CHAPTER II. THE PURITAN'S DAUGHTER. Mark Phillips sat at a table near an open window, with a large Bible before him, out of which he was reading aloud to his beau tiful daughter Edith, as she sat by his side, leaning her head upon his shoulder, and listening with devout attention to those holy words which every hour seemed to let in fresh light into her mind, and make her more acquainted with the gospel of our Lord. The old man's voice was trembling; but the fervour with which he read, and the meek, pious resignation of that aged face, on which the rays of the setting sun fell, threading through his thin and scattered white hair, almost unperceptibly raised by the wind, rendered him a beautiful specimen of that sincere and zealous class of men, the Puritans. The book was at length closed; and Edith, after remaining some considerable time silent, exclaimed, looking archly up into her father's countenance: "It was this day six months that Henry Farnham, the rich, the handsome royalist, Vowed everlasting vengeance against us both, because I refused his gentle suit; and we are not quite annihilated yet, father, are we?" "Not yet, my child," said he, gravely; "but still we know not what is in store for us." They had sat thus conversing for some time, when a servant opened the door, and announced OLIVER CROMWELL. "Oliver-my lord!" exclaimed the old man, rising, and cordially advancing to meet him. 66 66 Nay, Mark Phillips, I do not require that you call me by any other name than that you used to call me when we played together long ago. It is not such incense I require. You are surprised to see me here; I am but come to ask you one question, and then to depart. I will sit down. Do not go, unless you wish it," said he, addressing Edith, who was preparing to leave the room. "I would ask of you this simple thing-how to retain a friend? Mark, I, the Lord Protector of England, surrounded as I might be with the pomp of a sovereign, caressed, flattered, indulged, if I but choose it, am come to you to ask how I can secure one faithful friend. Is it by gold? Let him but speak," he said, bitterly fixing his eyes on the calm unmoved countenance of the old Puritan, who watched the Protector, and listened to him as he would have listened to his brother, his equal in all things. "I do not understand you, Cromwell," he said, at length; "speak more plainly." "I will. Tell me," continued the stern Lord Cromwell, relaxing in this interview somewhat of his haughty bearing, "tell me how or in what way I have injured you, Mark, that you should be in league with my enemies to destroy me?" 66 Injured me? I in league with your enemies? What do you mean? What have you seen in my conduct to suppose me capable of such baseness?" The Protector bent a searching, scrutinising glance upon the quiet old Puritan, who sat with his Bible still before him, gazing intently upon him; and he paused for a moment. "Had I no proofs of what I assert, I should believe you, Mark; but—” "Believe me!-what right have you to doubt me?" "Circumstances have rendered me suspicious, as every day I make some fresh discovery calculated to destroy my confidence in those around me." 66 or "Before you speak," said Phillips, tell me your proofs, Oliver Cromwell, I will tell you one thing, which, if you be lieve, you will still retain the same position in my mind; if not, then we are henceforth separated utterly. You are Lord Protector of England, I am Mark Phillips, once your playmate and your friend, but still as proud of my position as you can be of yours. You have the whole empire under your control, and its interest to watch over; I have but one treasure, and that lies here," and the old Puritan laid his hand upon the head of the fair creature at his side. "I tell you only plainly, frankly, on my word, my honour, that never in thought, in deed, have I plotted against you-have never exchanged a word with such as I believed to be your enemies. This on the word of a man." Both were honourable men, and they had been friends in youth. The next moment was one of extreme suspense. There was a struggle going on in the mind of the Protector; he paused for a moment, then rose, and gave both his hands to his friend. "I believe you," he said; "forgive me." At this moment, a slight fluttering_was heard at the window; and turning, Phillips saw a letter fall upon the table. Cromwell started back; and Mark, taking up the paper, proceeded to open it, whilst his friend stood near, watching his countenance as he read. As the Protector stood, all his former doubts and misgivings returned more strongly than ever, for Mark Phillips did turn pale, and even looked confused. "Your missive seems not pleasing," said Cromwell, turning to go away, too proud to ask to see what he suspected to be a confirmation of his suspicions. "No, not pleasing, Cromwell; some ma "It is certainly very malicious, and particularly unfortunate that this letter should be thrown in thus inopportunely while I am here," said Cromwell, somewhat sneeringly, though there was something mournful in his voice; "but it matters little-only one more friend gone. Good night, Phillips." "Good night, Lord Cromwell," haughtily answered the Puritan. The Protector was gone. "Father," said Edith, "who can have done this?" "Some enemy, my child." 