their spoons, was pure silver; and, besides, Miss Helen's new tea-pot, which I think they must have catched up out of spite; for they could have told, so knowing as they are in such things, that it was only plated.

But any money?"

"Well, ma'am, master won't say what sum they found in his 'scrutoire, but as he seems in good spirits about it I judge there was not much. He said he had rather it had been as much again than they had meddled with his papers; but that it was comfort to think they was fools for their pains, for no Jew receiver would give cash for them, except as waste-paper."

I offered to share my spoons with Mrs. Cargill, in case she found Mrs. Peters made any difficulty about lending hers. As I surmised, it proved that good lady was not willing to part with any, anticipating that the same wind which had carried the Black Band to Darliston Hall would bring many guests to the "Silver Swan."

The old oppressor;
A young successor,
A strong redressor,
Is lord instead:
Once more aspirant
From tread of tyrant

Long bent and beaten plants lift the head.

All things of feather
All winds and weather,
Exult together,

Are glad again;
Child face of flowers
Wet with warm showers,
The tall tree towers

With sudden rain
Blown in bright burst,
Deeply dispers'd
For the leaves thirst,
The red roots pain,
Grass in waste places,
Joy in wan faces,

Have speech together of Spring's new reign.

Armed and sharp-sworded
Strong Winter warded,
All his goods hoarded

With bolt and bar,
His cold heart failing
Saw the swift sailing
Spring galleys, trailing

Pennons from far;
His doors doom dire at,
His gates fierce fire at,
A fearless pirate

Of wondrous war,

Trembling now found by him,

Taken and bound by him

Of clear large crescent and bright white star.

Not of soul slavish
This lord is lavish,
If he doth ravish
He makes largess,
And nought is hidden,
And all are bidden,
And none are chidden

Of all that press:
His chest of treasures
Heaped up with pleasures,
Dip in your measures
It is not less---
Drink of the one light,
The self-same sun-light,

Take of the food of flowers and bless.

New lord and master
Thy feet come faster,
Of green-hill pasture

They tread the stairs;
Gather the griefs dead,
Bind them in sheafs dead,
Winds! garner leaves dead,
Whirl them to lairs;
Toiling with thrift hands,
Think, while ye shift hands,
Next year your swift hands
Clear with like cares
His great way cleanly,
As last year greenly

Sprang this dead sprinkle gathered as tares.

By hills that waken
The time is taken,
From snows outshaken

Their shaggy sides:
And, soft winds blowing
Their green floor flowing,
Along woods growing

A smooth wave glides:
Seas waxen warmer
Forget days former,
A strong disarmer

Walks down the tides;
From land from the lips of it
Sail forth the ships of it,

Seaward and inland kind weather abides.

As some night creature
Of fearful feature
From gentle teacher

Learns at her knee,

Whose strong dim nature
Owns something greater,
Forbears to hate her,

Forbears to flee,
His limbs of rending
Unstrung extending,
And meckly bending

His huge head low,
Receiveth meekly
From her hand weakly,

With brows abashed, a delicate blow.

With like devotion
The prey-fed ocean
Stills his wild motion

And fawns on Spring,

Ilis maned wave lingers
And licks her fingers,

His voice would bring hers

To soothe and sing;

As ruddy David

Saul's stern love braved,

Swift when he raved

With harp playing,

So by sca-leopard

Sits the fair shepherd,

So charms his madness with subtle string.

See Earth annul her
Sad mourning colour,
Whose hues wore duller

From day to day;

They last year dressed her

A wedding vesture,

A lover pressed her

As this one may,

In May-time married,
Through August tarried,
But Autumn carried

Him dead away,

All her love's payment
Some rended raiment,

Ye scarcely gather it once was gay.

Its threadbare texture

Hath long months vext her,
Soft clothing next her

Shall make her glad;
Not yet the bright dyes
Rich Summer quite dyes,
Laid first in light dyes,

A simple plaid:

Full green and golden
Needs days more olden,
Then crimson folden

And colour clad,
Shall she walk splendid,
That, all being ended,

Last memories leave us longest sad.

How simply, sweetly
She seems, with neatly
Drawn robe, and featly
Virginal grace-

The maiden-toilet
Splendour would spoil it,
Summer's self soil it;
All out of place
Blossoms deep blooded,
Jewel fruit studded,
Autumn's life flooded
Passionate face:
New grass unfainted,

Small flowers pure painted,

Such is the wealth of her earliest days.

But, ah! 'tis waning
The brief remaining,
The dear child reigning,
The girlish rule;
A greater queening
More full of meaning,
A laughing leaning

Of looks more full;
In flowers warm-throated
A dark dust floated,

A colour-coated

Sweet honey pool;
Not the pale petal
Where pure dews settle,

May-maiden blossoms we used to pull.

Young time or older
Hearts are not colder,
They but wax bolder,

And grow with thee,
In young leaf rarest,
In full flower fairest,
Mother that bearest

Thy fruit for me,
Shall I with treason
Love half thy season,
There is one reason,

And one degree

Parts days ill-favoured

From times sweet-savoured,

The months that were from the months that be.

Dear days love-winning!
From Spring's beginning
To Autumn thinning
Wind-wrested leaves,
Ere sad feet enter
Gaol-gates of Winter,
Walls sharp storms splinter,

And rain-washed eaves.

