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good music be produced from such an instrument, when the piano has two or three hundred ?" "Oh, the strings were very long, one of them about fourteen feet; and the other may be lengthened at pleasure, even to fifty feet or more." "What a prodigious deal of room it must take up! But no matter, I will have mine in the old hall, and papa may have an addition made to it; for he says I shall never want for anything, and so does mamma. But what kind of sound did it make? Were the strings struck with little mallets like the piano; or were they snapped like a harpsichord.” "Like neither of those instruments, as I recollect, but it produced a soft kind of humming music, and was peculiarly agreeable to the husband and relations of the performer."

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'Oh, as to pleasing one's husband or relations, you know that is altogether vulgar in fashionable society. But I am determined to have one, at any rate. Was it easily learned? and was it taught by French and Italian masters?" "It was easily learned, but taught neither by Frenchmen nor Italians.” “Can you not possibly remember the name? How shall we know what to inquire for?" "Yes, I do now remember the name; and you must inquire for a Spinning Wheel."

ANONYMOUS

LESSON CXXXV.

ALNWICK CASTLE.

HOME of the Percy's high-born race,
Home of their beautiful and brave,

Alike their birth and burial place,
Their cradle and their grave!
Still sternly o'er the castle gate
Their house's lion stands in state,

As in his proud departed hours;
And warriors frown in stone on high,
And feudal banners "flout the sky,"
Above his princely towers.

A gentle hill its side inclines,

Lovely in England's fadeless green,
To meet the quiet stream which winds
Through this romantic scene,

As silently and sweetly still,

As when, at evening, on that hill,

While summer's wind blew soft and low,
Seated by gallant Hotspur's side,
His Katharine was a happy bride,
A thousand years ago.

Gaze on the abbey's ruined pile:

Does not the succoring ivy, keeping
Her watch around it, seem to smile,
As o'er a loved one sleeping?
One solitary turret gray

Still tells, in melancholy glory,
The legend of the Cheviot day,
The Percy's proudest border story.

That day its roof was triumph's arch;
Then rang, from aisle to pictured dome,
The light step of the soldier's march,
The music of the trump and drum:
And babe and sire, the old, the young,
And the monk's hymn, and minstrel's song,
And woman's pure kiss, sweet and long,
Welcomed the warrior home.

Wild roses by the abbey towers

Are gay in their young bud and bloom: They were born of a race of funeral flowers, That garlanded, in long-gone hours,

A templar's knightly tomb.

He died, the sword in his mailed hand,

On the holiest spot of the Blessed Land,

Where the cross was damped with his dying breath; When blood ran free as festal wine,

And the sainted air of Palestine

Was thick with the darts of death.

Wise with the lore of centuries,

What tales, if there be "tongues in trees,"

Those giant oaks could tell,

Of beings born and buried here;

Tales of the peasant and the peer,
Tales of the bridal and the bier,
The welcome and farewell,
Since, on their boughs, the startled bird
First, in her twilight slumbers, heard
The Norman's curfew bell.

I wandered through the lofty halls
Trod by the Percys of old fame,
And traced, upon the chapel walls,
Each high, heroic name,

From him who once his standard set
Where now, o'er mosque and minaret,

Glitter the sultan's crescent moons,
To him who, when a younger son,t
Fought for King George at Lexington,
A major of dragoons.

*

That last half stanza-it has dashed
From my warm lip the sparkling cup;
The light that o'er my eye-beam flashed,
The power that bore my spirit up
Above this bank-note world-is gone;
And Alnwick's but a market town,
And this, alas! its market day,
And beasts and borderers throng the way;
Oxen, and bleating lambs in lots,
Northumbrian boors, and plaided Scots;

Men in the coal and cattle line,
From Teviot's bard and hero land,
From royal Berwick's beach of sand,
From Wooller, Morpeth, Hexham, and
Newcastle-upon-Tyne.