66 "said the Puritan, calmly pointNay,” ing upwards, "God will not desert the just, nor suffer the ungodly to triumph. We have done no wrong. Let us retire to night." CHAPTER III. THE PURITAN'S CAPTURE. A few days passed, when one evening the old Puritan again sat in that chamber with his daughter; but they were conversing sadly together over late events-a series of circumstances had occurred which apparently implicated the Puritan in treasonable practices. Suddenly, a knocking was heard at the door; and Edith, starting up, looked out of the window. "Father," she said, "there are two strangers standing at the door-odd-looking men. But before they could say another word, they had entered the room. "Mark Phillips, I believe," said the stranger. "The same," said the Puritan. "Here is a paper," continued the first speaker, "which sets you forth as having been concerned in treasonable practices against Oliver Cromwell, Lord Protector of England; and I am come now, in discharge of my duty, to apprehend you as a traitor to your country." 66 My father a traitor? No!" exclaimed Edith, rushing forward, and raising her hands imploringly to the stranger. "Do not touch him. It is not true; it is falseindeed it is." 66 Nay, Edith, peace," said her father; "I will go with these gentlemen. I am innocent, and ere long my innocence will be made manifest. You must away to your aunt; I shall not be from you long. No tears, my poor child," he whispered, as he folded her in his arms; "will you suffer them to witness such weakness? Nay, Edith, it must not be." And the father kissed her. "I may come to you to-morrow, father, I not?" may "Yes, if they will permit you. Now hand me my Bible, Edith." His daughter, with a swelling heart, advolume in his hand; and without another vanced, and placed the plain but precious word, but only one look at his child, the Puritan was led away to prison. Edith flew to the window, and watched her father down the street until he disappeared from view, and then flung herself back in the chair, and burst into tears. She remained long in this position, when suddenly raising her eyes, they encountered those of Henry Farnham peering through the window. "Edith Phillips," he said, "are you satisfied of my power to avenge myself?" But ere she could answer, he suddenly disappeared, though by the position he had assumed, leaning with his arms over the window-sill, it seemed as though he had intended longer to occupy his post. But Edith had scarcely time to close the lattice, ere a gentle knock was heard at the room-door, and Oliver Cromwell was again in the chamber. "Be not alarmed," he said, gently, "at my intrusion. Your father has been committed to prison, and will in all probability be led to the scaffold in a few days. Tell me, are you willing to save him?" "Save him? Oh, my lord, can you ask me? Tell me how I can do so. But surely you will not let him die—your own friend? No! It is in your power to set him free. He is innocent; indeed, my lord, he is." "Silence, Edith Phillips, awhile," said the Protector, somewhat sternly turning away, for he could not look unmoved upon the streaming eyes of the agitated girl, whose whole form appeared convulsed with terror. "His friendship once existing is his greatest crime. Had he been as other men, only a stranger to me, his desertion had not wounded me thus; but traitor as he is, I will forgive him all on one condition. You must know of all his proceedings. Speak, and tell me the whole truth, and your father is free to-morrow." Edith paused. She had nothing to tell, and she felt that she should not be believed in her simple denial. "You hesitate; do not fear to speak," he said, taking her hand. "You will not surely suffer your father to perish, when a few words will save him." "You will not believe me," she said, passionately bursting into tears, "if I tell you the truth. My father has never been concerned in any treasonable practice. No, he never leaves me. We sit together, read together, and no one comes near us." Oliver Cromwell frowned, as he said: "Do you know one Henry Farnham ?" "Yes- that is -I mean I once did know him." 66 'Did I not see him quit the window but one moment ago?" "But- "exclaimed Edith. "Nay. nay, I will hear no more; it grieves me, maiden, from my heart, to witness one so young so hardened. It is settled your father must die; and remember, Edith, you have pronounced his doom." Oliver Cromwell quitted the room; and Edith, hastily throwing a hood and cloak over her shoulders, went forth to her aunt's to relate what had happened, and to entreat her to accompany her on the morrow to her father's cell. CHAPTER IV. THE EXECUTION. It was the morning that was to witness the execution of Mark Phillips. Edith had been his