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work of Paris. The labour came to an excellent end, albeit the wise and great doctors had departed on their separate ways, and were far off when the beggar was hoisted to the roof.

The chamber of Christ has been built in many nooks and corners of the world since, with plumb and line in pocket, the host of venerable doctors parted. St. Ambroise has sold his sacred vessels; St. Hugues, Bishop of Grenoble, has made away with his pastoral ring for the work. The poor whom Charlemagne gathered to the chamber of Christ within his palace, he called his masters, so sacred a place was the poor guests' room to him. In the morning the guest has gone forth in the last suit of the host, who remained naked; a lamb voluntarily shorn in the faith that the wind would be tempered to his case. Vainglorious builders also have been by the score, who have raised chambers of precious stones, from scaffold poles of substantial gold. Vanity has been of the building committee. The work has sometimes not prospered, with the treasures of Peru for concrete foundation. Nor has the humble work of common sandstone, although the cement has been mixed ere now in an archbishop's mitre. The rain and wind have conspired against the builders who have lifted the trowel to the sound of trumpet, and have been artisans of Christ in vanity.

That which humility has put together; the chamber struck with barbaric blows out of the rock; the cavern torn in the earth with the nails of Piety, her whole heart in the pain and waste of the effort; these have endured. The sleep of the guest has been perfect: although the chamber has been on a morass, and the lizard sole painter of the walls.

Of these chambers the Christian Vagabond had seen many, in many lands. Dressed by savage men, with poles and skins, who knew not that it was Christ's chamber they were putting together for the tall, grey stranger, with the mild face, and the greasy staff, whose breast was tawny as theirs! Nay, in the blue and white north it had been built of snow and bell-shaped, by puny men who could understand with the Guest only the language of the heart which God has made one for all human eyes;-the one primeval, everlasting, silent utterance.

"It was once a single broad leaf, in the torrid East, which dusky arms held over my head, when I had swooned and fallen in the long rank grasses of a fever-land," the Christian Vagabond said, speaking to the Lady of Charity and her sisters, gathered in the refectory, to eat again of the waste of the poor, when all their weary, aged guests were folded in rest for the night.

"But I have feasted to day, Sister," the Vagabond said, glancing at the beechen bowls in which a few scraps were left. "I have been with those who have lived on the refuse of a hospital, the leper's bitter crust; and have drunk from the cup which the most loathsome of the afflicted had used. We have, sisters, just eaten like St. Louis. Had we banqueted more richly there would have been one more hungry creature in the world to-night. My eyelids are heavy; for I have mastered some leagues this day; and the stars last found me crawling into the chamber (a tent of rags-an over-windy one to an old man) with gipsy faces around me, bidding me sleep well. The east wind was blowing gustily over the common; and I was not quite well pegged down. So that there is an ache courses from left shoulder to wrist, and-"

The sisters had risen. Each lit her taper. The Lady of Charity bowed to her guest, who rose to his full height, and bore his left arm firm across his chest, while he returned the salute of his hostess, then followed her to the outer corridor.

It was no stately nor dull procession to the chamber of Christ. Through the spacious corridors, surrounded by the taper-bearing sisters as by a swarm of fire-flies, and with the Lady of Charity, whose taper was taller than the rest, and who bore fresh leaves of the lily, leading the way, the ancient Pilgrim with the still lofty step went on his way to rest, his staff ringing, under the vigour of his wielding, upon the marble.

"To-morrow, Sister, I shall beg to hear somewhat of the poor soul that sped just now."

"I know of her sorrows only," the Lady answered.

Over the chamber's inscription a lamp was slung, and gave forth a lustrous white flame that shone through every night of every year-for the chamber was always ready. When the Stranger had reached the threshold, the Lady of Charity held forth the tall taper to him. The door of the chamber was closed with some somewhat faded lily leaves laid athwart the panel and the jamb, upon burnished hooks.

"The chamber has been empty, to our grief," the Lady murmured, as she raised the withered lilies and passed them to Sister Ursula. The door fell open, and while the Christian Vagabond passed within, Sister Charity, in gentle and devout voice, her sisters repeating after her, their heads bent, said,—

"By the Lord's leave. The Lord be with you."

