senna and rhubarb, to which his horror-stricken | this fashion. Charles procured from Pope Julian doctors doomed him as he ate, compose a spectacle a "dispensation" by which he was discharged from less attractive to the imagination than the ancient any scruples of conscience for having broken his fast portraits of the cloistered Charles." The ex-emperor, at any previous time, and was accommodated with indeed, appears to have left behind him very few of full liberty for the time to come. his appetites and passions, and very little of his ambition. Why he should have retired, however, it is not difficult to understand. To quote Mr. Motley once more, "The earlier, and indeed the greater part of his career, had been one unbroken succession of triumphs, but the concluding portion of his reign had reversed all his previous glories. His career as a whole had been a failure. Towards all the great powers of the earth he stood, not in the attitude of a conqueror, but of a disappointed, baffled, defeated potentate." "Disappointed in his schemes, broken in his fortunes, with income anticipated, estates mortgaged, all his affairs in confusion, failing in mental powers, and with a constitution hopelessly shattered, it was time for him to retire." 66 It would be a profound mistake, however, to imagine that Charles became a monk, or became familiar with cloisters or cells or anything else that was not congenial to his taste. The Jeronymite convent of Yuste was situated in the most charming part of Estremadura, just remote enough to afford retirement, but not so remote as to be in any sense out of the world. Here the imperial penitent had a comparatively small but very pleasant house, fitted up and furnished with all but palatial luxuriance. Here," says Dr. Doran, "he was among the monks, but he was not of them. There was many a poor joke about his being a 'brother,' but he was only so in jest. He never ceased to be emperor; he retained as many imperial privileges as furthered his enjoyment | of life, and got luckily rid of those which did not agree with his pleasure or his health. He indulged in luxmious living, and though he laid the scourge lustily on his own back, no Churchman dared order him to do so, and he could pause whenever his loins began to ache. He was the most impetuous of penitents, and the director of his conscience was not bold enough to go beyond his pupil's own suggestions." The finest music that money could provide was performed for his enjoyment, and his bedroom was so arranged that, when unable or unwilling to leave his bed, ho could yet watch the progress of the priests at the chapel altar, and listen to the music. He was fond of mechanism, and retained specially for his amusement the ingenious Italian mechanician Torriaui, who by his clockwork birds, and tilting warriors, and other curious contrivances, wiled away the tedium of "cloistered" life, and terrified the fathers of the convent by displays of what they hold to be diabolical power. On the whole "the cloister" seems to have suited Charles v very well indeed. The only real difficulty he encountered in becoming a monk was in the matter of fasting. Charles could not, by any exercise of resolution, comply cheerfully with the convent regulations in this respect, and indeed it must be owned that circumstances were sometimes peculiarly aggravating. He was devotedly fond of sausages of a peculiar kind, and had sent to a distant part of the country for a supply. The sausages were despatched in all haste, but only reached the imperial epicure late on Thursday night. By no efforts of theological casuistry could they be argued into fish, and Charles had to put aside the tempting delicacies for four-and-twenty hours. To become a monk was all very well; but no ex-emperor could reasonably be expected to forego sausages in Though the state of his health precluded the possibility of his ever again taking an active part in the affairs of the nations, his interest in everything that went on in the outer world was as keen as it ever had been. No stato business of any serious importance was transacted without his having been consulted, and all events of consequence were communicated to him in despatches, which he devoured with the utmost eagerness. At one period of his residence at Yuste he appears to have received almost as many eminent personages on business of state as when actually on the throne. There was indeed a strong expectation of his coming back into the arena. Into such a perilous position did his son Philip soon manage to muddle himself, that on one occasion he despatched an emissary with instructions to entreat in the most humble manner, and to urge the ex-emperor by every argument that he