If we a worthy enemy do find,

To yield to worth it must be nobly done; But if of baser metal be his mind,

In base revenge there is no honour won. Who would a worthy courage overthrow, And who would wrestle with a worthless foe?

We say our hearts are great, and cannot yield; Because they cannot yield, it proves them poor: Great hearts are task'd beyond their power, but seld The weakest lion will the loudest roar. Truth's school for certain doth this same allow, High-heartedness doth sometimes teach to bow.

A noble heart doth teach a virtuous scorn:
To scorn to owe a duty over long;
To scorn to be for benefits forborne:

To scorn to lie, to scorn to do a wrong;

To scorn to bear an injury in mind;

To scorn a free-born heart slave-like to bind.

But if for wrongs we needs revenge must have, Then be our vengeance of the noblest kind; Do we his body from our fury save,

And let our hate prevail against our mind? What can 'gainst him a greater vengeance be, Than make his foe more worthy far than he?

BARON MUNCHAUSEN.

[Rudolph Erich Raspe, born in Germany about 1736; died at Mucross, Ireland, 1794. The real authorship of the amusing burlesque of the Travels of Baron Munchausen has been only recently discovered. Baron Friederich von Munchausen, of Bodenweder, Hanover, was the original of the character. He had seen some service, and on his retirement was addicted to the chase, good cheer, and story-telling of the most extravagant sort. Raspe, gifted with much talent, a member of

various learned societies, and sometime a professor in Cassel, but a man of lax principles, wrote out his friend's stories, exaggerating them, and adding to them, as his fancy inspired him, and published them first in England Munchausen's travels became popular, and their ers. Raspe died in a state of destitution. The following

authorship was attributed to various well-known writ

will serve as an example of his extravagant humour.]

We sailed from Amsterdam with despatches from their High Mightinesses, the States of Holland. The only circumstance which happened on our voyage worth relating, was the wonderful effects of a storm, which had torn up by the roots a great number of trees of enormous bulk and height, in an island where we lay at anchor to take in wood and water; some of these trees weighed many tons, yet they were carried by the wind so amazingly high, that they appeared like the feathers of small birds floating in the air, for they were at least five miles above the earth. However, as

soon as the storm subsided, they all fell perpendicularly into their respective places, and took root again, except the largest, which happened, when it was blown into the air, to have a man and his wife, a very honest old couple, upon its branches, gathering cucumbers (in this part of the globe that useful vegetable grows upon trees): the weight of this couple, as the tree descended, overbalanced the trunk, and brought it down in a horizontal position : it fell upon the chief man of the island, and killed him on the spot; he had quitted his house in the storm, under an apprehension of its falling upon him, and was returning through his own garden when this fortunate accident happened. The word fortunate here requires some explanation. This chief was a man of a very avaricious and oppressive disposition, and though he had no family, the natives of the island were half-starved by his oppressive and infamous impositions.

The very goods which he had thus taken from them were spoiling in his stores, while the poor wretches from whom they were plundered were pining in poverty. Though the destruction of this tyrant was accidental, the people chose the cucumber gatherers for their governors, as a mark of their gratitude for destroying, though accidentally, their late tyrant.

After we had repaired the damages we sustained in this remarkable storm, and taken leave of the new governor and his lady, we sailed with a fair wind for the object of our voyage.

In about six weeks we arrived at Ceylon, where we were received with great marks of friendship and true politeness. The following singular adventure may not prove unentertaining.

After we had resided at Ceylon about a fortnight, I accompanied one of the governor's brothers upon a shooting party. He was a strong athletic man, and being used to that climate (for he had resided there some years), he bore the violent heat of the sun much better than I could; in our excursion he had made a considerable progress through a thick wood when I was only at the entrance.

Near the banks of a large piece of water, which had engaged my attention, I thought I heard a rustling noise behind; on turning about, I was almost petrified (as who would not?) at the sight of a lion, which was evidently approaching with an intention of satisfying his appetite with my poor carcass, and that without asking my consent. to be done in this horrible dilemma? I had

What was

SWORD AND SHUTTLE.

