bead she exclaimed, "God be merciful to us! Edward dear, are you ill-what has happened to you?"

"Don't be frightened, my love," he replied "it won't signify— it was only my foot slipped as I was goin' over a style last night, after leavin' you, and my head came against a stone, 'twill be nothing."

Her eye had been fixed upon his countenance with all the love and anxiety of a young bride about to be united to the husband of her heart's first choice. She saw that in spite of every effort to the contrary, there was in his mind a source of some secret sorrow. A single tear rolled down her cheek, which he kissed away, and a she did it, whispered her in a tone of affectionate confidence, that it was but a trifle, and signified nothing.

When the ceremony was concluded, those who attended it, of course returned to the house of the bridegroom to partake of the wedding dinner. He seemed to be gifted with new life; his eyes sparkled, and there was a deep flush upon his cheek. The courtesy prevalent on such occasions, compelled him to drink more than was proper for him in his present condition; he did not, however, transgress the bounds of moderation. Still the noise of so many tongues, the sounds of laughter, and the din of mirth, afflicted him with the feverish contagion of the moment. He talked hurriedly and loud, and evidently exerted himself beyond what he was able to bear.

In the midst of all this jollity, a change, which was for a while unobserved, came over him. His laugh became less frequent than his shudder or his sigh, which change being at length observed by the noisy assembly, a solemn and apprehensive spirit suddenly hushed their intemperance, and awed them into a conviction that such an illness upon the marriage day must be as serious as it was uncommon. Edward was put to bed in pain and danger; but Mary smoothed down his pillow, bound his head, and sat patient and devoted, and wife-like by his side. During all that woeful night of sorrow she watched over him and endeavoured to soothe bis pain. All her hopes and happiness were forgotten in absorbing efforts for his recovery.

When Michael saw that nothing but medical skill could save him, he forgot his crime and its consequences. Stung to madness by his love for his brother; and his fears for his recovery, be mounted a horse, and dashed off to the village where the doctor lived, and knocking violently and impatiently, the door was soon opened, and Michael, pale and horror-struck, entered. He staggered into the room, and sinking on a seat, in a voice husky and hoarse, said—

"Docthor! Oh Docthor, come, my brother is dyin-Oh, come, Docthor, make haste, he's dyin.”

The doctor, a man of skill and humanity, after making a few enquiries as to the nature of the case, immediately ordered his horse, and mounting him, accompanied Michael to the sick bed of bis brother. On arriving there, they found him worse; and never before, nor during the whole course of his professional experience, had the doctor witnessed such a scene. Michael stood near the bedside, and appeared the very image of distraction and despair. He was restrained from crying aloud, but his suppressed groans were enough to wrench the most obdurate heart; and it would be difficult to tell which of the sufferers were the most to be pitied.

Near his side sat his virgin bride, soothing his wild ravings by her soft sweet voice; and when in his delirium, the happy scenes of the past day seemed reacted, then she knelt, ever ready to lead him, by her words and caresses, into a forgetfulness of his present pain. When in his desperate struggles, he would fancy they were tearing her from him, and when the strength of several men could scarce restrain him, she, with her gentle hands and fond kind words laid him in peace, and kneeling by his side, cooled his burning temples with her pale fingers. When the crisis, however, approached, she saw by the keen glance of affection that the doctor's manner betrayed the hopelessness of the Then did her strength give way, and one violent fit of

case.

hysteric sobbing almost broke down both her reason and physical powers. Unavailing was all their tenderness, and fruitless every attempt at consolation. Even her own loved mother failed. Mary Asthore," cried the poor woman, "you know that while there is life there is hope. God is merciful, and may have pity on you, an' spare him for the sake of our prayers."

"Mary, my love, where are you," said the dying man, though his hand was resting on her bosom, "Let me feel you; Mary, won't you think of your own Edward-Oh, don't let me pass altogether out of your memory. But where are you, Asthore? My eyes want a last look of you. I feel you-aye I feel you in my heart; but how is it that I cannot see you? Oh! my sweet wife come near me;" and he clasped her to his heart, as if he thought while he held her there, it could not cease to beat: but, in a moment after, one slight shudder, one closing pang, his grasp relaxed-his head fell upon her bosom, and he, who that morning stood up in the pride of youth and manly beauty, with the cup of happiness touching his very lips, was now a cold corpse. Half unconscious-almost unbeleiving that all could be over, she gently laid him down. On looking into his face, her pale lips quivered-and, as her mute wild gaze became fixed upon the body, slowly the melancholy truth forced itself upon her heart, and the scene that followed is easier to be conceived than described.

