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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."

SONG IN SPRING.

BY FREDERICK NAPIER BROOME.

While all earth aching
With life outbreaking
Sets Winter shaking

Upon his throne,
Whose cold cloud legions
With lost allegiance
Forsake these regions,

Whose guards are flown;

Till vassals reason,
Till sun and season

And days talk treason,

Now bolder grown;

One in the throng of it,
Join in the song of it,

Breathe on the freedom, the young flame blown.

Buds have broke prison,
Roses are risen,
Busy wings glisten,
Bearing about,
Lest it grow dumber,
The sound of Summer,
The king new-comer

Whose people shout;

And in his palace
The despot dallies
With the death-chalice

Of sun poured out,
The cry comes close to him
Of serfs, fierce foes to him,
The leafy league and the flowery rout.

Earth's goodly foison Doth his mouth moisten, As sudden poison

Its sweet is shed: Where no green groweth, Where no man knoweth, Where no seed soweth He is left dead

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 knce,
Whose strong dim nature
Owns something greater,
Forbears to hate her,
Forbears to flee,
His limbs of rending
Unstrung extending,
And meekly 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,

His maned wave lingers
And licks her fingers,
His voice would bring hers
To soothe and sing;

As ruddy David
Saul's stern love bravèd,
Swift when he ravèd

With harp playing,

So by sea-leopard
Sits the fair shepherd,

So charms his madness with subtle string.

Sce 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.

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Life's and Love's best time
Falls in that blest time,
Heed it well, lest Time
Hurry thee hence;
While the flowers are there
Go forth and gather
Manna our Father

Strews round the tents:
Doubt stands aloof enough,
For them heaven roof enough,
For us these proof enough,
Whose hues and scents

Are as plain printing,
As royal minting,

The superscription of Cæsar's peuce.

Of earth we borrow,
From morn to morrow
Our bread of sorrow,

Thou art the Lord's,
Thou song that soarest
From field and forest,
One mouth that pourest

Thy clearest chords

The same sweet story,
The same great glory;
The world is hoary,

But seraph swords
Wave round one garden
Lest our hearts harden,

One unsoiled Eden a flower-flame wards.
New Zealand,

LET ME GO.

Let me go-the day is breaking And the distant mountains glow: I was weary of the darknessMorning cometh-let me go.

Let me go. I have been lonely;
But the long dark hours of pain
From my heart are fading slowly;
Only hope and peace remain.
Let me go: the morning cometh ;
Rugged rock and river's flow
Brighten in its golden glory;
In the sunshine let me go.

Let me go, ere love unwonted
Binds the heart that sought it long;
Ere my spirit turns to linger,
Listening to its syren song.
Through the night I pine, how vainly!
For those accents soft and low;
Tempt me not-that love might fail me,
With the daybreak let me go.

Let me go: old shadows vanish
Of the dark despairing night:
Even life hath lost its anguish,
And around me all is light.
Let me go while all is brightness,
Mountain crag and vale below;
In that beauty would I leave them;
In the sunlight let me go.

Let me go, my watching over,
All my weariness and pain,
Ere the silent evening-shadows
Gather round my heart again.
Light above, beneath, before me,
Life or death no more shall throw
Gloom upon my morning gladness;
In its splendour let me go.

Let me go while cloudless morning
Dawns upon my weary sight,
In the radiance round me streaming
From another world of light.

Let me go to love eternal;
Earthly love at last I know;
Light of earth and light of heaven
Flood my pathway-let me go.

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JOURNEYINGS IN SPAIN.

Spain is one agglomeration of mountains, which rise in every direction from the sea-coast toward the interior; and it is owing to this geological construction that it presents so great a variety of climates.

In the provinces of Andalusia, Murcia, and Valencia, which border on the Mediterranean, the winters are mild and genial, and the summers long and hot. In the northern provinces, which skirt the Pyrenees, the winters are cold and rainy, the springs and autumns damp and disagreeable, and the summers temperate. The provinces situated upon the great central plateau are subject to great vicissitudes of temperature, the weather being very variable in winter, and scorching hot in summer.

This variety of climate is characterized by a corresponding variety of vegetable productions. In the northern regions we find the apple, the chestnut, and the cerealia; while in the southern we have the date, the olive, the orange, and the

vine.

I left Madrid for Toledo, which is about twelve l eagues distant, and continued to traverse those desert-like plains which characterise the Castiles.

It would be some little consolation to the traveller, if he could doze away the weary hours, whilst passing through thisuninterestingregion, but the jolting of the diligence over a shocking road, and the cloud of dust in which he is enveloped, render this impossible. After a long and weary day's ride, I beheld in the distance imperial Toledo, rising from its lofty rocky foundation, with its Moorish Alcazar on one side, and its stupendous cathedral on the other, towering majestically above the town. The river Tagus surrounds the city except on one side, and this approach is protected by Moorish fortifications, now crumbling toruin. After passing these fortifications, we ascended a very steep, winding road, and entered the city through a magnificent granite gateway.

The origin of Toledo is lost in the night of time. It was taken by the Romans 193 B.C., who were expelled by the Goths towards the end of the fifth century. In 714, the Goths were expelled by the Moors; and in 1085 the latter were driven forth by the Spaniards, under Alonzo VI., who took the title of Emperor of

Toledo.

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those stately eathedrals which are the pride and boast of Spain.

The town is composed of an irregular jumble of narrow, tortuous, and steep streets, or rather lanes, impracticable for anything like a vehicle, and the stranger is obliged to procure a guide to conduct him through the intricate labyrinth.

The dark Moorish houses have the appearance of so many prisons, and give to the place a gloomy aspect, which is heightened by the silent and deserted streets.

In walking around this most picturesque old city, the antiquary finds numerous objects to attract his attention. Here the ruins of the Roman and the Goth are mingled with those of the Moor and Spaniard.

In the centre of the town towers aloft the cathedral, which was founded by St. Ferdinand in 1226, and completed in 1492.

The exterior is imposing, but the building is so much blocked up by surrounding houses, that a good view of it cannot be obtained.

The interior realized all my ideas of the sublime in Gothic architecture. The body of the church is composed of five naves, the arches of which are supported by eighty-four enormous colums. The central nave is truly grand, and rises to the height of one hundred and sixty feet. Upon the sides of the building are numerous chapels, nearly as large as churches, all of which are richly adorned with paintings and sculpture.

The choir, as in all Spanish churches, occupies the central nave, but from the mode of its construction, it does not mar the effect so much as that in the cathedral of Burgos. Its Silleria, which was carved in the fifteenth century, is truly worthy of sdmiration. Each stall represents some passage in the campaigns of Ferdinand and Isabella, and the examination of these beautiful carvings, which are authentic records of the costume and arms of the age, has afforded me hours of pleasure. The Capilla Mayor contains many objects of interest. The retablo of the altar, which is reached by a flight of marble and jasper steps, is ornamented with a profusion of painted and gilded carvings, representing passages from the life of our Saviour. Here are the tombs of the ancient kings of Toledo, viz.: Alonzo VII., Sancho el Deseado, Sancho el Bravo, and the Infante Don Pedro. Here, likewise, repose the ashes of the great Cardinal Mendoza, who was called Lertius Rex, and almost shared the sovereignty with Ferdinand and Isabella. The chapel of los Reges Nuevos, or later kings of Toledo, is also well worthy of inspection. Here, under most beautifully sculptured niches, repose Henrique II., Henrique III., and Juan II.

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

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