inseparable companion until the last, and with an energy which astonished those around her, she pronounced it her determination to accompany him to the scaffold, that she might receive his last blessing. He sat in his cell, somewhat paler, perhaps, than when he was first introduced to the reader, but with a countenance expressive of a pious resignation. No murmur broke from his lips, no gesture expressed despair. His hands were clasped on his knee, but an observer of the scene might have detected a tear stealing down his cheeks, as he glanced towards that gentle girl who knelt by his pallet with her face buried in her hands. "It is better thus to sink into the grave than burdened with guilt. I trust I am prepared to meet my Heavenly Father. But read to me once again, Edith; then I will pray for the last time, for the hour is coming and we must part." "No, father, I will not leave you yet; but what shall I read ?" "The Sermon on the Mount, my child.” In the stillness of that chamber, the poor girl read lowly, her voice choaking with emotion for a little time, but she was unable to endure it long. Suddenly closing the book, she flung her arm round her father's neck, and murmured between her sobs: "I cannot do it, father; I cannot think of what I read at such a moment." as In less than half an hour afterwards the Puritan, accompanied by his daughter, was on his way to the scaffold. Crowds had assembled to view the procession. Old Mark Phillips was beloved by a numerous circle, and many a whisper of pity passed round through the multitude the white-haired man mounted the platform. There was still a figure at his side, a pale shadow of a girl, who seemed to glide like a spectre round him. It was a custom in those days for the prisoners to sing a hymn previous to the execution, as a preparation for death, the selection of which was left to themselves. "You will join me, Edith," whispered her father to his devoted child, who refused all entreaties to abandon him in his last hour. "Let me choose it," she said faintly, as she turned over the pages of the little volume, until she lighted upon the One Hundred and Nineteenth Psalm, the longest in the whole book. "Is not this prolonging our misery, my dearest child?" 66 -this last time, Nay, father-this oncedo grant me what I ask.” There And the hymn was commenced, and the voice of the multitude was hushed. was a silence like unto death in that erst a while moving, jostling, waving mass of heads, and every eye was riveted upon the two figures standing side by side on that small platform, the black form of the executioner with upraised axe in the background, supported by two or three other men in the rear. A ray of sunshine seemed suddenly to burst from behind a floating cloud, and to illumine the countenance of the condemned old man. There was a dense mass of human beings assembled there man, woman, and childawaiting the death of a fellow creature; and amongst them all every heart swelled with mingled emotions of pity for the young suffering girl who loved her father so deeply. Many a tear started to the eye of stern men, who, ashamed of the weak ness, brushed it hastily away, as they heard the united voices of the father and daughter blended in that holy hymn, which sounded plaintively clear in that deep hush. It was observed that as they both drew near the last verse, Edith's countenance assumed an aspect like unto death, and had not her father passed his arm round her slender figure, she would have fallen. It was come to the last-her fa ther had but one minute to live-the executioner advanced-her father turned to bid her the last farewell-when, hark! a distant shout rends the air. It enlargesit spreads-a thousand blended voices give strength to the rolling sound, borne over the heads of the multitude, and gathering force as it advanced, as each fresh roar of voices rose like a wave from the moving ocean of human beings, until at length its meaning burst upon the girl's bewildered brain. The shout is repeated. Hats are waved; and around, on every side, the word "pardon" is echoed. "Thank God!" exclaimed the fainting girl, as her father, raising her in his arms, hastened to descend from the platform. Another half hour found them by the side of Oliver Cromwell, who, as he bestowed his free pardon on the prisoner, explained to him that he had repented him of his precipitancy towards his old friend, but that he was as yet unconvinced of his innocence. "God bless you a thousand times!" exclaimed Edith, as in her gratitude she sank on her knees before him. "You will ere long discover him to be innocent." "It may be so," said Cromwell, turning away, "and if not-why the death of my friend would ill compensate me for the loss of his regard and his good will." "Thanks, my Lord Cromwell," said the old man, "for the life you have not taken for her sake. Come, Edith, let us go home." The Puritan and his daughter many and many a time read and read again that psalm which had saved him from an undeserved death. And Edith never