Ellustrated Article. TALES OF AN IDLER. RUTH MELROSE; OR, THE RESURRECTIONIST. A TALE OF THE CHURCHYARD. For the Olio. WILLOW MERE is a beautiful and secluded hamlet in the southern part of England, on the road to the metropolis, but as primeval in its habits and architecture as if it were a remnant of the pastoral Arcadia, The simple parsonage-house raised its unpretending structure little above the rural tenements around, but the arrangement of its flower-garden, and the picturesque grouping of the fruit-trees of the small domain, betrayed an intellectual spirit, and a superiority of taste in the dwellers within the patriarchal mansion. Joscelin Melrose, the curate of Willow Mere, to the pure-mindedness of the golden age, united a depth of clasVOL. VIII. 2 B See page 387 sical learning, a fervent knowledge and practice of Holy Writ, with an almost child-like ignorance of the real world, into whose vortex he had never been thrown, from the simplicity of his habits, and his unrepining resignation to his humble fortunes; his life had passed away like the waveless mirror of a quiet lake, till the gentle partner of his fate slept with her rural ancestors in the quiet and grassy church-yard of Willow Mere, and the little smiling Ruth remained the only pledge of his departed Eunice. The fairy time of childhood passed away pleasantly, and her beauty was unfolding into the dawning graces of womanhood; yet to her father she seemed still a lovely child, singing amid the flowers, and tending her birds in the innocent gaiety of her happy heart. A stranger had lately arrived in Willow Mere, whose punctual attendance at church, unpretending charities, and quiet habits, had endeared him to the rustic inhabitants of the hamlet, and after a few meetings with the curate and his daughter in their sylvan wander 221 ings, gathering violets and wood-strawberries for Ruth, and specimens for the herbal of Mr. Melrose, had made himself quite at home in their little parlour, taking lessons in botany, and promising to be as apt a pupil as the curate could desire. On a calm moonlight night his flute was often heard, mingling its enchanting cadences with the clear, sweet voice of Ruth, as she sat with him and her father, in the clematis bower in their little garden, and long before the worthy pastor suspected the stranger to have looked upon his daughter but as a playful child, the wise women of the village had given away the heart of Ruth Melrose to Everard Norman. He represented himself as a gentleman of small but unembarrassed fortune, whose fondness for rural scenery had led him to Willow Mere, and whose admiration for all around him had contributed to fix him as a dweller there. The worthy divine listened and believed, and gave his consent, to the union of his daughter and his new parishioner -with an almost triumphal sense of having secured her a fond and faithful husband, and to himself a new proselyte to his peculiar system of revealed religion. A halcyon honeymoon passed away, and the young bride felt she had only exchanged the home of her childhood for one more delightfully dear. Everard had taken a pretty house near the parsonage, and united alike by the tender ties of wife and daughter, she dreamt of no bliss beyond her own; but a sudden change in Everard's behaviour-a mysterious air of business, and frequent absences from home at the dead hour of night, alarmed her trusting spirit. At first she wept in silence on her lonely pillow, but at length she ventured timidly to remonstrate, and urge him for his reasons in thus deserting her. He would often break out into fits of rage; call her whining baby, and bid her go home and tell her father; till, finding her overwhelmed by grief and terror, his passionate fondness was redoubled, and he essayed by every art to banish her enquiries and regrets. Strange reports were now in the village of dark and fearful forms seen flitting through the churchyard, and blue lights gleaming by the recent graves; of finding the grassy turf bruised and trampled, and the daisied sods, placed with pious care over the departed, hurled away, as by some fiendish sport. Dismay crept to each fire-side, and in the simplicity of their hearts, they feared to look upon some supernatural visitant, even in the cheerful day-time, when they assembled in the porch of the House of God. There was an ancient prophecy or prediction current in the hamlet, that when the green graves in their churchyard were disturbed, "A deed should be done in Willow Mere, Which all should lament for a hundred year." To add to the consternation of his parishioners, the worthy Joscelin was attacked with an illness, which seemed likely to prove fatal. Ruth never left her father, and her watch by the sick bed gave her husband free liberty for his midnight wanderings; by her they were never noticed, for her whole