could think of, to come forth from his seclusion, and resume the direction of affairs. Charles, however, was by this time quite unequal to anything of the kind. His gluttonous habits and want of exercise were rapidly breaking up what remained of a fine constitution. His ond was fast approaching, and he appears to have hastened it by a ghastly and fantastical piece of mummery already incidentally referred to. After celebrating masses for the souls of his mother and wife, he startled those about him by suggesting a rehearsal of the service over his own remains. The idea was, of course, pronounced a pious and laudable one, aud was actually carried into effect. convent chapel was darkened or illuminated only by the feeble glimmer of innumerable wax tapers. In the centre an imposing catafalque was erected and shrouded in black, and near this, among a throng of monks in conventual dress, priests in their surplices, and his own household all in the deepest mourning, stood Charles, shrouded in a black mantle, and holding a lighted candle in his hand. Some historians have affirmed that he listened to the solemn words of the service and the mournful dirges of the monks while lying in his coffin. Whether or not this is true seems doubtful, but that the service was actually held is unquestionable. The awful farce was concluded by Charles blowing out the candle he held, and handing it to the priests in symbol of the resignation of his soul into the hands of his Maker. The And this hideous fooling has been lauded and extolled as an indication of exemplary piety and humility-as though in a world like this there is not enough sorrow and death to wail over, as though Charles had not sacrificed to his own impious ambition lives enough for him to mourn, but he must indulge in this mummery over his own bier. The ceremony was too much for his shattered nerves. He took to his chamber a day or two afterwards, and in about three weeks came the end of this, the most remarkable career of all monarchs who have voluntarily resigned a sceptre. A memorialstone in the convent garden still records that, "In this holy house of St. Jerome of Yuste ended his days, he who spent the whole of them in defence of the faith and in support of justice, Charles v, Emperor, King of Spain, most Christian, invincible. He died on the 21st September, 1558." Of such egregious falsehood may even tombstones be guilty! THE HE vernacular rhymes of the English nursery are very interesting when viewed in a proper light. They do not, it is true, possess any literary grace, but its want is compensated for by a simplicity coming direct from nature. They are for the most part very old, and originally were designed for no higher purpose than to convey the wisdom or humours of the cottage, to soothe the murmurs of the cradle, or enliven the sports of the village green. "Before we had national books," says the elder D'Israeli, in his "Amenities of Literature" (vol. ii. p. 37), “we had national songs. Even at a period so obscure as the days of Charlemagne there were * most ancient songs, in which the acts and wars of the old kings were sung.' These songs, which the secretary of Charlemagne has informed us were sedulously collected by the command of that great monarch, are described by the secretary, according to his classical taste, as 'barbarous;' barbarous because they were composed in the rude vernacular language. Yet such was their lasting energy that they were, even in the eighth century, held to be 'most ancient,' so long had they dwelt in the minds of the people. The enlightened emperor had more largely comprehended their results on the genius of the nation than had the more learned and diplomatic secretary. It was an ingenious conjecture that, possibly, even these ancient songs may in some shape have come down to us in the older Northern and Teutonic romances, and the Danish, the Swedish, the Scottish, and the English popular ballads. The kindling narrative and the fiery exploits which entranced the imagination of Charlemagne, mutilated or disguised, may have framed the incidents of a romance, or been gathered up in the snatches of the old wives' tales, and finally, may have even lingered in the nursery. In tracing the history of a few of our old nursery rhymes, the one which first demands our attention is "The Search after Fortune," which may probably be as old as the rebellious times of Richard II. original, as found in the Donce Collection at Oxford, is as follows: "My father he died, I cannot tell how, The But he left me six horses to drive out my plough: One of the modern traditional versions runs thus: "My daddy is dead, but I can't tell you how, But he left me six horses to follow the plough: