the fact of being accompanied by the Tatar
prince in the satin waistcoat and lasting
inexpressibles.

HER GRAVE.

WHY dost thou sit so still, deep night!
    With thy all-eager ear?
Dost long to hear a dirge, sad night!
    And hast not any fear?

Why dost thou fold her up, dark clay!
    And clasp her, as in love?
Why dost thou shade her head, cold stone!
    With thy broad-winged dove?

Why do you sing her songs, old trees!
    Through all the lonesome hours?
Why dost thou bathe her grave, soft dew!
    With silver-gleaming showers?

Hast got a feel of life, long grass!
    That creepest all around?
Thou seemest anxious to hide off
    The dull earth of the mound!

Wouldst have the spot look fair, pale shrub!
    That spreadest out in bloom?
Dost know a flower is dead, fond shrub!
    And gardenest for her tomb?

Ah! wouldst thou mock my state, round star,
    That peepest aneath a cloud?
Or is't to share a grief, kind star!
    Thou wearest that dismal shroud?

Why blowest thou now so soon, rude breeze!
    From out the morning sky?
Or is't to dry my cheeks, good breeze!
    Thou slidest so briskly by?

Why comest thou up so bright, great sun!
    And warmest all the place?
Art promising grand things, dear sun,
    With thy clear-glowing face?

LONG LIFE UNDER DIFFICULTIES.

ON the twenty-second of August, fourteen
hundred and eighty-five, a poor woman
having started from the town of Leicester on
the previous day, was pursuing her journey
on foot, with a little boy of some two or
three years of age strapped on her back, and
a small bundle in a handkerchief in her
hand. As they proceeded they were incommoded
by the rapid marching of numerous
bodies of men, all armed, and intent on some
great business. In answer to her questions, a
soldier would sometimes tell her to move on
and hold her tongue; but once or twice a
more civil respondent informed her there
was a great fight toward, and that the
pretender Richmond was marching to London,
and King Richard was leading them to meet
the invader. The woman had never heard either
of Richard or Richmond—there having been
no political penny newspapers in those days—
and went on without fear. When she came
to a large and open field, she saw the armies
drawn up in hostile array; and, being afraid
to force her way through, and too tired to
take the necessary roundabout, she was fain
to rest herself under a thorn-bush at one
side of the plain. Putting her little son
upon his legs, and telling him not to move
from her side, she watched the proceedings of
the forces before her, without being able to
imagine what they were doing, or what it
was all about. At the end of a tremendous
crowding and yelling, and shoving and
hurraing, she saw a man very hot and tired
throw something, she could not tell what,
upon the thick-leaved bush under which she
lay, and gallop off with all speed.

"Tommy," she said to the child, "what's
that the gentleman flings among the
branches?"

"Odds bodikins," babbled the child, "it's
the fine hat o' St. Thomas from our church
at home."

"Can thee reach it, Tommy dear?"

"Ees, if thee'll howld I up to't."

The woman cautiously rose, and raising
the boy in her arms, was in the act of holding
him forward to be able to grasp the saint's
hat, when a great bevy of horsemen rode up.
One leapt from his steed, impetuously dashed
at the bush, upsetting the poor woman and
her boy, and seized the glittering prize.

"The English crown, by'r ladye! " he said;
and, kneeling as on one knee, offered it to a
pale saturnine looking gentleman, who had
dismounted from his horse.

The gentleman, however, smiled and said,
"You know the place that fits it, Lord
Stanley;" and bent his head as he spoke.

Lord Stanley put it over the auburn locks
of the cavalier, and immediately a great cry
arose all over the field: "God save King
Henry! God save the King!"

The woman, seeing what a treasure she
had missed, began to exclaim; "Please
remember me, O King, for it was my little
Tommy that found that 'ere crownd."

"Did you, my little man?" said Henry,
too happy to take offence at anything.

"I'feckins I did," replied the child, in its
indistinct kind of prattle.

"Here, give him money, some of you"
said the generous and economical monarch;
and several purses were instantly thrown
into the woman's lap. The party were turning
away.

"Another thing, may it please you," said
the woman. "I've heard down in Shropshire
that the king's touch cures the evil; now
Tommy be very bad, and can't live unless he
be delivered—"

The King stroked the boy on the chin,
half in sport, and said, "Do you want to be
cured, my boy?"

"St. Doddlekins if I don't," said Tommy;
and the operation was complete.

The child, we have said, was not more
than three years of age; but there were
already deep marks upon his face, and
indentations almost like wrinkles upon his
brow. He looked prematurely old, and his
saintly allusions and very decided way of
speech gave further evidence that his modes