At the inquest that followed, there was no proof to criminate the wretched brother. He remains almost entirely confined to his home; never venturing abroad except when the extreme pressure of business compels him; and when he does he always takes the most unfrequented paths and the loneliest bye-roads, in order to avoid the face of man.

Poor Mary resides with her mother. Several years have now passed, and the "Virgin Widow" is constant to her grief: the chastened sorrow of that agreeing well with her mournful weeds. In vain is she pressed to mingle in the rustic amusements of her former companions; she cannot do it-even to please her mother: the poor thing's heart is sorrow struck for ever-she will never smile again.

STANZAS FOR MUSIC.

I wooed thee, love to send me o'er
Some gift of little worth,

Yet one whose form might give once more
Old thoughts and feeling births.

It is not that the stranger-land

Has changed those dreams of mine; They ask not, love, another band

To hold them to their shrine.

You sent the book whose study fair
Won sweetness from thy tone;

Those eyes, with mine, have wandered there

I cannot read alone.

You gave your favourite flower; but take
Again the fragile thing--

I would not wear, for thy sweet sake,
A gift so perishing.

Thou art my flower-the gem most fair
In nature's wide array-

No poison-seeds are lurking there;
No blush to veil decay.

These leaves were formed in fairy mould;
They bear no taint of earth;
They ask no sunshine to unfold
The beauty of their birth.

Thou art my book-the sternest sage Sweet wisdom there may see

I seek no knowledge that bright page Cannot impart to me.

Then teach me, love, the gentle art Such treasured hopes to win; Bright leaves to glow above my heart, Loved words to burn within.

THE WHITE CRAVAT; OR, THE BLACK STOCK? THAT IS THE QUESTION.

Our readers know, (says a celebrated writer in a fashionable periodical), that we are general advocates for improvement of every kind, and that we hail joyfully its advance in all branches of human affairs. It has been, therefore, with extreme satisfaction that for very many years we witnessed the greatly increased prevalence of an improvement which had been struggling hard for a long period against tasteless prejudice. We allude to the introduction of the black neckcloth in the evening. It is now a very considerable time since this was first attempted at the Opera by the brilliant Hughes Ball. But he had not weight to carry through an alteration of such importance. People could not quote him as an authority to themselves; we almost think, indeed, that his well-meant, though premature, endeavour, rather retarded than assisted the great cause. For it is great-it is the cause of art-the cause of comfort, and thence the cause of good taste and good sense united. But the head of the illustrious house of Cavendish brought over a legion of classical bon ton to the cause-men whose conversation was as refined and sparkling as their style of attire. And will the public believe that there is an effort made to throw this taste into the retrograde? Yes, such is the fact; and many "exquisites," who have no one single quality but the affectation of singularity, have appeared in the footman's white neckcloth, which ought never to be allowed to pass the boundary of the household menial.

The white cravat was in every respect wrong. In the first place, it was against every rule of colouring-it presented no contrast, the shirt (and till lately, even the waistcoat!) being also white; but it did present, what is the most offensive fault to the eye of any in the whole theory of colour, a slight discrepancy of tints of the same colour; for it was next to impossible for the linen of the shirt, the cambric of the neckcloth, and the marcella of the waistcoat, to be brought, by any degree of lavatorial skill, to exactly the same hue. In the next place, even granting, (which we utterly deny,) that the white neckcloth was becoming at any time-even, to speak alchemically, in the very moment of projection, when the laborious amalgamation of parts has produced one glorious whole, and the Dressed Man sallies forth, like the sun at morn, in all the pride and freshness of the toilet,-even granting this, (which we never will,) who has ever beheld the bloom of beauty of the cervical structure outlast even the second A London gust of air, encountered in getting out of course? the carriage has breathed its black breath upon the "unsunned snow" of the neckcloth, and marred its beauty for the evening; or a rash turn of the bead has destroyed in an instant that symmetry which it has taken (shall I say?) hours to construct; or the melting properties of a crowded room and a June night, have deprived it of that force and firmness on which its sightliness entirely depends, and left the unhappy wearer with a wet white rope round his neck, as the only vestige of the product of art upon which the pains of his washer-woman and himself had been so lavished. Again, the time, difficulty, and danger attending the operation of putting on and tying the starched neckcloth, are so many decided evils from which the black one is free. How seldom can the question

