And a recent poet, Alexander Smith, who died before fulfilling the promise of his "Life Drama," apostrophises thus a little child : "O thou bright thing, fresh from the hand of God; The motions of thy dancing limbs are swayed By the unceasing music of thy being! Whence all things flow! O bright and singing babe, And she, for whom most of these things were at first written, or, at least, thought of, which now are offered to all who choose to read them, is she wroth at this profanation of holy ground? These things were not written in the hope of consoling her, but because she was already consoled; for I remember the saying of our gentle Goldsmith, that premature consolation is the remembrancer of sorrow; and I remember that phrase in a newer story, almost worthy of being mentioned in the same breath with the "Vicar:"-" We did not try to console her, it was too soon yet for that, we only loved her." That is a cruel custom described by Gerstaecker: If a child up to four years of age dies in Chili, it is thought to go straight to heaven, and become a little angel. Right enough: but then the little corpse, dressed in a snow-white frock, is laid out in joyful state, with flowers, and holy pictures, and wax-lights; and the poor mother must dance, and laugh, and sing with the rest of them; for is not she the mother of a little angel? But you, dear sister, we did not treat you so harshly. We let you weep; we let you obey the mandate of the wise man, never wiser than in ordering the poor human heart to weep over those that are gone. Modicum plora: a little, but only a little. And now you have wept enough. And now, when, at the bidding of St. Francis de Sales, you look up to cette brave petite Sainte, who was yours, and is yours for ever, you do not weep any more, but only over your eyes there comes sometimes, You have wept enough, or, rather, your little angel has prayed for you enough, to enable you to bear your cross meekly, nay, with gladness. The little grave is green enough to kneel upon, and then, after many a prayer, to talk round with hushed voices and hearts subdued. But, thank God, you did not wait for the second or the seventh harvest of daisies to kneel there and pray, and to bless, with loving submission, the hand which has taken away, not for ever, the gift it gave. "No, no, my own darling, I would not recall you I leave you to God's sweet will: For I know you're with God, and happy! happy! And I know you love me still." So was a daring hand beginning to translate the better poetry which the Heart of Jesus put into your heart, after the first storm of tears had passed over and cleared the air. "If a Hail Mary could bring back my darling to my arms, I would not say it." Ah! not to bring back the child to you, but to bring you safe to your little angel, go on strewing your days and hours with Hail Marys, that your last words on earth may be, "Immaculate Heart of Mary, pray for me; have mercy on me, O Heart of Jesus!" WHO has not known the exhilaration of a slapping ride across country? When, gentle reader, did you last find yourself well mounted, on a horse capable of the determined flying leap, clever at topping a wall— your tried companion, gifted with speed and courage, good temper, endurance? Horse and man, with their excellent mutual understanding, are then sworn companions and friends; a common purpose lies before them, and a stirring one; and thus we accomplish our mileage as the crow flies, not as road-surveyors mete it out with their chains and perches, laying down their ponderous mile-stones; not as our elders and betters may pursue the devious tenor of their way by the slow aid of wheels, stopping anon to bait their tired post-cattle, or to rest the family pair of chestnuts and pursy coachman. Over the hedge, with a loose rein; now sit well back, as our good steed descends the other side; then away through the meadow, stretching onward, free and far, as Mr. Scott has it of his noble stag-would he had hymned our nobler nag-it would call up a Pindar to do it; and meanwhile, hip, hip, and away! Such joyous memories quicken the heart, and make the life-blood stir; they fill the mind's eye with swift and pleasant alternations we have known a-horseback; while those autumnal woods crisped their leaves under the hoofs in the fresh October air, while we swept through undulations of meadow-land, and streams, and the broken fox-covers; broad, winding lanes, green as Robin Hood's merry men, with velvet sward, ever trimmed by Nature's hand, that perfect landscape gardener; while the pace, amid these her chosen haunts, is a well-maintained seventeen mile an hour, or more. But there are riders and riders. The guilty and the guileless ride alike. We have to return to the murderer, and the severe, nay, desperate chevy that lies before him. From Epping to Ernham-these are the whence and the whither for that blood-stained man: a stretch of some hundred and thirty miles, even could he follow the crow's flight. But he has first to dodge his pursuer, then to ride through the night-hours, during which needs must he follow the road, or puzzle slowly amid byways. Throughout his long gallop, there are devious miles and miles, where the straight line cannot be taken; they will add another good thirty miles to his flight. For, risk it as he may on the reckless steeplechase, "-the path the human being travels Follows the river's course, the valley's windings, And thus secure, though late, attains its end."