These are not the romantic times
So beautiful in Spenser's rhymes,

So dazzling to the dreaming boy:
Ours are the days of fact, not fable;
Of knights, but not of the round table;
Of Bailie Jarvie, not Rob Roy;
"T is what" our President," Munroe,

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Has called the era of good feeling :"
The Highlander, the bitterest foe

To modern laws, has felt their blow,
Consented to be taxed, and vote,

And put on pantaloons and coat,....
And leave off cattle-stealing:

* One of the ancestors of the Percy family was an emperor of Constantinople ↑ The late duke. He commanded one of the detachments of the British army in the affair at Lexington and Concord, in 1775.

Lord Stafford mines for coal and salt,
The Duke of Norfolk deals in malt,

The Douglas in red herrings;
And noble name, and cultured land,
Palace, and park, and vassal band,
Are powerless to the notes of hand
Of Rothschild, or the Barings.

The age of bargaining, said Burke,
Has come to-day the turbaned Turk
(Sleep, Richard of the lion heart!
Sleep on, nor from your cerements start,)
Is England's friend and fast ally;
The Moslem tramples on the Greek,
And on the cross and altar stone,
And Christendom looks tamely on,
And hears the Christian maiden shriek,
And sees the Christian father die;
And not a saber blow is given

For Greece and fame, for faith and heaven,
By Europe's craven chivalry.

You'll ask if yet the Percy lives

In the armed pomp of feudal state?
The present representatives

Of Hotspur and his "gentle Kate,"
Are some half dozen serving men,
In the drab coat of William Penn;

A chambermaid, whose lip and eye,

And cheek and brown hair, bright and curling,

Spoke nature's aristocracy;

And one, half groom, half seneschal,

Who bowed me through court, bower, and hall,

From donjon keep to turret wall,

For ten-and-sixpence sterling.

F. G. HALLECK.

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THE LAST DAYS OF QUEEN ELIZABETH.

THE Earl of Essex, after his return from the fortunate expedition against Cadiz, observing the increase of the queen's tond attachment towards him, took occasion to regret that the

necessity of her service required him often to be absent from her person, and exposed him to all those ill offices, which his enemies, more assiduous in their attendance, could employ against him. She was moved with this tender jealousy, and making him the present of a ring, desired him to keep that pledge of her affection, and assured him, that, into whatever disgrace he should fall, whatever prejudices she might be induced to entertain against him, yet, if he sent her that ring, she would immediately, upon sight of it, recall her former tenderness; would afford him a patient hearing, and would lend a favorable ear to his apology.

Essex, notwithstanding all his misfortunes, reserved this precious gift to the last extremity; but after his trial and condemnation, he resolved to try the experiment, and he committed the ring to the Countess of Nottingham, whom he desired to deliver it to the queen. The countess was prevailed on by her husband, the mortal enemy of Essex, not to execute the commission; and Elizabeth, who still expected that her favorite would make this last appeal to her tenderness, and who ascribed the neglect of it to his invincible obstinacy, was, after much delay, and many internal combats, pushed by resentment and policy to sign the warrant for his execution.

The Countess of Nottingham falling into sickness, and affected with the near approach of death, was seized with remorse for her conduct; and having obtained a visit from the queen, she craved her pardon, and revealed the fatal secret. The queen, astonished with this incident, burst into a furious passion. She shook the dying countess in her bed; and crying to her, That God might pardon her, but she never could, she broke from her, and thenceforth resigned herself over to the deepest and most incurable melancholy. She resisted all consolation; she even refused food and sustenance; and, throwing herself on the floor, she remained sullen and immovable, feeding her thoughts on her afflictions, and declaring life and existence an intolerable burden to her. Few words she uttered; and they were all expressive of some inward grief which she cared not to reveal; but sighs and groans were the chief vent which she gave to her despondency, and which, though they discovered her sorrows, were never able to ease or assuage them.

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