With my whim, wham, waddle ho! Strim, stram, straddle ho! Bubble ho, pretty boy, Over the brow. I sold my six horses to buy me a cow; And want that a pretty thing to follow the plough? With my, etc. I sold my cow to buy me a calf, For I never made a bargain but I lost the best half : I sold my calf to buy me a cat, To sit down before the fire to warm her little back: I sold my cat to buy me a mouse, But she took fire in her tail, and so burnt up my house : of Castile, who visted the court of Henry VII in the Another old rhyme may, perhaps, refer to Joanna year 1506. "I had a little nut tree, nothing would it bear The celebrated rhyme, "Sing a Song of Sixpence," is as old as the sixteenth century, and is quoted in Beaumont and Fletcher's "Bonduca" (Act v. sc. 2). It is probable also that Sir Toby Belch alludes to it in "Twelfth Night," when he says, "Come on, there is sixpence for you; let's have a song." The well-known rhyme, "Three Children sliding on the Ice," dates as far back as the year 1633, and is part of a ballad preserved in the Pepysian Collection, where it is called, "The Lamentation of a Bad Market, or the Drowning of Three Children on the River Thames." The verses which form the rhyme are thus given in the old ballad :— "Three children sliding thereabout, That so at last it did fall out, Ye parents all, that children have, For had these at a sermon been, Or else upon dry ground, Why, then I never would have been seen, If that they had been drown'd." The ballad may also be found at length in Tom D'Urfey's celebrated collection of old songs, entitled "Pills to Purge Melancholy," 1719. Perhaps one of the most interesting of the old nursery ditties is that beginning "London Bridge is broken down." Its date is a matter of uncertainty, for searching out the history and origin of a ballad is like endeavouring to ascertain the source and flight of December's snow; since it often comes we know not whence, is looked upon and noticed for a while, is corrupted or melts away, we know not how, and thus dies unrecorded, excepting in the oral tradition or memory of some village crones who yet discourse of it. If one might hazard a conjecture concerning this particular rhyme, we should refer its composition to some very ancient time, when, London Bridge lying in ruins, the office of bridgemaster was vacant, and his power over the River Lea (for it is doubtless that river which is celebrated in the chorus to this song) was for a while at an end. But this is all uncertain. The rhyme is printed in Ritson's "Gammer Gurton's Garland" and in Halliwell's "Nursery Rhymes of England," but both copies are very imperfect. There are also some fragments preserved in the "Gentleman's Magazine" for September, 1823, and in the "Mirror" for November of the same year. From these copies the following version has been made up, but the whole ballad has probably been formed by many fresh additions in a long series of years, and is, perhaps, almost interminable when received in all its different versions: Build it up with stone so strong; A correspondent of the "Gentleman's Magazine " (1823) remarks that "London Bridge is broken down" is an old ballad which, more than seventy years previous, he had heard plaintively warbled by a lady who was born in the reign of Charles II, and who lived till nearly that of George II. Another correspondent of the same magazine observes, that the ballad concerning London Bridge formed, in his remembrance, part of a Christmas carol, and commenced thus: : "Dame, get up and bake your pies, On Christmas Day in the morning." The requisition, he continues, goes on to the dame to prepare for the feast, and her answer is: "London Bridge is broken down, On Christmas Day in the morning." The inference always was, that until the bridge was rebuilt, some stop would be put to the dame's operations. But why the falling of a part of London Bridge should form part of a Christmas carol, we are at a loss to determine. This connection has doubtless long since been gathered into the "wallet that Time carries at his back, wherein he puts alms for oblivion." A Bristol correspondent, whose communication is inserted in that delightful volume, the "Chronicles of London Bridge," says: "About forty years ago, one moonlight night, in a street in Bristol, his attention was attracted by a dance and chorus of boys and girls, to which the words of this ballad gave measure. The breaking down of the bridge was announced as the dancers moved round in a circle, hand in hand, and the question, 'How shall we build it up again? was chanted by the leader, whilst the rest stood still." There is an old proverb which says that "A cat may look at a king." Whether the same adage applies