MY OLD NURSE'S STORY OF SOME FRENCH REFUGEES.

[Thomas Archer, born in London, 1830. Novelist and miscellaneous writer. His principal works are: Madame Prudence; Wayfe Summers; Strange Work; A Fool's Paradise: The Pauper, the Thief, and the Conrict, a Book on Crime and Poverty; The Terrible Sights of London: The Frogs' Parish Clerk; The Boys' Book of

Trades; The History of France, from the Accession of Louis Philippe to the Close of the German Occupation;

and he has edited a family edition of Richardson's Pamela. One critic says: "Mr. Archer's style is easy and unaffected, placing before the reader pictures of the vice and misery that surround us, often with a striking minuteness of detail, but never with anything approaching to coarseness."]

PART I.

Ah, my dear, these are almost the only things I can remember now. It's just the way with an old woman like me, that all that happened years and years ago comes out clear as yesterday, and the things of yesterday go backward and backward till we forget them altogether. Age makes a solitude of its own, just as youth does-both of 'em are waiting for companyonly one is to be taken to it and the other sent to it.

Those two men are the elder Du Boisson and the pastor Duchesne.

I said the elder Du Boisson, and he is old indeed now. Peeping at him, as I used to do as a child, over the privet hedge that divided our gardens, I have often thought he must have wonderful stories to tell of the dreadful times in France when men, women, and children were scarred with sword, and set alight like torches, and yet not suffered to leave France, under pain of fresh tortures if they were arrested on the way. This old man had escaped through great dangers, but his wife had died of grief and terror, and only he and his one son reached England, leaving house and lands behind. His estates were at St. Ambroix in the south of France, which will account for his coming at once to London and joining the colony of our emigrés that had settled in Spitalfields; for St. Ambroix is a silk district, and the elder Du Boisson knew some of the weavers here very well, and also some of the noblemen, who, having no trade, because they were high-born, learned of their wives to make pillow-lace, and wrought at Coventry and other places. As I have said, Du Boisson, father and son, came to Spitalfields; and behold, in thirty years they were there still, for the son had grown into a middle-aged, stout, rosy, dark-eyed gentleman, gay with the sprightly jollity of our countrymen of those times, and married to a comely wife-your relation, dear

It is a long low room, with leaden casements that swing open, and look out first on a row of blue and white flower-pots all along the sill, and then between the leaves and flowers-a complete window-blind in themselves-upon a garden all laid out with such gaudy blooms, that every bed, round or square, or cut into odd shapes, looks like a separate nosegay. It has been raining; and now the sun is out again, and the perfume of mignonette and clove pink, narcissus, rose, and verbena goes up to heaven along with the incense of sweet thyme, basil, and knotted marjoram. For it is a French garden, dear, and a corner of it is kept for potherbs and salads-chervil and sorrel, and if not for garlic, at any rate for shallots.

It is a French garden, and there are two Frenchmen sitting together in the little arbour at the end of it—an arbour formed by an elder tree drooping over a little rustic wood-work that shelters a bench.

Rouen and the north, in the early troubles, after the bishops and the Bourbon had broken faith with God and man.

It was just beyond Spitalfields, and close to the pleasant fields and hedgerows of Bethnal Green that our houses stood. Ah! these places were pretty and countrified then. Once pass the great frowning tower of London, and the old artillery-ground where the train-bands and soldiers used to practise, and you were close to St. Mary's 'Spital, and among the tall houses with great upper-rooms and wide casements, where caged-birds sang in answer to the click of the loom and the swift whistle of the flying shuttle. The Spitalfields silks were the most sought after in those days, dear, and many a weaver wore gold pieces or crowns instead of buttons to his flapped coat or his embroidered waistcoat. The Du Boissons had not reached England penniless, and they were money-making people thrifty as the old Huguenot gentry knew how to be-thrifty and industrious. When the son married he had not left off working at his trade. There was a loom in the upper-room of the house still,