Give me, O, sweet time!
From out thy wheat-time,
Ere snow and sleet-time,

Thy seven-eared sheaves;
I would glean gladness
For times of sadness,

Feed on thy flowers like their own bee-thieves!

The remaining chapels are all worthy of attention, but we will pass from them into the Sacrista, a magnificent gallery, adorned with many fine paintings, by the great masters. The ceiling of this room is vaulted and painted in fresco by Luca Giordasio.

From the Sacrista I was ushered into a small octagonal room, constructed entirely of polished marble, where I was shown a magnificent silver custodia, six feet in height, constructed of solid gold and silver, most exquisitely wrought, and inlaid with diamonds and precious stones. I was also shown the magnificent ornaments of the Virgin of the Sagrario, or the black Virgin. This Virgin is carved out of black wood, and is held in great veneration at Toledo. Her robes were of magnificent brocade, richly embroidered with gold, and adorned with innumerable pearls. Her crown was of gold, set with diamonds and emeralds, with which there were two bracelets to match. We now entered the chapel of the Sagrario, and beheld the sacred image seated upon a silver throne, under a silver-gilt canopy, supported by pillars. The throne is said to contain fifty-two arrobas, or thirteen-hundred pounds of silver.

After visiting the cloisters, the library, and several curious old halls aud chapels, I finally ascended the tower of the Cathedral to take a view of the town and surrounding country. The prospect was charming. From east to west, the valley was bounded by a range of mountains, covered with the olive tree, and dotted with small houses; and from north to south a vast plain was spread out, the surface of which was marked by numerous ruins; while beneath the steep mountain, which is, as it were, a pedestal to the city, the poetical Tagus boiled and foamed over its rocky bed.

The scene was pleasing, yet melancholy. No sounds of life and activity came up to me from the city beneath; no labourers, no cattle were to be seen in all the vast extended plain; while the ruins of temples and churches, that every where met the eye, brought to the mind the sad lesson of the instability of all earthly things.

My first view of the cathedral of Toledo was during a day of great solemnity, when the Archbishop officiated at High Mass.

The venerable prelate entered the body of the church from the sacristy, under a richly-embroidered velvet canopy, supported by four persons, and followed by a procession of more than a hundred priests, in their robes of office.

The solemn organ pealed forth, mingling with the rich voices of the choir, and the song of praise re-echoed along the vaulted arches with a pathos befitting the house of God. The church was crowded with worshippers, and every one appeared to be impressed with the solemnity of the occasion. Indeed, I have never beheld a scene more impressive, nor worshippers more devout, although it is said the Spaniards are muy buenos Catholicos, pero muy malos Cristianos.

I next visited the Alcazar, or palace-fortress, once the residence of the Moorish kings, which

stands in the most elevated portion of the town, and overlooks the Tagus and surrounding country. The venerable building is flanked by four square towers, and has a noble façade. Internally, it is damp and gloomy, and presents a sad picture of the effect of war and conflagration, which have entirely stripped it of its ancient splendour.

Toledo, independently of its cathedral, possessed at one period twenty parish churches, seven chapels, three colleges, fourteen convents, twenty-three nunneries, and several hospitals. But many of these monuments of former prosperity have fallen to ruin; and those that still exist appear likely to share the same fate. Among the most interesting of these was the Franciscan convent of San Juan de los Reges, a Gothic pile, built by Ferdinand and Isabella, upon the outer walls of which still hang the votive chains of captives, delivered from the hands of the Moors by their intercession. During the French invasion the church was dismantled, and used as a stable, and the beautiful cloisters as a barrack for troops; therefore, little remains to attest its former splendour.

The far-famed sword-factory of Toledo, is situated on the banks of the Tagus, about two miles from the city. The blades made here have been celebrated for centuries, and are said to be unsurpassed in temper and polish. The finer kinds are so elastic that they can be packed in small round boxes, curled up like the mainspring of a watch. There was one manufactured here a short time since, as a present to the Duke of Montpensier, which was contained in a case of the size of a snuff box.

The excellence of these swords is said to be owing to the quality of the native iron out of which they are made, and to some secret in the mode of tempering. The swords are all wrought by hand, there being no machinery used in the factory, except in the grinding-room.

The forges are contained in small apartments, where there are usually two workmen employed. After the blade is formed on the anvil, it is passed to the grinding-room, where the asperities are smoothed down, and the edge given to it; after which it goes into the hands of the polisher, and is finally completed by the addition of the hilt and scabbard.

Toledo is bleak and cold in winter, and very disagreeable as a place of residence. What we call the comforts of life are hardly known there. Even in the best hotel, there was not a room with a fire-place in it; and stoves and furnaces are literally unknown. The only convenience for giving warmth is the brasero, a small copper or brass pan, filled with ignited charcoal, from which one may extract sufficient caloric to warm the feet and hands. To keep the body comfortable, one is obliged to adopt the custom of the country, and sit all day enveloped in a huge cloak. Yet, uncomfortable as I found Toledo, I looked forward with regret to the day of my departure from this curious old city. There is something peculiarly novel and fascinating in its venerable aspect, its curious steep