ceased in humble gratitude to offer up her thanksgiving for that Providence which had suggested it to her, and then enabled her father to live to a good old age in humble faith and trust in the goodness of God. Mark Phillips' innocence was ere long proved to the satisfaction of even Oliver Cromwell, who rejoiced in the repentance which had sprung up in his heart, and which had worked so favourably for his friend. The Poems of Alfred Tennyson. follow some particular leader, who sets There are existing, amongst many others, two especial classes of critics, the members of one of which seek to extract all the good out of a book they possibly can; while the members of the other, by far the more numerous, sedulously avoiding all a book may contain of a valuable nature, set their wits to work to discover the points in which an author may be wanting, into what errors he may have fallen, taking care to show them up, when discovered, in the worst possible light to the world. Both these classes are to blame. Though the first named may be pardoned to a certain extent on account of the amiable motives by which they are actuated, that critic nevertheless still lies open to censure who represents the works on which he is called upon to pronounce judgment in a wrong light before the world, and enlists its warm approbation in behalf of an author, when in reality that approbation ought to be tempered by a moderate amount of dispraise. The crities who profess allegiance to the other class, on the contrary, call for no excuse from us. They merit none. They write frequently from despicable motives of malice, are often actuated by direct personal enmity, and slash right and left at an author, without being at the pains to consider for one moment how far they are acting either honourably or well. the fashion what to admire, what to hate or despise. Those timid disciples who enlist themselves under a chieftain's banner, come at length to have no voice of their own. They dare not reflect and appeal to the' unerring decision of their own judg ments, but must bow and worship before the shrine of their leader, and sing with him songs of adulation to each fresh aspirant after fame in the present generation. Every new arrival at the fane of poesy, be he clothed with commanding intellect, or clad in the humble suit of indifferent ability, is not submitted to the unbiassed judgment of the devotees around, but is passed over to a crew of partial judges, who come forward and point out to whom their disciples are to bow the knee, and from whom to turn derisively away. The present age is wanting in great men, but above all in great poets. Everything is on a moderate scale, and hence people are satisfied with average merit, admire poor productions, and raise into idols men gifted with ability, but as inferior to those who have gone before as the sun, shrouded in mist, is to that planet revealed in all its sublime grandeur on a summer's day. Never was there an age in which so few master-spirits swayed the destiny of the nation. We do not assert that there are no great men existing, no men gifted with extraordinary poetic talent yet unrevealed, or, if revealed, unappreciated; but let our readers cast an impartial glance around, and give us their names. What orator have we to startle the Houses of Legislature with the thunders of his eloquence? What statesman of commanding energy, capable of swaying the destiny of the nation? What prose writer to dazzle the world? What bard to kindle our souls into lofty admiration of his genius, his noble intellect and grasp of mind? Where are our Shakespeares and our Miltons now? Injustice is committed by both, as well to the public as to the author himself, but in the first case to the author more especially, since there cannot be a more grievous mistake than to endeavour to persuade a man that because he writes well, and perhaps eloquently, upon one topic, therefore he must write well upon every other topic likewise. No style is suited to all classes of literature. The poet is frequently be trayed into extravagance in prose-writing; the politician becomes severe, stern, and often cold in poetry. Let men confine themselves to that class of composition which has, as it were, become their own, and let each man be awarded his due meed of praise and blame. If he excel in one production, critics will acknowledge his pre-eminence; and if they be manly, will not fear, on the other hand, to blame where, in any fresh attempt, the writer should fall short of his former efforts. It is the mistake of the age blindly to them, and bask beneath the enduring rays We boast, it must be acknowledged, of a small group of great men; but it is not now our business here to single them out. It is our firm conviction, also, that there is genius slumbering in the minds of men who, shackled by circumstances, are prevented from stepping forth into the broad light of day. But their sun is destined to rise upon another generation, who will welcome the glad light which dawns upon |