soul was with the dying. One lovely evening, when the last beams of the departing shone on his pale and sunken features, giving to their placid and sublime expression a celestial glory, Joscelin Melrose laid his head on the soft bosom of his daughter, and murmuring the name of his Redeemer, expired :The grief of Ruth was that of a devoted daughter. A woman's sorrow, when first the sweet fountain of her unmeasured love is dashed with the bitter waters of affliction—a grief man knows not, intense beyond their thoughts, who talk lightly of woman's tears, and lasting vividly within their souls, when the domestic trammels which fetter them seem to have effaced the record. can forget-but woman's heart is the altar of the holiest affections,-the shrine where the pale lamp of memory dies not but with that of life, and Ruth felt, as she left the grave of her father, as if the brightest path of her destiny was shut against her for ever. Man Everard was all kindness and tender care during that mournful day; but as the evening approached, he began to hint that business called him forth, and to wish her to have some female companion to dissipate her sorrow; for Ruth had shut herself up with him after the funeral, in her own house, and seemed to cling to him as her sole refuge in the world. "Dear Ruth," said he, "Grace Hervey, I know, longs to be admitted to soothe and calm you; I shall not long be away, and—” "Oh, not to-night-dear, dear Everard, I beseech you!" and Ruth clasped her arms tenderly around his neck, lifting her hazel eyes, radiant with tears, to his. "I know my grief distresses you-I will be more calm-I will, indeed, dear, dear Husband!-my sole refuge, forsake me not in the depth of my affliction !" "Forsake you, Ruth-how absurd! Have I not sorrowed and watched with you sufficiently to prove my sympathy for you, and my regret for the departed? Nay, no more tears; let me kiss them away; I have business of importance. I cannot delay. You can know nothing, and need care nothing for its purport. You are a stranger to the world, and the avocations of worldly men. I shall soon return, and will send Grace Hervey as I pass her cottage to be your companion during my absence." As he spoke, he removed her arms from his neck with playful force, and kissing ⚫her tenderly, wrapped himself in the thick folds of his Spanish cloak, which he always wore on his nightly excursions, and left the room. Ruth listened with a vague sense of terror to his departing footsteps, and rushing to the window, looked out to catch his retreating form. The night was very dark for the season, and a dim outline was all she could distinguish. How or why the thought occurred of following him, she knew not; whether the first dawning jealousy of her outraged affection, or the voice of the living and warning spirit within us, but with a sudden impulse she threw over her head her mourning veil which lay near her on the couch, and silently closing the little garden-door, was quickly on the road, at a very short distance from her husband. He never looked back, and if he had the slight, girlish figure of Ruth, and her black dress, could not have been easily distinguished through the rising mists. She followed, guided more by the echo of his hurried steps, than by his actual presence, with a desperate courage, at which she was herself astonished, till his course suddenly turned towards the churchyard! Then, indeed, she faltered-a suffocating horror rushed upon her heart-her senses seemed to fail, and she found herself leaning against the low parapet wall of the churchyard, almost without a knowledge of how she had approached it.The sight she gazed at was enough to chill a bolder heart than that of a young and lonely woman. A group of men were gathered together with lanterns and many implements. She heard the earth dug away, and the brutal jests of the unhallowed crew. She heard the pick-axe strike against the coffin, and the action of a saw, and instinctively she passed through the wicket, which led into the churchyard. A man, taller than the rest, who appeared to have been keeping guard, advanced to the grave-side, threw aside a large cloak in which he was enveloped, took some cords which lay near, and stooping down for a moment, drew out the corpse from its shattered coffin-the men held up the lantern, and the light streamed full on the face of Everard Norman, and the corpse of her father! There was one wild thrilling shriek heard in that lonely churchyard,-the quick report of a pistol,-a hurried rush of departing footsteps,-and night and silence were again with the dwellings of the dead! Morning broke fresh and balmy over the churchyard of Willow Mere; but the sad spectacle it disclosed was enough to strike with insanity those who gazed upon it; the grave of the curate was broken open, and his corpse lay in its bier-clothes