tear was just budding forth as that hearth recalled them to mind, we will secure its retreat in the smile which the joy-light of the present illumines! "Carpe diem," says the bard and philosopher! We live but for the present! The creatures of a day, we must make the present smile! So turn we to that festive hearth! What tales has it heard! what smiling faces has it seen! to what jocund laughtershouts, what mirthful carols, what minstrel legends of the "good old house" has it echoed! Long may it so echo; and long may smiling faces celebrate its merriment! But, see! the old man has tuned his harp!-his harp wreathed with mistletoe, as a Druid bard of Eld-and with the merrier Christmas symbol, too, of the holly, with its ruddy berries! And, see! the festive circle has drawn closer round the blaze, and all are intent to catch the strain that shall swell forth over those oak-panelled walls, and massy-carved ceiling-rafters, to awaken memories of the olden time, of which they are conscious! And the old man's countenance brightens too, as he sweeps the string to renew the by-gone tales of the house he loves.

THE GREEN MANTLE.

(FROM THE OLD BALLA D.)*

RUDE though the lay, its blush avows
No pamper'd Folly's lust;

Ere celebrate it, Guilt's carouse,
The silvery chord shall rust.

And unabash'd may those fair cheeks
Reflect its 'passion' light:

While smiles the hearth in ruddy streaks
To kindle hearts as bright!

Robed in the pale light of my dream
A warlike shadow woke,

Whose turban fold and crescent gleam
A Paynim chief bespoke.

Flicker'd the dying ember' ray,

Where the chirping cricket danced;
O'er his wan brow the flashes play,
And o'er his mail blue glanced.

"Shall I areed why thus I pace,"
He said, "the lonesome round

Of these dim tow'rs through silent space,
When dreams the pallid bound?

"What fears awake? what memories weep

Where those chill moonbeams glisten?

Through the moaning wood where the night-gales sweep,

And the mute deer trembling listen?

The legend, it should be observed, is, with a mere variation of the old spelling, taken word for word from the family MSS., and illustrates a memorial of the opposition offered by one of the Lords Marmyon to his daughter's encouragement of a Saracen warrior, who it appears had been brought prisoner to this country at the era of the First Crusade. It is a current belief to the present day amongst the peasantry of the neighbourhood that the parties indemnify them. selves by haunting the spot of their ill-starred attachment; and the "Green Mantle," or "Green Lady," are names that have often disquieted an honest rustic's progress through the precincts of Scrivelsby towards twilight.

"Long years agone! long years agone!
And blood rests on this spot!
The ivyed tow'r, the grey rent stone,
And lovely lady's grot.

"Whilome fair Alice held the sway
Through Marmyon's lordly halls,
But blamed the sire her welcome's ray
On Paynim brow that falls!

"O'er Scrivelsby's glades the bloodhounds bay,
Its echoes hoarse were mute;

And nought was heard but the vague-stirr❜d lay
That trill'd one watchful lute.

"The din had sunk of the revel o'er,

The wassail wild that broke ;

No strain through the castle walls heard more,
Save where Alice that lone lay woke.

"The hour 'twas night: o'er the bastion-brow
The warder watch was mounted :
With beating heart I sought her now,
And the ling'ring minutes counted.

"Her casement look'd on the wild wood green,
Where my footsteps trembling bore me;
And I stood in the light of her beauty's sheen,
While her thoughts yet wander'd o'er me.

Wildly I clasped her to my heart

As in rude wrecks we cling

To hope and life-brief held apart,
Ere the wave their dirges ring!

"And all too swift the moments fled-
When pale she paused, and cried,
'Away! hear a stealthy tread,
And peril haunts beside!

"Away! the tear that asks thy flight,
Lest weep it o'er thy blood!

A star malign deforms the light
Of life's chill solitude.

"Yet past the grave, unchain'd the will
By bonds of creed or clime,

Hither we'll steal, and teach death's chill
To smile,-nor love be crime!

""Away! and through wide Christiantie,
Though scorned a Paynim guise-
Thy scarf's green* web shall a token be
Left dearest to these eyes!-

"But the arras shook while yet she spoke--
And a shriek she poured of fear,

As a form from 'neath the tap'stry broke--
'Twas Marmyon's form stood there!

"Fain in this heart the blade to sheathe
In gust too blind pursued—

He pierced that scarf-the breast beneath

And stain'd it with his child's blood!

* Green, at the time of the Crusades, was the distinguishing colour of the Saracen knight's apparel, as it is to this day in the family of the Prophet.

OLIVER TWIST:

OR, THE PARISH BOY'S PROGRESS.

BY BOZ.

ILLUSTRATED BY GEORGE CRUIKSHANK.

BOOK THE THIRD.

CHAPTER THE NINTH.

FATAL CONSEQUENCES.

It was nearly two hours before daybreak-the time which in the autumn of the year may be truly called the dead of night; when the streets are silent and deserted, when even sound appears to slumber, and profligacy and riot have staggered home to dream—it was at this still and silent hour that the Jew sat watching in his old lair, with face so distorted and pale, and eyes so red and bloodshot, that he looked less like a man than some hideous phantom, moist from the grave, and worried by an evil spirit.

He sat crouching over a cold hearth, wrapped in an old torn coverlet, with his face turned towards a wasting candle that stood upon a table by his side. His right hand was raised to his lips, and as, absorbed in thought, he bit his long black nails, he disclosed among his toothless gums a few such fangs as should have been a dog's or rat's. Stretched on a mattress upon the floor lay Noah Claypole fast asleep. Towards him the old man sometimes directed his eyes for an instant, then brought them back again to the candle, which, with longburnt wick drooping almost double, and hot grease falling down in clots upon the table, plainly showed that his thoughts were busy elsewhere.

Indeed they were. Mortification at the overthrow of his notable scheme, hatred of the girl who had dared to palter with strangers, an utter distrust of the sincerity of her refusal to yield him up, bitter disappointment at the loss of his revenge on Sikes, the fear of detection, and ruin, and death, and a fierce and deadly rage kindled by all,-these were the passionate considerations which, following close upon each other with rapid and ceaseless whirl, shot through the brain of Fagin, as every evil thought and blackest purpose lay working at his heart.

He sat without changing his attitude in the least, or appearing to take the smallest heed of time, until his quick car seemed to be attracted by a footstep in the street.

"At last," muttered the Jew, wiping his dry and fevered mouth. "At last."

The bell rang gently as he spoke. He crept up stairs to the door, and presently returned, accompanied by a man muffled to the chin, who carried a bundle under one arm. Sitting down, and throwing back his outer coat, the man displayed the burly frame of Sikes.

N