old Tom, and devoutly hoping they would soon be in a bit of the open again. This might have come about if the old dog fox they had before them had been a blockhead; but he had too much sense for that, so he kept turning and turning, always the wrong way for Philip, who kept on as straight as if he'd been running from Waterloo Gorse to Harborough, and lost himself for his pains.

The longest lane has a turning, and the rides in the woodlands had a great many, but at length Philip caught sight of what looked like the beginning of a new world. He saw straight before him the blue sky, and a positively tempting post and rails with a lovely haw-haw on the further side of it. The forest trees cleared off on either side, and the fresh green grass looked most inviting beyond it. At the same moment he heard a toot-toot-toot — and again the cry of hounds to the left. Once in the open,' thought he, and I shall be ' with them in no time. Come up!' and with an additional persuasion from his spurs he rode straight at the fence. The view that opened upon him as he landed was not quite what he expected. At first he saw squibs, crackers, and fireworks all round him, then a thousand pheasants getting up all round him; and then a thick darkness. In a minute or two things got better. There was a vision of fair spirits; the old horse was on his legs, that is, on three of them, the fourth he did not like to put down. A plush-coated keeper was pouring some fiery liquid down his throat, and a beautiful girl stood staring at him, more amazed than frightened, from a grey Arab. On the right hand on a rising lawn of great extent and beauty rose a long low house of that indescribably religious character which could be nothing but an abbey or a priory, and which must have belonged to some descendant of the long-ago church despoilers -the aristocrats of a Tudor court. Far beyond were the rich lands and fertile fields which had fed its early tenants, and which still fed an owner's mortgagees. It was essentially a gentleman's Place. What a cropper!' said Philip.

Drat them rabbit-holes!' said the keeper.

I hope you're not much hurt?' said the maiden.

'No, not much,' said Philip for himself, thank you; but I'm afraid my old horse is lamed; and I don't know the least where I am,' having said which he became less confused, and proceeded to collect himself, his hat, his whip, his senses, and his horse.

The horse could not stir, that is to say, on his fourth leg. So the young lady suggested that the keeper might bring him slowly up to the abbey, if the gentleman would accept of the keeper's pony as

far.

Of course Philip, who, notwithstanding his long absence, made a guess that he was in the enemy's country, was about to decline in favour of his father's prejudices; but when he looked at May Deringhame the refusal died on his lips, and he was led away captive. So they two came to the court-yard of the abbey and the keeper followed slowly behind.

Behold an hour and a half later and Philip de Vere was on his

way home on a hack borrowed from the sturdy old Whig representative of his father's enemies. He didn't scruple to rattle him along over the grass towards the temporary kennels as hard as if he had belonged to an old Tory, for he was very late, and on his way he met with old Tom coming to look for him in the Forest. Great was his surprise at hearing of Philip's discomfiture, and still greater his dismay when he heard where he had been consoled with cold chicken and Madeira, and a sound hack.

Eh! but it's lucky I met ye, Master Philip. home that figure. Here, take old Camarine, Deringhame horse back and get yours away. Squire 'll go mad if he knows where you bin.' he jumped, and proceeded to lengthen the stirrups.

You mustn't go and I'll ride the Oh my! but the Saying which off

Will he, Tom? I'm sorry for that, for he must know.' 'Bless you, he'd never forgive us. We'd never hunt another fox C together. He told us to look arter you the very last thing last night. "Tom," says he, "he'll be running a vixen or something"and don't let 'em draw within miles o' that old villain's property, "whatever you do "-and now, danged if ye aint got on one o' the old man's horses.'

I can't help that, Tom; the beggar put his foot into a rabbithole opposite the drawing-room windows. I couldn't walk home.' 'Oh my! I know the Squire. How he will swear!—he do hate a Whig. You mustn't tell him.'

But, you old fool, I must tell him; why I'm late, and what's become of the old horse-and where we ran-and-what am I to 'say?'

Say-why say the hounds got away with a vixen, and you 'jumped over the haw-haw on purpose to stop 'em ; but I know I shall lose my place-I know I shall.' So off went Tom in high dudgeon, and Philip rode home determined to make the best of a bad job, and wondering when and how he should see May Deringhame again.

Strange to say, Mr. De Vere was satisfied with very little, and his brother Godfrey with less. When he heard they found plenty of foxes, but couldn't run them, he said he knew it-they were vixens. • Very glad you didn't, and would have been very much surprised it the old horse hadn't been lamed; never go hunting a May fox any ' more.'

And then they went to London for the season.

Now, people moving in the same class of society, though not in the same set, do meet occasionally. They can't help it. So the De Veres and Deringhames used to see one another, and said, How do ye do?' to one another with freezing politeness; and nothing more.

But this season Lady Frances would be so persistently bewitching in her civility, the first time that she met the De Veres, that the Squire couldn't make it out at all. She was much too charming a woman to be thrown over by an old country gentleman, so she

carried her point of getting into conversation, and hoped his son was quite well, and none the worse for his fall.

Old De Vere naturally enough only had politically and matrimonially one son, and that the heir; so he said that he wasn't in town. Not in town?' and who was that young man that Lady Frances had been talking to, who was now dancing with Miss Deringhame? That-ah! that's my other son,' and then out came the story of the tumble, the horse, the chicken, and the Madeira. And while Philip was still running his May fox, the Squire sought Mrs. De Vere.

