horseback. "I am Sir William Hope, of Hopetoun, and am here at your service." "You!" exclaimed the Frenchman, in tones of blended astonishment and grief; "ah! unsay what you have said. I cannot point my sword against the breast of my best benefactor-against him to whom I owe both honour and life. Can I forget that night on the plains of Arras ? Ah, my God! what a mistake; what a misfortune. Ah! Athalie, to what have you so unthinkingly urged me?" Think of her only, and forget all of me save that I am your antagonist, your enemy, as I stand between thee and her. Come on, M. Lemercier, do not forget your promise to Mademoiselle; we will sheath our swords on the first blood drawn.” "So be it then, if the first is thine," and unsheathing their long and keenedged rapiers they put spurs to their horses, and closing up hand to hand, engaged with admirable skill and address. The skill of one swordsman seemed equalled only by that of the other. Lemercier was the first fencer at the Court of France, where fencing was an accomplishment known to all, and there was no man in Britain equal to Sir William Hope, whose Complete Fencing Master was long famous among the lovers of the noble science of defence. They rode round each other in circles. Warily and sternly they began to watch each other's eyes, till they flashed in unison with their blades; their hearts beat quicker as their passions became excited and their rivalry roused; and their nerves became strung as the hope of conquest was whetted. The wish of merely being wounded ended in a desire to wound; and the desire to wound in a clamorous anxiety to vanquish and destroy. Save the incessant clash of the notched rapiers, as each deadly thrust was adroitly parried and furiously repeated, the straining of stirrup-leathers, as each fencer swayed to and fro in his saddle, their suppressed breathing, and the champing of iron bits, Lemercier and his foe saw nothing but the gleam and heard nothing but the clash of each other's glittering swords. The sun came up in his glory from the shining ocean; the mavis soared above them in the blue sky; the carly flowers of spring were unfolding their dewy cups to the growing warmth, but still man fought with man, and the hatred in their hearts waxed fierce and strong. In many places their richly laced coats were cut and torn. One lost his hat and had received a severe scar on the forehead, and the other had one on his bridle hand. They often paused breathlessly, and in weariness lowered the points of their weapons to glare upon each other with a ferocity that could have no end but death-until at the sixth encounter, when Lemercier became exhausted, and failing to parry with sufficient force a fierce and furious thrust, was run through the breast so near the heart, that he fell from his horse gasping and weltering in blood. Sir William Hope flung away his rapier and sprang to his assistance, but the unfortunate Frenchman could only draw from his finger the ring of Athalie, and with her name on his lips expired-being actually choked in his own blood. Of what Sir William said or thought on the occasion, we have no record. In the good old times he would have eased his conscience by the endowment of an altar, or foundation of a yearly mass; but in the year 1708 such things had long been a dead letter in the East Neuk; and so in lieu thereof he interred him honourably in the aisle of the ancient kirk, where a marble tablet long marked the place of his repose. Sir William did more; he carefully transmitted the ring of Lemercier to the bereaved Athalie, but before its arrival in Paris, she had dried her tears for the poor Chevalier, and wedded one of his numerous rivals. Thus, she forgot him sooner than his conqueror, who reached a good old age, and died at his Castle of Balcomie, with his last breath regretting the combat of the morning at the Standing-stone of Sauchope. A GOOD SPEC.-A DRAMATIC SKETCH. BY B. B. FELTUS. London. Scene-An Old House in the City. Characters-MRS. MORLEY; her Daughter EMMA; her Niece, MISS FANFLAME; MR. MORTON. MISS F.-Well, I ne'er thought that this old house had been So full of speculations. Claraville! That name goes coupled with most weighty marks MRS. M. Enter MRS. MORLEY. Well said, niece. La! this comes from the world. You've spent your days To better purpose than to throw yourself, MISS F. Bless me, aunt! Can Emma so have lost that self-respect The weakest shade of the least likelihood MRS. M. Then it seems She could not bring herself to make confession Of that which, even if but hinted at, Would set you in hysterics. MISS F MRS. M.