"Have you, my friend," I've heard him say, "Been lucky in your turns to-day ?"

be answered in the affirmative, even though "a fortnight's laundry" should have been expended in the operation?

Now, from all and sundry these objections, the black silk cravat is free. The colour gives beautiful relief to the line of white collar appearing above, and forms a rich combination with the colours, when well chosen, of the waistcoat and coat, be they any gradation of what they in most cases must be, red, blue, or brown. Again, an accidental smut conveys no lasting stigma, and a man may move his head to the right, to the left, upwards and downwards, without crucifying his neckcloth, or, what is rather worse, keep him in constant fear of it. The difficulty of putting on is totally obviated—the garment is ready manufactured by the hosier. The degree of time and temper saved by this change we leave to be determined by those gentlemen who used to be celebrated for their ties some ten years ago.

NIGHT.

The night is dark, the wind is high and cold,
The gentle sheep are pent up in their fold,
The peasant weary on his pallet lies,
And air's no more disturbed by busy flies;
The wand'ring pilgrim broken down with age,
In cave seeks shelter from rude Boreas' rage.
Sweet silence reigns alone in every dell,
Quite undisturbed, save by the tinkling bell
Which hangs suspended from a hermit's cot,
Where lives content a man of humble lot.
Nor takes the bat his evening flight on high,
Like a winged arrow shooting through the sky :
Cloud follows cloud and screens sweet Luna's light,
The kind beguiler of the winter's night.
Thick fogs descend and cover Terra's face,
And darkest shades obscure the human race;
'Tis now that Somnus lends his gentle aid,
Tells man to sleep, and is not disobeyed.

THE SIEGE OF DROGHEDA.

The Marquis of Ormond, after the disastrous defeat of Rathmines, when his whole army was dispersed, having summoned and taken the fort of Bathshannon, past hastily through Kilkenny, making but a short stay, and reached Drogheda with only a detachment of three hundred, now the remnant of an army which on the twenty-fourth of June had mustered ten thousand strong, three thousand of which being cavalry and which the above nobleman had received near Dublin. Charles was fast losing in Ireland, his power had ceased for ever in England, the parliamentaries were spreading their already numerous victories; Cromwell in one place, Essex in another, Lambert in another, defeated the royal forces; the cause of monarchy was for the time drooping.

It was the sun of a bright afternoon that beamed upon the Irish land about the end of August. The Marquis's army being increased to three thousand five hundred foot, and seven hundred horse, was drawn out in battle array, underneath the wall of Drogheda. They were still, and no sound was heard save the conversation of the crowding by-standers, who made numerous, not very savoury remarks upon the savage and starved looking soldiery in the service of "royal Charlie."

On one side, around a stone pillar, was collected in various motley groups, a crowd composed, solely of men, who seemed

to look with no favorable eye, upon the royal colors which were waving on the top of the Castle of Drogheda, flapping here and there in the light breeze, now wound round the flag staff, then undulating with the wind. They had all either sticks or pikes in their hands, and there appeared amongst them not a few who spoke with somewhat of an authoritative air. Whispers passed rapidly from group to group, and presently they closed together in a dense mass to the number of about seven or eight hundred. The soldiers seemingly liked them not, for they pointed with significant looks towards them every now and then, and then to their muskets. The walls of the town were lined with cannon and some of the citizens mingled with lazy sentinels hung over the battlements and watched the siege below with intense anxiety. Many lovely faces of women bespangled the crowd, giving an air of lightness and buoyancy to the whole, inseparable from the presence of females.