Whereupon the Stranger, holding the taper high above him, wered,

"The Lord's blessing be upon this house, and upon all His creatures, this night."

He withdrew to the chamber and closed the door; and, gently rustled, the crisp new lily-leaves the Lady of Charity lay upon the burnished hooks, for the sole fastening of the chamber of Christ.

The Vagabond paused within, listening to the retreat of the sisters; and it seemed to him like the sweep and murmur of heavenly wings passing along the galleries.

He bent himself in meditation and prayer, seeking forgiveness for the past, and strength and true direction for the future. As with stiffened limbs he rose, he heard a rougher hand than Sister Charity's lifting the lily-leaves at the door.

A hideous old man-whose presence instantly poisoned the air of the chamber, whose tatters were foul, whose face was full of gloomy misery-stood forward. The door closed behind him, and silver voices at his back said,

"By the Lord's leave.

The Lord be with you."

The lily-leaves rustled upon the burnished hooks again, and the feathery murmurs died once more along the galleries.

The Christian Vagabond had a knee upon the couch. He was weary and in pain; but he turned and bowed to the new guest, saying,

"All men are welcome in this chamber."

The hapless wretch could neither hear nor speak. But the tears rolled and tumbled about his rugged cheeks, while the Vagabond bathed his sore feet, and put away his loathsome clothes. He wrapped him in flannels, and then took him in his brawny armsthe child of misery is light as a feather-and spread him upon the couch, and covered him, and blessed him while he fell asleep.

Then the wanderer took his blue woollens about him, and stretched his limbs at the foot of the bed, upon the wholesome rushes, in the Chamber of Christ, under the roof of the Lady of Charity.

(To be continued.)

"BY THE SEA."

AST night I watched the old year die-
A wind swept once across the sky,
That seemed to me his parting sigh-

The tolling ceased. Then weirdly gay,
The bells rang forth across the bay-
Stealing a sea-charm on their way,

An echo from the hollow caves—

A thrill of music from the waves,

Where some that hear, shall find their graves!

These changeful bells, I whispered, sure

Most like some cunning overture,

Give foretaste what we must endure !

O young babe year, that yet shall grow
To work us either weal or woe-

'Tis strange that men should hail thee so!

O dread, mysterious volume sealed-
What fateful words lie there concealed
Not till the end to be revealed-

O ship that sails the unknown sea!

We guess not what thy freight may be--
What storms-what shipwreck-none foresee!

N. P.

THE TRUE STORY OF MRS.

SHAKSPERE's Life.

OLTHOUGH it cannot be denied that the improved taste and higher moral sense of the more educated classes, both in England and America, have completely driven the plays of William Shakspere from the stage, yet this advance is unfortunately more than counterbalanced by the enormous increase of cheap editions of his works, daily issuing from a corrupt and venal press; thus bringing the unreflecting populace and guileless youth of both countries again under the power of that brilliant and seductive genius, from which it was hoped they had escaped.

In order still further to ensnare and allure the thoughtless, these cheap editions are too often garnished with biographical notices of the author's life; described in garish and attractive language; and the editors of these dangerous works, not content with exalting to the skies a genius only too likely to enchant and enthral the unwary, endeavour to blind the judgment of the unthinking reader by unblushingly repeating as truth the fulsome adulation lavished upon Mr. Shakspere by the boon companions of the tavern wherein he was accustomed to seek oblivion of the dark thoughts by which his soul was haunted, in the wildest excesses of maddening intoxication. Thus it is upon the authority of his fellow rioters that we are repeatedly told that he was a

"Gentle spirit, from whose pen

Large streams of honey and sweet nectar flow."

“The man whom Nature's self had made

To mock herself, and Truth to imitate

With kindly counter, under mimic shade;
Our pleasant Willy."

Truth to imitate! we shall presently see with fell intent. Again,it has been said:

"A gentler shepherd nowhere may be found."

Such is the magic of genius even when the life of its possessor is known to have been one of lewd and unhallowed riot, that it is a

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