beside it,-the winding-sheet was deluged with blood; and, clasping the dead body with the convulsive and stiffened grasp of death, lay the beautiful Ruth, her fair bosom pierced by a pistol-shot, and from her light ringlets and mourning garments, the red current of her heart's blood plashed like autumnal rain! No trace of Everard Norman was ever found (save the pistol marked with his name which lay in the grave), though the most active enquiries were made; and no doubt exists that he is still plying his unnatural and horrible trade in the vortex of the metropolis; his name has become the most prominent in the annals of horror which shed consternation on the hearts of the inhabitants of Willow Mere, when gathered around their evening fire, and no one passes the grave where the curate and his daughter repose together, without a sigh for the fate of the beautiful Ruth, and a curse upon Everard Norman, the Resurrectionist and the Murderer! E. S. CRAVEN. A GLANCE AT LONDON. Great London's the city for wealth, And coaches must stand in their ranks- Old Billingsgate, too, is well known- Large Companies dine in high glee- There's a Company all days for tea. Which old women's notions entails- But will not be troubled with Scales. Last winter the king was to dine With the mayor and the citizen knights, Who-very well known as good livers Prepared for a great shew of lights. It appears the mayor's note to the duke Sir Peter found him in the way. Put up by his friends,' it was said. Declared that they all would stand stout. Elected-rejected-again, Sir John at length conquer'd his foes, Who fail'd-while so many said Ay!' The City to lead by the Noes.' Lit Gaz. CASTLE BAYNARD. A PAGE FROM THE HISTORY OF THE For the Olio. ABOUT a mile on this side of Stamford, he overtook his esquire and only a part of the escort; and his horror and mortification were great on learning that his daughter had been forcibly taken from her protector by a superior number of the king's soldiers. Pursuit was worse than useless; and the triumph which had elated his followers at the recent success of their arms was now embittered by the deepest sorrow for the loss of their lovely mistress. Their arrival at Stamford was welcomed by above 2000 knights, besides retainers and inferior persons without number,* all of whom were highly exasperated at the tyrannical abduction of so celebrated a beauty; and they redoubled their oaths of vengeance, on Hume, page 87. hearing, from a messenger, a few hours afterwards, that Castle Baynard had been destroyed,t by order of the king, who had immediately set out from Westminster for Oxford. Fitz-Aubin was distracted, although he had the melancholy satisfaction of receiving from the hands of the esquire the unfinished scarf which Matilda had cut from her knitting-frame immediately before her departure from the castle. The knight threw it across his corslet, and drawing his sword, vowed it should never return to its scabbard until he had rescued his lady-love. Elated by having received so powerful an accession to their arms as Sir Robert Fitz-Walter, the barons advanced in a body to Brackley, within a short distance of Oxford. Here they received a letter from the king, by the Earl of Pembroke, to know their demands, which they answered by placing a scroll in the Earl's hands, the contents of which was a copy of the Great Charter, and also by calling upon the king to give up the daughter of Sir Robert FitzWalter. To the first of these demands, King John required time for consideration. To the second he replied, that the lady being with him at Oxford, he would appoint a knight to meet her champion -if the former fell, Matilda should remain with him: if the latter was vanquished, she should be restored to her friends. The barons agreed to the monarch's first request; and the ears of Fitz-Aubin drank deep of delight on hearing the second proposition. The appointed hour for the combat arrived, and, accompanied by a train of about 150 retainers, guarding the person of Matilda the fair, came the champion of King John; who, as if to insult the friends of the lady, and to ensure success, had encased in a splendid suit of armour one of the most powerful of his Gascon body-guards. All trembled for Sir Arthur, when they beheld the giant against whom he had to contend, except the youthful knight, who, inspired by the hope of rescuing his beauteous cousin, entered the lists, nothing daunted. Every thing having been prepared, the onset was sounded from the trumpets of the heralds, and Fitz-Aubin received such a shock from the lance of his adversary, that his horse reeled In this yere (1215) was Castell Baynard cast done and distroied.