What an invention is a mother, to be sure! If there were no other reason for honouring womankind, a man with a mother could never help himself. What a receptacle for family secrets to come out just at the right time and the right place! What a soother of irritabilities and assuager of pains! So Mrs. De Vere took the Squire in hand and told him all about it. It was all that fool, Tom, who was afraid of losing his place-at which the Squire laughed heartily, and when you can get a Squire to laugh half the battle is won. So the two ladies began to be intimate; for the female Capulets and Montagues cared less about the family honour than their husbands; and May and Philip met oftener.

A man can't happen to go to the British Museum, or the Dudley Gallery, or to Waterloo House, or to see Gustave Dore's pictures twice a week, and meet the same people there by accident without its being talked about. That can only happen in the Row, at the Opera, and at St. Shibboleth's once a week. May and Philip did happen to meet at the latter places, and then people began to talk. Mr. Deringhame, and his son George, who was a bit of a prig, were disgusted at first, when they heard it was not the eldest son who was so constantly in Lady Frances's box; but got better when they heard of his old aunt's liberality. Yet it took a little time and prudence to overcome the prejudices of two centuries, and provincial associations. A ruler in Israel had not yet appeared_to educate them. The women made it all right at last: Godfrey De Vere and George Deringhame approached each other at first like rather ill-tempered schoolboys; but upon closer analysis of their opinions by impartial judges, it was found that there was less difference between an advanced Liberal and an enlightened Conservative than between the real old-fashioned Tory and the aristocratic Whig. In fact, there was very little difference at all; and as May is married to Philip, possibly at some future occasion they may divide the county on amicable terms between them. When Philip or his family wish to apply a term of especial endearment to his wife, mindful of his escapade in killing a May fox, they call her The Forest Vixen.'

ROUTED BY A DRUM.

FROM the land of the scorpion, half-broken, half-burned,
A home-loving soldier at length has returned.
Ah! nobly Sir Gerard his duty has done

In the carnage of strife and the glare of the sun;
And though in the conflict his bones have been grilled,
His pension is won and his mission fulfilled;

And there's light in his bosom as homeward he bends
To the scene of his manhood, his love, and his friends.

But a decade or two what a change may it bring,
Like the fall of a blight on the best hope of spring !
No kind voice is there as he draws near his dome;
No smile on the threshold to welcome him home;
And he shivers to find, as he enters his hall,
Not a friend of his youth within reach of his call;
And lone, as he turns him from strangers apart,
Comes a tear to his eye, and a chill on his heart.

Up again and away-in the night-all alone-
From the home of his fathers Sir Gerard is gone;
And he, who had ever been foremost in place.
To dash at the boar in the wild burst of chase,
Who had traversed the jungle by night and by day,
And fought, single-handed, the tiger at bay,
Steals away in the dark, and spurs from the spot,
Unmanned and appalled by his desolate lot,

To a City of Refuge-the Star of the West-
Whose women are brightest, whose fountains the best ;
Where, warm and pellucid, the waters have birth,
And leap into life from the hot womb of Earth.
The soldier of India, to shake off his chains.
(For the fever is lingering still in his veins),

Alights at its gate ere his courser is dry,

Or the first blush of morning has purpled the sky.

Ah! Pool of Bethesda, that virtue of thine,

Though it come from the clouds, or spring from the mine,

A beneficent Power, on mercy intent,

To the bodily-stricken thy blessing has sent!

But if, as of old, one angel sublime

Brought health on his wings to one wretch at a time,
Here legions attend, ay, and bless, if they can,
Every suffering soul in the garb of a man.

Braced and dowered each day by the mineral wealth
Gushing forth from its fountains in rivers of health,
As an eagle Sir Gerard his vigour regains,

Till the last spark of fever is quenched in his veins.

Then who in the front, without scruple or fear,
Crams his horse at a fence like this bold cavalier?
Or who in Terpsichore's mazes can trace
The galop or waltz with such infinite grace?

Ah! happy Sir Gerard! how glistens his eye
As the sparkling Belinda responds to his sigh!
Her soft, sunny cluster of ringlets unrolled
O'er his chest seem to ripple in streamlets of gold;
Or playfully straying, his senses entrance,

As they fan his warm cheek in the whirl of the dance.
One other such night, and that sweet little fay
In her chain of enchantment will hold him for aye.

But the dull time of Lent only gives, when it comes,
Heavy dinners, and concerts, and crushes, and drums;
So Terpsichore's salon, where darkness is spread,
Is silent and sad as the tombs of the dead;
For frail is the nature, and carnal the will
That fain would indulge in a homely quadrille;
But the passionate waltz by the fair and the brave
Will meet with no mercy on this side the grave.

If we gaze on a river, how little we know
Of the eddies that curl in the caverns below!
'Tis thus with a man whom we know but in part:
'Tis the surface we see, not the deeps of his heart.
So Belinda, Belinda, beware how you try
The fine lusty fellow that springs to your fly:
The barb has struck deep; but it needs a light hand,
Or that captive, believe me, you never will land.

But, Ïo Triumphé! She drags him about
From a whirlpool of crushes to concert and rout;
And he writhes in his flesh, like the Faquir afar,
'Neath the merciless wheels of her Juggernauth car;
And Sirens, in chorus, his senses benumb
With the witchcraft and wail of a musical drum;
Till, too gallant is he, or Sir Gerard would fain
Have sealed up his ears like Ulysses again.

Alas! for Belinda! once more all alone,
Away and for ever Sir Gerard is gone;
But the maiden still clings, like a child to a toy,
To the skirts of a hope and to visions of joy;
While he far away from the Sirens of song,
On the shores of wild Garry is stalking along,
Now landing a salmon, now lost in a dream,
Enrapt by the roar of the turbulent stream.

RING OUZEL.