pling waves used to dash against the walls of the building; and Arthur used often to sit at his grated window, watching the stream as it rolled along; and he would envy the happy birds he saw skimming so blithely on its surface. Oh that he had wings like them, and that he could fly away, far, far from his hated prison!

One night he was seated as usual, gazing on the river, which looked like a sheet of silver beneath the rays of the bright moon, whilst streaming tears ran down his cheeks as he mused on his sad fate. He had been thinking of his mother, and her dear voice seemed to sound in his ear, speaking in mournful accents. The gay dreams of his infancy came back distinctly to his mind; the happy days he had spent in France, with Louis, the friend of his childhood; the games they had played at; the lessons they had learned together. What a change had come over him since that time! Then, he was a joyful, merry creature, as gay, and free from care as the very birds he envied; his heart full of bright hopes for the future.

Now, faded and blasted were all his hopes; and torn from those he loved, he would probably die in captivity, without a friend to cheer and soothe him in his last moments.

Such were his sad thoughts, poor youth, when suddenly he saw some object moving on the water. It came nearer and nearer; and at length he perceived that it was a small boat, containing only one person.

Arthur at first thought it might be a fisherman, come to set his night lines, and did not feel any alarm; but soon the boat came quite close to the Castle, and paused beneath his window. As he looked down, the moon shone full upon the face of his wicked uncle.

Oh, unhappy Arthur; think of his horror! His blood ran cold, his limbs shook, his heart beat violently. He vainly tried to break down

the bars of his

himself from it.

window, that he might throw Anything rather than fall into

the hands of John; but he had no power to

escape, and felt but too truly that his doom was sealed.

In a few moments he heard a key placed in the lock of the door; it turned, the door opened, and some one entered. Was it his uncle? His senses almost forsook him from fear.

No, it was not John, but the old jailor who attended on Arthur, and who now desired him to follow him.

The poor boy breathed a fervent prayer to Heaven, then quitted his lonely prison, never more to return to it.

I shall relate the remainder of his sad story in as few words as possible.

There are different surmises as to the exact fate of this unfortunate young Prince. Some say that the wicked King stabbed his nephew with his own hand, and threw his body into the river; others, that he dragged him to the top of a high precipice, and hurled him over it. Whatever may have been the manner of his death, most true it is, that Arthur was never again seen after that night, and all agreed that John was his murderer.

This cruel King never prospered. Conscience would not let him rest! Remorse for his crime was for ever gnawing at his heart! He passed many miserable years, and at last died, deserted by his former friends, hated by his subjects, haunted by the remembrance of his misdeeds, and almost broken-hearted.

CHAPTER III.

EDWARD OF CAERNARVON,

THE FIRST ENGLISH PRINCE OF WALES.

BORN APRIL 25, 1284; KILLED SEPTEMBER 21, 1327.

'This royal infant.

Though in his cradle, yet now promises

Upon this land, a thousand, thousand blessings.'

SHAKSPEARE.

HAT joy and excitement reigned throughout the metropolis on the

9th of November 1841, that happy day on which was born Queen Victoria's first son, the Prince of Wales; the heir-apparent to the British throne and empire!

It was at about eleven o'clock in the forenoon, that, suddenly, the air was rent with the sound of the hundred guns fired from the