-Chronicle of London printed from the Harleian MS, page 8. backwards, and made it a matter of the greatest difficulty for his master to keep his seat. He, however, did not fall; and the combatants retired to gather fresh strength for the renewal of hostilities. Another shock ensued, but to the evident disadvantage of the youthful knight. The agitation of Sir Robert was extreme. It seemed most improbable that his young friend could escape another rencontre with his life, and quite impossible that he could overcome his enemy. Again the onset was sounded, and concentrating all his energies for the encounter, Sir Arthur clapped his spurs rowel-deep in the sides of his charger. On arriving within a short distance of his antagonist, the golden threads of his unfinished scarf suddenly untying from his corslet, glistened vividly in the sun's rays, which, darting across the eyes of the Gascon's horse, it swerved, and missing its aim, Sir Arthur's lance met its rider's side with such force, that he staggered in his saddle, and presently fell under the affright ed animal! A universal shout of joy rent the air, and the bravery of Sir Arthur FitzAubin was speedily rewarded by finding Matilda the fair locked in his arms. An answer unfavourable to the de mands of the barons having been returned by King John, they immediately chose Sir Robert Fitz-Walter their general, by the title of ' Marechal of God's Army, and the Holy Church,'* and proceeded to Nottingham, where they laid siege to the castle for fifteen days, but without success; and after marching through Bedford to London, they issued a proclamation, requiring other barons to join them; and all those who had hitherto favoured the royal party, were glad of this pretence of joining a cause to which they were never averse; so that the tyrant was soon left at Odiham in Surry, with a contemptible retinue of seven knights. On the 15th of June, a conference between the discontented barons and the king was appointed at Runnimede, between Windsor and Staines; and, after a few days' parlying, the famous deed was signed, which secured to Englishmen those rights and immunities which our European neighbours sue for in vain. After this ever-memorable event, Sir Robert Fitz-Walter, his daughter, and (now) his son-in-law, retired to his Hume, page 88. castle at Dunmow, where they resided until the re-building of Castle BayW. nard. Illustrations of History. EFFECT OF THE UNION WITH SCOTLAND UPON EDINBURGH.-At the Union, when Scotland ceased to be independent, every relic of regal state of course forsook the capital. Hitherto, the city had been the seat of all the departments But now she was deserted at once by of the legislature, except the sovereign. the Privy Council, the Parliament, and, in consequence, by almost all the nobility; her favourite and faithful children, the lawyers, who were not then a class of such importance in the comalone remaining for her consolation.munity as they have latterly become, The general voice of the nation was against the Union,* and much violent resistance was every where made to the measure - no where so much as in renunciation of national independence Edinburgh; every prejudice against the flourishing in the capital with concentrated vigour. It was at length accomplished, in spite of every opposition, and the whole nation conceived their ruin to be approaching. Edinburgh, in particular, as was truly anticipated, had immediate experience of the loss of its importance; for all the noblemen who had been instrumental in carrying through the Uniont fled to the favour Sir Walter Scott tells a story of a minister in the south of Scotland, who confessed that, for fifty years, he never preached a sermon without indulging himself in what he called a hit at the Union. It has been mentioned in several late works that the Union was signed in a summer. house or arbour in the garden behind the Earl. of Murray's house, in the Canongate; but this, though an extremely curious fact, is only part of the truth, if a still more recondite tradition, which we have now the pleasure of recording, is to be relied upon. It is allowed by our authority, that four Lords Commissioners signed the Union in the said arbour, but the mobs which then kept the city in a state of the most outrageous disorder, getting knowledge of what was going on, the Commissioners were interrupted in their proceedings, and had to settle upon meeting in a more retired place, when opportunity offered. An obscure cellar in the High Street was fixed upon and hired in the most secret manner. The noblemen whose signatures had not been procured in the summer-house, then met under cloud of night, and put their names to the detested contract, after which they all immediately decamped for London, before the people were stirring in the morning, when they might have been discovered and prevented. The place in which thedeed was thus finally accomplished is pointed out as that laigh-shop opposite to Hunter'ssquare, entering below Mr. Spankie's shop, |