Presently a stir was heard near the left wing of the little army, and a small host of richly accoutred horsemen, with bright armour and nodding plumes issued from the enclosure of the tents, amid the cheers of the soldiery and the balf stifled groans of the people. It was the Marquis of Ormond attended by the lords Moore and Inchiquin, by Sir Arthur Aston, Sir Edmund Butler, and other distinguished royalists, who were doomed,— the greater number at least-to fall in the dire conflict. In the immediate rear of the party; mounted on a jet black charger, was a young man of dark countenance, clothed in light but beautiful armour; melancholy, or rather thoughtfulness, was imprinted on his visage: he sat carelessly upon his steed, and heedless of the admiration which his noble and gallant bearing drew from the bystanders, he followed the Marquis along the ranks. There was a restless uneasy roll in his eyes which made some think him wild, and many who knew him personally, were sore offended at his failing to recognize them.

As they proceeded, each regiment-much in the same condition as Falstaff's, gave some proof of their besotted devotion to that worthless nobleman, the Marquis of Ormond, who had however since he saw its necessity-found means to ingratiate himself with the soldiery, no very difficult matter. Presently he halted, and turning, with somewhat of an ironical smile, to the above mentioned youth, "Cornwallis" said he "bow like you the looks of my jolly soldiers? Dost thou not think that thy old dragon of a step-father did right in turning thee over to us, instead of sending thee among those puritanical and psalm singing hppocrites under Old Noll the arch-enemy of monarchy and the church, who would have made thee one of his own praise God rattledowns, Ironsides, I trow he calls them, come be honest and speak thy mind man ?"

"Whether Sir Reginald Cornwallis" replied the other somewhat grimly, "has done that which in his opinion was right, I have no doubt; but, though that is another thing, he has done that which now in my opinion, and to my feeling appears wrong; and, as I before informed your lordship, let me but once hear an assurance from Cromwell's own mouth, that, if in the end com. pletely victorious, he will not seek to make himself king, be satisfied, I will join him and his party, for they are alone the men who care for the people or for God."

"Tush! tush! well-a-day," replied the reckless yet good humoured nobleman laughing, "as to the people, neither they nor we care one jot for them, and as to religion, what of that, it is a thing only fit for old women and puritans. But your brain must be turned man, what! Follow the plebeian standard of the son of a brewer, with no more of gentle blood in his veins than General O'Neil himself. Fie on the unworthy scion of the brave and loyal Cornwallis."

"It matters but little" replied he haughtily, "so he be a gallant and a brave man, able in the field and in the senate, whether he be the son of a brewer or not, but since he himself has expressly denied it, I shall want better assurance than any man's word-even the Marquis of Ormond's for that matter.

Sir Arthur nettled by this reproach cast upon his sovereign, would have no doubt answered angrily, had not this short colloquy been interrupted by the sound of horses' hoofs moving with rapid pace towards them. Every eye was instantaneously as if by the aid of a loadstone, directed towards that quarter. It was a royal courier. Dashing swiftly along the line, he hurried towards Ormond, with reeking spurs, bedaubed with dust, when, arriving near him he flung himself from his horse, and presented a letter to the somewhat impatient Marquis. "From whence."

"Umph!" muttered Inchiquin.

Lord Moore shrugged his shoulders.

"Cromwell Lord lieutenant of Ireland," exclaimed Sir Edmund Butler "be owes me a grudge, and will I have no doubt repay it, if we meet here. I like not the idea. And well he might dislike it, for not many days afterwards he fell by the hands of Cromwell's soldiers at Wexford, defending it gallantly for the King.

Another courier was now seen hurrying rapidly in an opposite direction, the other having come straight from the sea, he raised thick clouds of dust, his horse's hoofs seemed scarcely to touch the ground. Every eye was once more eagerly bent upon him. As he approached he shouted aloud. "Cromwell has left Dublin for Drogheda."

"Let him come;" cried the soldiers.

A loud shout of uproarious applause then rent the skies. "Cromwell for ever! huzza! Cromwell for ever and nine times nine !"

It was from the motley group of armed men who as was before stated were assembled around the rude stone pillar.

