwell.

But Lady Randolph was aware that, of all the foes young Norval might be destined to meet and to combat, none were more dangerous, nor more crafty, than Glenalvon, who would be enraged to see the young hero elevated in the house of Randolph, and thereby incur his most implacable resentment. Upon meeting the arch deceiver alone, she commanded him to treat the new-comer with respect, and beware of her in case he attempted to do him an evil.

The manner in which the speech was delivered struck Glenalvon with surprise; for the moment he fancied that his plots had been discovered, and he was, therefore, glad when he found out that his fears were i'-founded; and informed the lady that, in order to seize the wretches who had attempted her husband's life, he had planted a guard, sufficiently strong, around the wood, wherein the wretches were still supposed to lurk.

She coolly thanked him, and again admonished him as to the line of conduct he should adopt to Norval. Then she left him.

"So, so," he mused, "my attempted rape gave to Randolph a bride,my attempted assassination a favourite. But I have a project. A slave that came here with Norval has been spurned by him; I will seek him and he shall help me. The youngster must be crushed, or I may soon cease to be Lord Randolph's heir."

Into the same court, a gray-headed sinner was present ly dragged the guard had found him in the forest, not far from the scene of the frustrated murder. Upon him the servants had found sundry pieces of valuable jewellery, and how he became possessed of them threw more than suspicion upon the honesty of his character. Upon Lady Randolph's entrance, the servants begged of her to allow them to put their prisoner upon the rack, and extort the truth; but this arbitrary proposal met with little encouragement from the dame, who ordering the retainers away, proceeded to question the wretch herself, and a marvellous tale he unfolded. He had at one time been Sir Malcolm's tenant, but on being driven forth from his tenement, he had gone into a house on the banks of the Carron, where, one night, in the midst of winter, when the river was lashed to fury, he heard the cries of one in jeopardy. On awakening and searching, no person could be discovered, but he found. a basket containing a child and jewels.

"And wretch! didst thou kill the child," exclaimed Lady Randolph.

"I did not, fair dame, but took him to my cot, and being poor, God