uppermost in our minds, and very dreadful it was to be sure, but we had determined upon having a swim, especially as our new friend had promised to take us to a spot where we should be secure from any molestation or inconvenience whatever.

Our guide led the way, following along by the side of the brooklet, in the direction of the sylvan lake, which we now saw sparkling at a distance amid the verdure. On our left was an extensive clearing, covered with low bushes, and solitary trees looming up here and there. Before, behind, and around us, the dark woods rose up like a gloomy wall, reminding us that we were isolated and hid from the world, in the heart of a Brazilian forest.

Within a few rods of the lake, a slight dam was made on the bank of the stream, over which at high tide the water flowed with a gurgling sound, as soft and cheerful as the laughter of a youthful maid. The water was received in its descent by a kind of rocky cauldron, with a smooth, hard bottom of sand. The width of this natural basin was about eight or ten feet, while its depth was between four and five. It was completely overhung by an umbrageous canopy of living green, so dense that the fierce rays of the sun were entirely excluded, although the brilliancy of its light was admitted in front. This was the bathing place, of which our new acquaintance had informed us, and certainly neither Venus nor any other goddess could have selected a sweeter spot on earth, for this delightful purpose!

"What a capital place for a solitary mermaid," said Jenks, "the very spot for such a hermitage! But here goes for a plunge." In a moment he was immersed in the crystal water of this foaming pool, and soon after was joined by his two comrades; and now we were all in the basin together, dancing about under the influence of the pleasant excitement, and performing a variety of piscatory antics. Coming out at the expiration of half an hour, we experienced the most delicious of all human sensations, which they only can appreciate, who have bathed in the exhilarating waters of a mineral spring, and then exposed themselves unclad to the vivifying influence of the warm sunshine.

On our return to the mills, we stopped for a moment at one of the habitations of the natives. Here we saw a strange tableau. In one corner of the hut were a couple of negro women, seated on the ground engaged in basket-making; while a boy was cutting long strips from a species of cane used for this purpose. Various kinds of birds and skins of animals were hung around the cabin, together with ragged clothing, and bunches of fruit. One spectacle, however, which served to complete the picture, would doubtless have occasioned an ejaculation of horror, had it been witnessed by the unaccustomed eyes of our indulgent reader. It was that of an aged native, with whitened locks streaming down on his shoulders, deliberately tearing to pieces, for the convenience of mastication, the body of a recently-roasted Guariba, or howling monkey. Jenks inquired of him respecting the flavour of the animal, which the old cannibal declared to be equal to that of beef or any other meat. "Mon Dieu!" exclaimed my companion, "from what enjoyments do our prejudices preclude us!"

VOL. XXVI.

E E

THE LEGEND OF ORTHON.*

"Tu ne quæsieris scire nefas!"-HORACE.

"WHAT can be the matter? my darling Corasse!
Why burns that angry eye?

What can have brought things to so shocking a pass?
You 're a regular fright, love! do look in the glass,
And see if you 're anything like fit for Mass!"
Said his lady fair and shy.

Gravely smiled her loving lord,

He had wedded her that day week;

He stroked her hair as he loosed his sword,
And tapp'd her satin cheek.

"The Mass may wait

And the Priest may rate,

But devil a penny I put in the plate;
The devil a bit of church-good will I do,
Were it only to riddle some rascally Jew,

old

screw,

Till the Pope on his marrow-bones, mangy
A good bit of dirt shall be ready to chew,
And beg pardon for this! It's too bad of him-whew!
Read it yourself. There's a vagabond monk

Says he waits for an answer.' The man must be drunk!"

WE DO COMMAND THAT, WITHIN DAYS THREE,

YOU OR YOUR HEIRS SHALL CONSENT AND AGREE,
BY DEED UNDER SEAL, TO SURRENDER, IN FEE,

TEN THOUSAND BROAD ACRES OF CHURCH-LAND, WHICH WE,
IN COUNCIL ASSEMBLED, DO HEREBY DECREE

TO BE, TIME OUT OF MIND, THE BEST PART OF OUR SEE.
BROTHER MARTIN WILL CLAIM IT AND HAND A RECEIPT,
AND RUB OUT YOUR SCORE (FOR YOU'RE BOOK'D AS A CHEAT.)
FAREWELL FOR THE FUTURE-JUST NOW YOU'RE ACCURSED-
WE GREET YOU OUR SON-IN-LAW,

Urban the First.

"Look!

A great seal of lead,

With Pope Urban hys head.'

L. S.

What the deuce, my dear girl's to be done or be said?

I'll make the lout eat it! I will-strike me dead!

Or break every bone in his rascally skin;

Go, darling, and bid Brother Martin walk in !"

Slightly altered from Froissart. See his Chronicles, vol. ii. cap. xxxviii.

The lady trembled from head to foot,

And shook in her wedding shoes,

But she knew that her Lord was a bit of a brute,
And didn't dare refuse.

So only, "Dear Corasse," she said,
"Pray try some other plan;
I'm sure that horrid lump of lead
Must poison the poor man!