"What mean the rascally knaves?" exclaimed Ormond, surprised at their tumultuous joy. 'Sir Arthur Ashton, take the horse, and dislodge the villains from their position, and by G— if they do not move, I will have them fired upon."

When this not very diffcult task had been performed, orders were immediately given to the soldiery to retire to their tents and a council of war was summoned to Ormond's marquee which most of the officers attended. What occurred there and how the resolution of Ormond was agreed to never transpired; however it was guessed from the coolness afterwards manifested towards each other by many of the officers that much friendly parley did not pass between them.

On the morrow the banner of the parliamentary forces floated over Oliver Cromwell's tent, beneath the hostile walls of Drogheda. The leader of that pious array whose motto was

"God with us," and whose numerous battles rarely disproved that word, was sleeping where Ormond had lain the night before. What a different scene was presented to the view. Let us turn back and describe the coup d'oieul which Ormond's tent had presented to the peep of dawn. Upon a luxurious couch, and pressing to his bosom a frail but beautiful daughter of our mother Eve, lay the Marquis. A sleeping pair. Around the apartment, were the various implements of male and female toilet, (the latter of which the Marquis always carried with him for the convenience of his various mistresses,) were scattered in strange confusion. Upon a table, where flickered a dying lamp, were ballads, wine glasses, dice, chess, cards, and upon a rude sideboard, the remains of a sumptuous supper. Hung by a peg upon the pole of his tent, was a well tuned guitar. Arms were banished. Such was Ormond.

Passing the grim sentinel who paced slowly before the entrance. Cromwell in his armour and without covering was discovered lying upon a rude couch. His pistols protuded from under his head, and his heavy cutlass lay by his side, on a stool near him was a Bible and a lamp. Such was Cromwell.

The royal standard still however retained its former position on the keep of Drogheda, but the Marquis was gone. Leaving Sir Arthur Ashton with two thousand men, for the defence of the town, and having dispatched Inchiquin into Munster to, collect recruits, he himself with the small remainder of his forces marched to Kilkenny.

But let us return to Cornwallis. He went not to the council, of the night before, but had stolen into the city of Drogheda into the house of John Somerville a rich merchant of that town. John Somerville, who was a Puritan, had from the first, through an honest conviction sided with the parliament, and was in fact one of those elegantly denominated "round-heads," and " cropeared rascals." Through this he had lost much, when first this distressing war broke out.

His daughter was a girl calculated to win every susceptible heart; lovely, intelligent, and kind hearted, the beauty of her soul was only equalled by the beauty of her person. Many were the suitors for her hand, but Cornwallis and Mary, had loved one another from their earliest youth, with a strength and constancy of affection, rarely excelled, and she had gently refused them all. He loved her, and she concealed not from him the fact that his love was returned,

When Cornwallis was by necessity compelled, years before, in obedience to the will of a step-father, to join the royal standard, (which he did then, however, not unwillingly, for from the perverse nature of his educatioo, and prejudices he conceived he was doing right,) he was told by Somerville, that he could not think of giving his daughter's hand, although even her heart was already bestowed upon him, to any malignant.

"Cornwallis," said John Somerville, "I love you dearly, and would have you in preference to any other for a son-in-law, yet my feeling of religion compels me to be firm here. You are pledged with those who would subvert the laws of God and man, to support a prelacy and a tyranny. And my daughter's hand must be withheld from you for the present. In the mean time you are ever welcome to my house, and to the company of Mary, who will remain you may be sure unmarried. And, I sincerely hope, that your heart will be open to my representations, and to the facts which the conduct of your leaders will soon prove to you."

Cornwallis however grieved at his determination, had too much good sense not to admire the motive, and withdrew not from the company of our heroine, though he at first despaired of obtaining be hand. His ear was, however, not deaf to the truths which the old man with earnestness laid before him, and his temperate, calm, and dispassionate representations, coupled with the exciting occurrences of the times, had, when our tale commences, almost convinced him of his error. When the marquis of Ormond came to Drogheda, Cornwallis, in furtherance of his step-father's

wishes, enrolled himself under his banners, but he had then gone so far as to know that he would never raise the sword against the Parliament.

