a gloomy hush, and they fell, as though they had been waves of some dark and dashing river, into a swift and regular procession. The living were rolled on like the great stream of hushed but terrible elements-the dying were hurried to their doom; and as the bridge with its shining array burst into view, and the music of a jubilee leaped from the pealing bells, again the roar from a thousand voices swelled through the lofty azure. Women felt their bosoms heave with the scene's terrible inspiration; and children, young children, that had scarce a tongue wherewith to bless their Creator, or curse his creatures, bayed the Protestants to the last foot-space where they met their doom.

At a distance might be seen a few horsemen, hovering over a scene which they dare not approach, even to catch the last look of a beloved kinsman-riding fast towards the town, as if with the resolve to deliver or to die for their friends; and then slowly whirling back as the dense numbers told how hopeless the attempt. Above and below the solemn arches, whose history is blended with the transaction, but at a distance which left space for the theatre of death, a few pleasure-boats were idly wherried

to and fro, or plashed at anchor, with loose white sails, and their prows ornamented with ribbons. Mr. Clifford stood in the eleventh space from the first sufferer, who, receiving the pike in his bosom, was thrown into the stream, and instantly sunk to rise no more. Whether the hand of the executioners grew weary, or whether such momentary death took off something of the pleasure of the scene, and the fate of the gladiators "butchered to make a Roman holiday" was too merciful, it may be difficult to say, but by degrees the stroke, so far from being mortal, was scarcely such as to promise even a lingering death; but when the bleeding fingers clung in vain to the pointed and slippery buttresses of the bridge-when the strong swimmer, in his agony, came near the shore, and was the next instant seen writhing on the crimson spearthen arose such a cry from the gurgling waters as never had been heard amid the murders of a sacked and plundered city, or amid the wreckers of a black and welling sea.

Mr. Clifford, with the exertion of human strength in its agony, burst the ligaments that made him captive to the scene. In a moment of time he had thrown himself over the steep

stone parapet, and, without a wound, found himself in the red and fleetly rolling tide. Without looking to the right or the left, he made rapidly down the current; but ere he had cleared the watery amphitheatre he was struck with a ball from his pursuers. The numbness of the water had deceived his sense of pain; and as he rowed on-the poor bark of life which was so soon to perish, he saw the waters as he cut them tinged with ruddy streaks, and gradually flowing in a deeper crimson. To the boat he was, though with abated power, approaching. He saw only on the deck a white figure indistinct. How anxiously did he struggle! But for a few moments-a few more sands in that exhausted hour-glassand he would again be saved. His arms became cold and nerveless, but still he had power to buoy himself on the wave which drifted him to the boat and figure he had seen. One glance only. It told him, that of the spectators of his agony one was his wife. No power could have saved him, but with a convulsive effort at speech he uttered her name; and such an utterance! so clear, so dying, so unearthly! it was never forgotten.

Mrs. Clifford had remained in utter ignorance of her husband's fate; nor did she know that he was to suffer in the proscription of that morning, or she would not have been in a manner so utterly lost to a woman's nature, consenting to his death. His life had been guaranteed on the word of her Confessor. If we inquire how Monica could be a witness of the tragedy at Wexford bridge, perhaps a reply may be found in the influence of a faith which sometimes blunts the edge of feeling, and hardens the tenderness of nature. Perhaps an example could be found under the eye of the Roman Catholic Church-in the Spanish woman's love of cruel and bloody amusementscompared to which the show of the gladiators in the circus was a merciful pastime.

CHAPTER X.

To the Rev. Novis Thelluson,

YOUR reply has convinced me

It is,

of the origin of your opinions. Living far from › the University, you have carried into retirement a thirst for distinction, which was honorable whilst you stood by the great and dimlyexplored sources of literature; but the passion degenerated by change of place, and became an unclean appetite for notoriety. perhaps, more difficult to one who has earned fame and emolument in the royal pursuits of knowledge, to sit down in a distant village, and fall into the lowly life and duties of a country clergyman, than for the warrior to rest in quiet from his victories, or the statesman to descend from his ermine into contentment. The scholar carries with him to the parsonage the full pos