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this," said Oak.

"Come in, souls, and have something to eat and

drink wi' me and my wife."

"Not to-night," said Mr. Clark, with evident self-denial. "Thank ye all the same; but we'll call at a more seemly time. However, we couldn't think of letting the day pass without a note of admiration of some sort. If ye could send a drop of som'at down to Warren's, why so it is. Here's long life and happiness to neighbour Oak and his comely bride!"

"Thank ye; thank ye all," said Gabriel. "A bit and a drop shall be sent to Warren's for ye at once. I had a thought that we might very likely get a salute of some sort from our old friends, and I was saying so to my wife but now."

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"Faith," said Coggan in a critical tone, turning to his companions: "The man hev learnt to say my wife' in a wonderful naterel way, considering how very youthful he is in wedlock as yet-hey, neighbours all ? "

"I never heerd a skilful old married feller of twenty years' standing pipe my wife' in a more used note than 'a did," said Jacob Smallbury. "It might have been a little more true to nater if 't had been a little chillier, but that wasn't to be expected just now."

"That improvement will come with time," said Jan, twirling his eye. Then Oak laughed, and Bathsheba smiled (for she never laughed readily now), and their friends turned to go.

"Yes; I suppose that's the size o't," said Joseph Poorgrass, with a cheerful sigh as they moved away; "and I wish him joy o' her; though I were once or twice upon saying to-day with holy Hosea, in my scripture manner which is my second nature, Ephraim is joined to idols: let him alone.' But since 'tis as 'tis, why, it might have been worse, and I feel my thanks accordingly."

Secret Affinities:

A PANTHEISTIC FANTASY, FROM THE FRENCH OF THEOPHILE GAUTIER

DEEP in the vanished time, two statues white,
On an old temple's front, against blue gleams
Of an Athenian sky, instinct with light,
Blended their marble dreams.

In the same shell imbedded (crystal tears
Of the sad sea mourning her Venus flown),
Two pearls of loneliest ocean, through long years,
Kept whispering words unknown.

In the fresh pleasaunce, by Grenada's river,

Close to the low-voiced fountain's silver showers,
Two roses, from Boabdil's garden, ever
Mingled their murmuring flowers.

Upon the domes of Venice, in a nest

Where love from age to age has had his day,
Two white doves, with their feet of pink, found rest
Through the soft month of May.

Dove, rose, pearl, marble, into ruin dim

Alike dissolve themselves, alike decay;

Pearls melt, flowers wither, marble shapes dislimn,
And bright birds float away.

Each element, once free, flies back to feed
The unfathomable Life-dust, yearning dumb,
Whence God's all-shaping hands in silence knead
Each form that is to come.

By slow, slow change, to white and tender flesh
The marble softens down its flawless grain;
The rose, in lips as sweet and red and fresh,
Refigured, blooms again.

The doves once more murmur and coo beneath

The hearts of two young lovers, when they meet; The pearls renew themselves, and flash as teeth Through smiles divinely sweet.

Hence sympathetic emanations flow,

And with soft tyranny the heart controul; Touched by them, kindred spirits learn to know Their sisterhood of soul.

Obedient to the hint some fragrance sends,
Some colour, or some ray with mystic power,
Atom to atom never swerving tends,

As the bee seeks her flower.

Of moonlight visions round the temple shed,
Of lives linked in the sea, a memory wakes,
Of flower-talk flushing through the petals red
Where the bright fountain breaks.

Kisses, and wings that shivered to the kiss,
On golden domes afar, come back to rain
Sweet influence; Faithful to remembered bliss,
The old love stirs again.

Forgotten presences shine forth, the past
Is for the visionary eye unsealed;
The breathing flower, in crimson lips recast,
Lives, to herself revealed.

Where the laugh plays a glittering mouth within
The pearl reclaims her lustre softly bright;
The marble throbs, fused in a maiden skin
As fresh, and pure, and white.

Under some low and gentle voice the dove
Has found an echo of her tender moan;
Resistance grows impossible, and love
Springs up from the unknown.

Oh! thou whom burning, trembling, I adore,

What shrine, what sea, what dome, what rose-tree bower, Saw us, as mingling marble, joined of yore,

As pearl, or bird, or flower?

FRANCIS HASTINGS DOYLE.

Heywood's Dramatic Works.