* But away! while we thus linger, Richard Smethers is on the trail. The pursued has already determined on his plan. He will ride eastby-north, as men would phrase it at sea, so much as the sinuous forest-roads permit him; thus he will feign to be making for the Essex or Suffolk coast. Then, having thrown the sleuth-hound off the scent, having broken up the chain of evidence that might be brought hereafter, he has to strike up north-west, and bisect (so his tutor might have said at Cambridge) the island for a considerable portion of its length, till he reaches home, and-Helen. His plans have been well laid. Shame upon us, when for worthier ends we take such ineffectual and ill-considered means! Bracton has planned this murder with more forethought than scores of men employ on how to save their souls. He has brought everything with him: a pocket-compass, a well-folded map to guide his course; a roll of banknotes and purse of guineas, for relays of horses. Half his fortune would have been well bestowed, so he reasons, to emancipate the other half from these intolerable exactions, to rid him of this incubus. Knollis disposed of, and himself once safe at Ernham, then he may tell pale-hearted fear it lies, and sleep, in spite of thunder. *Schiller, "The Two Piccolomini." Sleep! has he then lulled his conscience, more than that other, who "murdered sleep?" Do no compunctious visitings knock at his heart? No vision of the murdered man rise before his eyes? Hardly yet the time for that has not come. He will have leisure at Ernham; leisure to quake at his own dread memories. The avenging furies, that will cling like vampires round his roof-tree, and sit with him by the hearth, and scream discordant in his ear, have not overtaken him upon their slow but certain way. Lame of foot, they are left behind by the desperate gallop. At present he flees, not from remorse, but Smethers! Romford, then Brentwood; these are the points of his feigned flight, before he doubles. The first place is six good miles from where his gallop begins, the second at least an equal distance further. The forest-paths are intricate; but with his compass and his lantern he can hardly be much at fault. One or two false turns he makes; once he comes snddenly on an open space, having for its centre the charred remains of what had been the Fairlop Oak. Here his compass warns him to double back, and he looks to his pistols, for he cannot be far off from the avenger of blood behind. Yet what can a man, armed only with a bludgeon, do against a steady aim? He will not risk it. Enough of murder; he is a novice in that dreadful trade, and his purpose is flight. He is driving wildly upon the point of being at Ernham within an incredibly short time. Turpin rode from London to York almost at a sitting, and thus was able to prove an alibi, when charged with a crime perpetrated in the capital. Sir Edward may have had some confused remembrances of that story. He has not the advantage of being mounted on Black Bess, but he will go as near that feat as he can. Flight, then, not-he does not like that other word-flight, flight! He stops to tighten the girths, and mentally traces the long way that lies before him. At length he emerges on the open road, and his course his clear. Smethers, meanwhile, has gained upon him. A couple of short miles, well-galloped, and the light he carries flashes on the white bars of a turn-pike. Is this in his favour or against him? Both; for while the delay occurs at a point perilously near to the man who dogs his way, should Smethers have made speed and the gate-keeper be surly, yet it will afford evidence, if needed. hereafter, that his course has lain in this direction. But no time is to be lost. His shouts arouse the sleepy functionary, who at length appears at the upper window of his gate-lodge. But to Bracton's peremptory demand to be let through, the other as sturdily demurs. "Here, good fellow!" cries Sir Edward; "here's half a guinea for you. Let me through at once. It is a case of life and death-I am a doctor, and am sent for on an urgent case of sickness."" "Ay? and prythee, how long agone may the messenger as comed for thee ha' gone thro' my geate?" answered the man, with a grin, being no novice in the ways and wiles of travellers. "Come down at once," insisted the horseman, "and I will make the half guinea a whole one. If you delay me, you shall hear of it from the Chelmsford magistrates, I promise you." The gate-keeper balanced the matter in his thoughts: but a guinea is a right good bit of gold—and a magistrate is also a name to conjure by. It might prove as much as his place was worth to delay the horseman-if, indeed, he was a true man. Hodge Wilkins had shrewd suspicions, all the while, that the man who was chafing, and whose horse was pawing and snorting below, had chosen the highway for his especial line in life. Nor was Bracton's countenance at all reassuring, as the gate-keeper peered at him out at window. There were highwaymen every whit as personable as he. "Sixteen-string Jack," who had been hung in the days of Dr. Johnson, "towered," in the opinion of the great lexicographer, "above the mark;" so likewise did Claude Duval, of whom this janitor had never heard. The delay was enough to make any man chafe, under existing circumstances. At length it ended; the old man shuffled down, pocketed the coin with another grin, bestowed a shrewd look of scrutiny at both horse and rider, then unlocked and swung open the heavy gate. Bracton sprang through it without a word, and continued his gallop. He is not half way to Romford, when Smethers comes panting up to the turnpike, falls against it exhausted, and holds on by the bars. When he can gain breath, he too, in turn, shouts to the gate-keeper, for water-water! if better cannot be had. When that appeal meets with no response, he shouts "Murder!" and is listened to. The man sleepily, and angrily, puts his head again out of the window. No sovereign this time, though; so Smethers has wearily to climb the gate. In a few gasping words he explains the case, and learns that the horseman had spoken of Chelmsford. Then he knows, or thinks he knows, Bracton is making indeed for the coast: a bad prospect for his vengeance. Having no clue to the name or calling, or usual residence of the man he is hunting down, his only chance will be gone if his quarry gains the sea. Smethers walks on as well as he may; but the run hitherto, and the previous excitement, have done him up. He staggers along the road from sheer weariness of heart and limb. The town of Romford consists principally of one long and spacious street, flanked by an old gray church tower. As Bracton cantered through, more easily now, the church clock struck eleven. There was a light in the churchyard; the parish sexton had been belated in digging a grave. He was resting on his spade, looking out upon the main street. The light from Bracton's lantern attracted him; he |