And if, alas, it come to pass
The saintly Brother die,
I'd sooner lie in church-yard grass
Than brave the hue and cry.
They'll make us pray, for many a day,
In rope and scapulaire ;
They'll take our very shoes away,
And dock my auburn hair!
They 'll show us, sheeted, in our crops,
They'll cut you off your wine,
And I'll be whipp'd with nettle-tops,

And you 'll be trimm'd with twine!
So, dear Corasse, while yet you may,
Avoid such horrid scandal,

Think of the bills you'll have to pay
For sheets and penance-candle!

And-if you can't be civil-don't,
For my sake, kill him slap;
That's a good boy! I'm sure you won't:
My goodness! there's his rap."

Now I fairly confess

That how to compress

In a word Brother Martin's appearance and dress
Is a thing I can't readily manage, unless
You'll allow me to liken his reverend "mug"
To an over-grown weasel done up in a rug,
With a rope at it's middle, a cockle and jug;
And, au reste, at his hip

A red leather scrip,
Into which you may dip
Your finger and slip

Just what you think proper, by way of a tip,
To encourage the Order of which he's a chip.
His beads on his wrist,

And a stale penny twist,

And a string of brown onions, as big as your fist;
And a hat that's decidedly open to chaff,
And, to finish the picture, no end of a staff,
Will complete the turn out

Of our Brother devout,

And leave him uncommonly little to "spout,"
As he enter'd Ortaise,

Which by the way 's

A long walk from Avignon, and, in those days,

Society wore quite a different phase

From that which the country at present displays,
Neither diligence, railway, malle poste or post chaise,
Being handy for even the gemman that pays;
Though of course were a Friar,
Shirking the mire,

To a gig or a cab undevoutly aspire,
He'd find the outside

Of his mortified hide

Touch'd up in a way that would lessen his pride,
And his inner man cravings but slightly supplied,
Till he'd very completely atoned for his ride!
But let us return to Corasse and his bride.

"My brother-Benedicite !"

Snuffled the churchman grey,

"A case of great simplicity

Hath brought me here to-day.
Ages a few, your sires and you
Domains of ours have held;
This morning, without more ado,
You're going to be expelled!
So clap your fist,
Or, if you list,

Append a lay-man's mark

To this broad scroll,

And save your soul,

Thou church-devouring shark!

We shan't show much severity

This time to your temerity;

Yet, as a little punishment

Seems meet for your admonishment,

The Church requests that you will wear

No other shirt than one of hair

(I can sell you one cheap that would tickle a bear),

From now until next Candlemas ;

So sign and seal my Lord Corasse!"

The Lord of Corasse grew uncommonly red,

And, shocking to say,

Without further delay,

Sent the Bull and the deed at his visitor's head,

As a shot he was reckon'd remarkably "dead,"

And, omitting a curse,

Too strong for a verse

(Such slips it is always unwise to rehearse), Roar'd "You beggar! go back

To the Pope and his pack!

And say though I think it beneath me to crack The skull of a go-between, underling hack— There is n't a cardinal, punchy or tall,

In the synod of Avignon, aye, or at all,

That shall beard a Corasse in his ancestor's hall!

So, if ever again you come this way to call,

Why, make everything snug, and look out for a squall !
For, as to resigning one fathom of land,

Which my forefathers won,

Before I was begun,

And I rather intend to devise to my son,
It's a swindle-a dodge-very cleverly plann'd,
But a thing, you may tell 'em, I don't understand!
Do you want any more?

If I show you the door,

You'll find when it rains it's as likely to pour!"

Rejoin'd Brother Martin, beginning to cry,

For "Pope Urban hps head” had dismantled an eye, "There are weapons, my son, within call of the Church,

That would bring bigger blackbirds than you from their perch: Once in her clutches, by this and by that,

You'll sing the old song of the mouse to the cat—

I don't envy you!

You may look rather blue,

When she hears of your doings;-I'll tell her,—adieu !
And, if anything extra should happen, d'ye see,

You may just score it off as a trifle from me :

I'll alter your tone,

In a way of my own!

Before the week's out, when you're all skin and bone,
Perhaps you may wish that you 'd let me alone.

No apology-pray!

Every dog to his day.

You've bung'd up one eye;

Do you wish for a shy

At the other? You don't? very well then-good bye!

It

may n't be to-morrow-it mayn't be the day

After that-nor the next, but, beware what I say,

You'll find Brother Martin a rum 'un to pay !

Don't ask him for discount,-it's not in his way!"

He scowl'd and withdrew,

Leaving the two,

Coorasse and his wife, in a regular stew;

Which it wasn't so certain would prove "Much ado
About Nothing," because

There's nothing that awes

Good people so much as to find that the claws
Of the Church are upon them for breaking her laws,
When it's rather too late to beg pardon or pause!

At least, at the time,
It was voted a crime

Which left on the soul an indelible grime

To pummel her sons; and indeed, if my rhyme

Would only permit,

I'd copy a bit

Of a certain anathema legibly writ,