The evening sun set upon Mary and her father, in their little comfortable parlour, in Charles Street. A few rays yet lingered in one corner of the apartment, as if loth to depart. The old man, without spectacles to assist him, was bending earnestly over the pages of a large Bible. Mary was engaged in sewing and endeavouring to listen to many passages of the heavenly book, which drew his attention. But it cannot be denied, that her thoughts, those thoughts that wander through eternity—were elsewhere, it would have been strange indeed bad they not.

Her affections being placed upon one, upon whom, it might be, circumstances might prevent from bestowing her hand, it is but natural that her ideas were directed towards him. Had they not been, it would have denoted a coolness. In times of such commotion the lives of men were never safe, and she ever feared for his life, wben from her sight.

Presently a tap was heard at the parlour door, and Henry Cornwallis entered.

"Hail to you! Welcome my son," said the good old man. "Welcome, Henry," said the young girl, offering him a seat, "but it is a word that has so often passed my lips, you must think it sounds tiresome."

"Never! But, I shall be at least welcome now," observed Henry, somewhat solemnly after he had saluted his once betrothed, "I am a harbinger of good news."

"Rare things in these times," replied Somerville, let us hear it."

"You say no more than truth," continued Cornwallis. "But John, I have to tell you of that which if you love me, will please your heart, and I am not wrong, I am sure, in saying that it will please my Mary's too. To-morrow will, in all probability, see me numbered in the ranks of the Godly, whatever come of it, I take service with the Parliament."

"The Lord be praised," exclaimed Somerville rising from his seat, and, extending his hand towards the young soldier, "but who then is at hand."

"Cromwell's flag will float on the keep of Drogheda before many days."

“Obstinate cavalier as you were" said Mary whose emotions of pleasure were too natural for any to wish for a description of them, "you confess that you have been in error. You need not sit so far off.

“I cry peccavi,” said Henry, drawing the pondrous chair near to her, "though I greatly fear that my resolve has been as much caused by the bewitching smiles of beauty as by reason."

In conversation such as this, the hours flew quickly by, and the old family time-piece struck twelve before they hardly thought an hour was sped away. The old man then retired, and Mary would have followed his example, had he not bid her with a good natured smile spend another hour with Henry, "the only lad," he added as he closed the door, "that I would suffer to take so unseemly a liberty."

“There goes,” said Henry Cornwallis, whose eyes beamed with pleasure," the best heart in Christendom, no wonder that he should have such a daughter."

Our space forbids, though our will inclines us to record that hour to memory dear, when vows ever unbroken were pledged We must hie unto the morning.

anew.

The troops lined the walls at an early hour, but the sight of the much dreaded parliamentarian flag, and the name of the terrible man who had led on these forces, had completely sobered down the usual jovial and merry spirit of the soldiery. The soldiery imagined that a spell of victory had been cast around his name, and they feared-they feared nought else—to engage the chosen sons of Mars and Victory. The good citizens of Drogheda kept within their houses, closing the shutters, and abandoning all business: or if any were compelled by necessity

to stir out, they glided through the street with a spectral step. John Somerville and his lovely daughter had retired to a friend's house in the centre of the town, their own being near the wall. Henry Cornwallis had not been seen that morning, no one knew and no one cared-save only two persons, where he was

Sir Arthur Aston, a brave soldier and a good catholic, surrounded by his staff, was standing on a tower that projected from the wall without being higher, opposite the republican camp, for so even we may call it. A movement was soon observable, and that brave and religious band, which by its daring deeds won itself the name of ironsides, followed by the other horse and foot, many thousands in number ranged themselves over the field each beneath their respective colours. The cava liers admired while they feared the splendid display. Presently a solitary trooper preceded by a herald bearing a banner flag of truce approached, a white flag was immediately hung from the walls.

"I would hold parley with the chief of the unrighteous, even with the keeper of Jericho," said the fearless trooper.

"I am the governor of the castle and town in the name of the king's most gracious majesty," replied Sir Arthur Aston.

"In the name of the Man Charles Stewart, who shall be discomfitted even as Adoni.zedee, near the way that goeth up to Bethkoram, even unto Azekah, by the chosen of the Lord," continued the trooper sternly, "but General Cromwell, summons you men of Jericho to surrender unto the parliament and thus save your lives. He gives you goodly chance, more, much more than ye Philistines deserve."