-Your feelings! Oh, my feelings! Lud, my child, if you knew all, You'd say my feelings, and my poor weak nerves, Were gone for ever. MISS F.-(Aside.) That indeed I should. To hear what name the odious creature has : Of any gentlemanly, humble friend, Whom we might bend to suit our purposes? MRS. M.-Well thought on, niece; I've heard there is one Morton, A strange, half-witted, moody, nincompoop, Who, on the score of poor relationship, Is quite a standing guest with Claraville. MISS F.-Many are such; as ignorant of life As if their wits ran blindfold through the world. MRS. M.-Ay, ay, but, niece, may not this moon-calf serve, Like lightships on a strand, to keep us clear, And give us knowledge of all dangers hid Between us and our hopes. MISS F. La! if I tickle not this gentleman, O good conceit! And send him soaring, like a paper kite, Into an element he ne'er before Had dared to venture in; while with me abides Or keep him there for pastime. Ha ha! ha! Come let's about it. MRS. M. My head's full of plans, All tending to one object-one design In which my hopes are centered: I would hear Even more than common fame may say of him: [Exit MRS. MORLEY. MISS F.-Oh dear, those laughing fits will break my heart. O dear, delightful Bath! dear dowagers, Dear crowded rooms, where Fashion's votaries meet With radiant glances and perpetual smiles; : Those morning visits, and the sweet routine That what I am is borrowed more than mine; MRS. MORLEY and MORTON. MORTON.-Yes, Madam, 'tis a broad inheritance, And a fine relic of the feudal times Is the old castle: somewhat modernised, But not divested of that interest We always feel on seeing anything That bears the stamp of ancient grandeur on't. MRS. M.-La, Sir, this is the very thing I like, And doubtless there is much fine tapestry, And pictures of great value. [Exit. MORTON.-In the great hall there is a Gothic window, Whose shafts are fretted with quaint heraldry, And rare devices: in the oriel next There is a picture done by Angelo Of his great ancestor who fell at Agincourt, He is not styl'd "My Lord?" MORTON. His granduncle was Lord De Claraville, Who, dying without issue, his estate Went to his nephew; but the title fell MORTON. His vote still props the ministerial side, And t'other day, at levee, he kissed hands On being appointed of the Privy Council. MRS. M. I've heard, too, Sir, he is the pink of fashion; But I would hope he is not given to play. MORTON.-NO, Madam; they who know him best find fault With his penurious abstinence from gaming: For myself, I sometimes tickle Fortune's ribs, But he stands too secure in his own wealth To look to chance for filling his exchequer. MRS. M. But I have heard he seldom goes to church, And that his morals need the anchorage Of due restriction. Will slide into a casual indiscretion, But when a real love will fill his heart, I'll answer for't 'twill not grow less by keeping. MRS. M.-You'll wonder, Mr. Morton, at these questions; But the truth is, that Mr. Claraville Hath paid most marked attentions to my daughter; And more than that, Sir, hath entreated me With oft-repeated overtures of marriage; Wherefore, good Sir, I did make bold from you, As being a common friend to each of us, To gain such knowledge of this gentleman Than me, his sister. He, of course, must hear of, EMMA, reclining on a Sofa. Enter MISS FANFLAME. MISS F.-Poor thing, she sleepeth, if that can be sleep That shows such sadness. She is weeping still, And her lips move, as if she did reveal Her sorrow to some saint that pitied her. As if it wrestled with some agony I hear it throb, That haunts her even in sleep. Her cheek is pale, Had droop'd, but died not. What a natural grace Dwells in the rich profusion of her hair, Floating around her like the drapery Of a light summer cloud. My pretty cousin E. Alas! I wish my vital spark had flown With that sweet dream, which hath but left me now To waking consciousness of what I am. Miss F.-Canst thou remember what it was thou dream'dst? E.-Methought 'twas twilight, and I stood alone Upon the shore of a far distant land, Listing the low-voiced ripples of the tide For there was nothing further, nothing more No thought of higher bliss; and tears gushed forth That smiled in all around me. MISS F. 'Twas a dream Too spirit-like methinks for happiness; If I did sleep for ever, my stray thoughts Would never cast themselves in such a mould 'Tis true I saw you weep. While thus I stood, E.- |