but the younger Du Boisson had several other looms elsewhere, and a journeyman hard at work at every one of them making figured-silk and velvet. Little Hugo slept in the shadow of that loom at the house in Bethnal Green. He worked there in the day, for he was to be taught his trade-his father would have it so, and he slept there at night. The likeness of that boy to his grandfather was something wonderful. The same keen, severely-cut face, the same firm mouth and chin. Except that he has his mother's fair skin and pleading eye, he would look much more than his fourteen years on this afternoon that his grandfather and le Pasteur Duchesne sit talking so earnestly in the summer-house. For it is Hugo's birth-day, and therefore a household holiday; the loom is silent; the boy himself has gone out to spend the crown-piece that made a part of his morning present. His father and mother are both sitting in the lower room-she a fair woman, beautiful still, and with that serene look that so well accords with her dainty lace-cap, the fine snow-white tucker which covers her shapely throat, and the sleeves that show off the whiteness of her taper fingers as they move swiftly in embroidering a waistcoat, which is to be finished as a gift to her boy before he comes in to their early tea.

Somehow everybody who saw Madame Du Boisson sitting in her pretty parlour, associated her with the delicate china which was set out on mahogany shelves in a recess of the wall, and with the charming figures of brocaded lovers surrounded by flowers, and holding candle-sconces in their hands, which adorned the mantel-piece. There were many such pretty nick-nacks about, with flowers and sweet-herbs in china vases and bowls, just in the old French way. The elder Du Boisson's flute and the fiddle of the younger hung on the wall, and a spinette in the corner of the room was open, with some written music on the desk in front of it. For madame could play and sing prettily. Some of the ornaments of their home, and a good stock of clothes and linen, was nearly all the dowry she brought to her husband, though she came of one of the old families, and on her mother's side belonged to the French nobility. Her husband thought her face fortune enough, and her sweet placid temper all the dower a man need ask. He thinks so now, as he leans back a little in his chair and blows away the light wreath of smoke from his pipe that he may see her the better. A handsome crisphaired, dark-eyed, ruddy man-almost more English than French in his ways-a man contented to leave the dead past to bury its

dead, although he has still a deep, solemn memory of his mother, and of the old home in the "Gard," whence she fled to die before she could reach a place of refuge-contented to be what he is a master weaver with a good home about him, a sweet wife, and a boy whom he hopes to make his "right-hand man” in three or four years more. Ah, that boy! how little he is like his father. The grandfather sees that often, as he sits in his elbowchair and shoots furtive, almost eager, and yet rather troubled glances at the lad. The mother sees it too, and, strangely enough, divines much of what may come of it. I said strangely-but madame was of the old old Protestants, people who had insight, my dear, and who kept to the old names and the old ways, and had a sword for the enemies of France, as the wicked rulers of their nation found to their cost more than once.

"Yes, Louis," she says, taking up their conversation as she took up a thread, "I have watched the dear child often, and he will grow into it. Only the other day I heard him say to his grandfather, 'Grandpere, if the persecutions should cease and we could claim our own, you will take me with you?'"

'And what did my father say?"

"He laughed, and then there came that flash into his eyes, Louis, and he put the boy back a little and said, 'Why, we might have to choose again between our Christianity or our property, my dear child; instead of persecutors who stab and burn in the name of the church and of religion, we may yet hear of those who rob and murder in the name of reason and of universal brotherhood. At present we Protestants are kept out of legal registers, and are not suffered to make wills. The time may shortly come when law itself will be abolished, and all property be confiscated."

"Hum! he knows a few things, that father of mine," says the husband with a serious look. "That is from the pastor. Duchesne has information. You know that he has only returned from Paris but these three days, my love?"

"I did not know. He is here to-day, though, with our father. They have secrets, those two; but there can be no bad secrets in which the pastor takes part?"

"I think I know their secret," replies the husband, laughing again and lighting a fresh pipe.

"Is it about the property, Louis?"
"Yes; I think so."

it?"

"Does our father wish you to try to reclaim