"Go tell the rebel chief, the bloody minded Cromwell, the leader of the Rump," replied the governor furiously, "that I keep the town of Drogheda in the king's name, I have no more to say, so move off you ranting boar if you mind a leaden bullet." "Then heaven defend the right," retorted Cromwell, it was he-his sternness relaxing into melancholy, "your blood be upon your own heads, for ye shall be smote by the edge of the sword, and your city made a spoil even as Hazor. To your tents oh

Israel!"

Scarcely had the general regained his forces, when a heavy fire of cannon opened on the town. Nought was then heard save the roar of artillery, nought seen but white curling smoke and vivid flashes, mingled with the shouts of either party. Volley followed volley in rapid succession, when suddenly the parliament forces slackened their shot, then ceased, and the thick vapour clearing away, discovered the army, unmoved. The republicans held colloquy together. The royalists also ceased their fire. Again the roar of artillery was heard in quicker succession than before, completely obscuring each party from view: this work of death lasted about half an hour, when the rattle of cannon sounded close to the walls. The parliamentarians had erected a battery, a little on one side, and under cover of the thick cloud which the wind propelled towards them, not a bundred yards from the ramparts. It swept them completely. Perceiving that the royalists' guns were silenced, the opposite party allowed the mist to clear away, and pointing their pieces with a sure aim against the wall, a breach was soon effected. Deep and hollow was the groan that escaped the malignants, loud and deafening was the shout that rose from the lips of the Puritan soldiers. Cromwell immediately gave a signal for the assault.

With a sword in one hand and a pistol in the other, the determined and fearless soldier of the commonwealth led the van, on each side of him was a young officer eager to signalize themselves under the eyes of their general. Cromwell was the first to plant his foot upon the breach with " Onward" in his mouth. The royalists no longer intimidated by the cannon, flung themselves gallantly into the gap, and opposed sword to sword and pike to pike. The firing of muskets and pistols soon ceased. Nought was heard but the clash of steel and the groans and shrieks of the wounded and dying. Several had felt the weight of Cromwell's arm, when suddenly he was engaged with a gi ́gantic officer, an Irish man, far his superior in bodily strength. To be concluded in our next.

LONDON AND PARISIAN FASHIONS.

DRESSES. The Antoinette dresses are of the latest introduction and assimilate well with the simple taste which is admired by many, notwithstanding the general adoption of a moderate description of costume.

The plain sleeve is frequently seen, the close one still very generally.

The skirt may be seen in numerous instances without trimming. It can be adopted however or dispensed with, and this without infringement of the ordinances of the mode.

The robe president is a style which has considerable attractions, composed of embroidered muslin, with an echelle on the front of the corsage in double rows; a similar one on the skirt with the addition of a double row of ribbon pompons. This is a description of costume which is suited equally for the ball-room or evening dress at home.

The jupons remain of the same size and amplitude as before. The pelerine is worn as a very general accessor to negligé dresses.

BONNETS AND CAPS.-A hat of velvet épinglé citron, was elegantly embroidered en maune, a drooping marabout feather, similarly tinted, formed the only ornament.

A bonnet of nacarat velvet has a fancy feather placed on one side, and gracefully waving below the lower part of the brim.

Crape and tulle capotes, though not so much worn as some time back, are yet sufficiently in use to warrant a mention of them, and to particularize the particular ornaments which are favorites with them. Marabout feathers of a very light and graceful description, the waving and drooping feather in colored, blue or rose color on a white ground greatly predominated.

VARIETIES.-Among the articles of Lingerie which are worthy of enumeration may be especially named the Marguerite collars, the Floresta collars; the small Cardinailes, of which the latest variety is the Sidonia.

A new description of embroidery called Aragonese prevails with some of the elegant varieties of costume above named, and with the latter more particularly, it may be considered as appertaining in an especial degree.

The marabouts very long; the drooping feathers frimatés white on a rose or blue ground are frequently used. The Tuberose, the Acacia, Palius, and sprigs generally are in vogue for autumn flowers.