Ir is related of Hardi, the French Lope de Vega, that he wrote no fewer than eight hundred dramatic pieces between the years 1600 and 1637. So far as connectedness or consecutiveness of incident is concerned, it is true that there was not the shadow of any reasonable attempt in these plays, and a veritable hodge-podge is the net result of Hardi's labours. But that a man should be able even to plan, much less to execute, such a quantity of work is a most fearful development of intellectual fertility. Had Mr. Carlyle chanced to be his contemporary, the spectacle would have been one of novel interest-that of the philosopher thundering forth his philosophy of Silence, and that of the dramatist showering, with a pertinacity more bewildering than agreeable, his dramas upon the world. From this old French author to Thomas Heywood is a long step as regards power of productiveness, but it is no mean distinction for the latter to possess that he either composed or took part in the production of two hundred and twenty dramatic pieces. Even this we should regard as an inordinate share of the cacoethes scribendi to be monopolised by one Silence is as manifestly the general duty of certain individuals as speech is of others; but the difficulty always lies in persuading to his duty the man whom Providence has destined to be taciturn. Each individual can in this respect generally read his neighbour's duty more clearly than his own. As regards Heywood, it would have been just as well had many of those effusions which have testified to the prolific character of his brain remained unwritten; they are only so many additions to the lumber of the ages; but, on the contrary, several dramas which have been preserved as associated with his name, bear upon them so unmistakably the stamp of genius that, on the whole, we are not sorry even to wade through the deep waters of mediocrity in search of the veritable jewel. No poet has always been his own equal; and if great Homer nods, the lesser brethren of his art may well be pardoned when they sometimes exhibit utter and most undoubted somnolency of talent. Though it is no argument in favour of unequal composition, yet a poet who should charge every line of his works with some weighty aphorism, would, in the end, become a very unpopular individual, and be largely taken as read."

man.

But while mentioning the number of effusions of a distinctly dramatic character of which Heywood was the writer, we have by no means exhausted the catalogue of his creations. Poems, histories, and prose dissertations innumerable he also threw off, and in these things testified that his spirit knew no fear in treading either the loftiest or the

meanest ground. From the creation of the World, or from the Spanish Armada, he could step down to chronicle the doings of a Lancashire witch; his genius exercised itself in depicting the building of Noah's Ark and the building of the last new man-of-war-and, as if to adapt his work to those variable accretions of timber, we further learn that the sizes of his volumes ranged from "stately folio down to modest duodecimo." Many of his folios, together with almost the whole facts of his personal history, lie buried in the deepest oblivion. It is beyond our power to recover them to the world's recollection; nor are we sure that we desire to do so. One thing is clear: too little is known of him to bias us one way or the other in arriving at an estimate upon his works. We can consider him with the utmost freedom, no man essaying to make us afraid. Some attempts have been made to construct a biography of Heywood, but neither the time of his birth or his death is known, and it is only incidentally gathered from one of his poems that he was a native of Lincolnshire. This, and the knowledge that he was a fellow of Peter House, Cambridge, appear to be the only facts that would justify positive assertion regarding him.

of

From the excellent edition of his plays recently issued, however,* there does appear to be some clue as to dates of production of many his pieces. Fragile, indeed, is the link sought to be established between Heywood and "a respectable"-that is, a rather exalted-rank in society, from the fact that the dramatist refers in mellifluous terms to two gentlemen who for years honoured him with their friendship. Yet we will not begrudge the biographer what consolation can be derived from his assumption; he hath our discreet forbearance, for we can neither affirm nor contradict. One thing is very probable, viz. that Heywood led at one period the jolly, devil-may-care life which distinguished many of the old dramatists, and we discover that in the year 1598 he was regularly engaged by Henslowe as a player and a sharer in the Lord Admiral's company. He was afterwards in the service of the wife of James I., for after leaving the Lord Admiral's company, on James's accession, he became one of the theatrical servants of the Earl of Worcester, who transferred him to Queen Anne as one would transfer a lap-dog to a friend. He himself says, in dedicating a book to Lord Worcester, "I was, my Lord, your creature; and, amongst other your servants, you bestowed me upon the excellent Princess Q. Anne, . . . . but by her lamented death your gift is returned again into your hands." The first plays of Heywood's which were printed were the historical series, issued without his name at the beginning of the seventeenth century. It is supposed that the first part of his play on Queen Elizabeth must have been printed from notes taken in the theatre, that being the only way to account for its corrupt text. A much more complete and perfect edition was published in 1633, and that is the version reprinted. Two of the

* The Dramatic Works of Thomas Heywood, now first collected. In six volumes. London: John Pearson. 1874.

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