equally to a female sovereign, and is referred to in the following nursery song, or whether it particularly alludes to glorious Queen Bess, is now a matter of uncertainty. A CAT MAY LOOK AT A QUEEN. Pus-sy cat, pus-sy cat, where have you been? I've been up to London to look at the Queen. Pussy cat, pus-sy cat, what did you there? I frighten'd a little mouse un-der the chair. The rhyme of "Little Jack Horner" has long been appropriated to the nursery. It forms part of "The Pleasant History of Jack Horner, containing his Witty Tricks and Pleasant Pranks which he played from his youth to his riper years," a copy of which is in the Bodleian Library; and this extended story is in substance the same with "The Fryer and the Boy," 1672; and both of them again are taken from the more ancient story of "Jack and his StepDame," which may be traced back to the fifteenth century. The first five stanzas of the ancient "merriment" of Jack Horner ran as follows: "Jack Horner was a pretty lad, Near London he did dwell; His mother loved him well. She often sat him on her lap, To make all smooth beneath, While little Jack was sweet and young, If he by chance should cry, A pretty boy, a curious wit, And in the corner he would sit On Christmas holidays. And said Jack Horner, in the corner, With his thumbs pulls out the plumbs, Crying, 'What a good boy was I."" there's the wolf! THE NURSE'S SONG, off.... the sky, .. And I'll.... be with you by and-by." The genealogy of many a tale and rhyme may be but to Greece and Rome, and at length to Persia and traced not only to France, to Spain, and to Italy, India. Our most familiar stories have afforded 66 The nursery song beginning, "If all the World were Paper," may be found in the curious poetical miscellany entitled "Wit's Recreations," published instances. The tale of Whittington and his Cat, supin 1640, and the tune is contained in Playford's instances. The tale of Whittington and his Cat, supposed to be indigenous to our country, is narrated "English Dancing Master," 1650. The familiar rhyme of "Girls and Boys come out to Play" is by Arlotto in his "Novella delle Gatte," and in his certainly as old as the reign of Charles II; and of in 1483; the tale is told of a merchant of Genoa. Facetie," which were printed, soon after his death, the same date, or older, is that commencing, "Hush-But going further back, we find the same story in a-by, Baby, on the Tree-Top." Ritson, who gives the East. Sir William Gore Ouseley, in his travels, the following version of the latter, says that the commencing words are a corruption of the French speaking of the origin of the name of an island in nurse's threat in the fable, He bas là le loup!-Hush, Persian Ms., that in the tenth century one Keis, the Persian Gulf, relates, on the authority of a the son of a poor widow in Siráf, embarked for India, with his sole property, a cat. There he fortunately arrived at a time when the palace was so infested by mice or rats that they invaded the king's food, and persons were employed to drive them from the royal banquet. Keis produced his cat; the noxious animals soon disappeared, and magnificent rewards were bestowed on the adventurer of Siráf, who returned to that city, and afterwards, with his mother and brothers, settled in the island, which from him has been denominated "Keis," or, according to the Persians, "Keish." The story of the other puss, though without her boots, may be seen in Straparola's "Piacevoli Notti." The familiar little hunchback of the "Arabian Nights" has been a universal favourite. It may be found everywhere-in the "Seven Wise Masters," in the "Gesta Romanorum," and in Le Grand's "Fabliaux." The popular tale of Llywellyn's greyhound, whose grave we still visit at Bethgelert, Sir William Jones discovered in Persian tradition, and it has given rise Hush-a-by, baby, on the tree-top, When the wind blows the cradle will rock; When the bough breaks the cra - dle will fall, Down will come baby, bough, cradle, and all. The well-known maxim of "Single misfortunes seldom come alone," is happily illustrated in the following: "Jack and Jill went up a hill, To fetch a pail of water; Jack fell down, and broke his crown, And Jill came tumbling after." The advantage of a diversity of tastes is also well to a proverb, "As repentant as the man who killed hit off by one of our old lyrists: : "Jack Sprat could eat no fat, And his wife could eat no lean; his greyhound." "Blue Beard," "Red Ridinghood," and "Cinderella," are tales told alike in the nurseries of England and France, Germany and Denmark; and the domestic warning to the ladybird, the chant of our earliest days, is sung by the nurse of Germany. This statement is supported by the Italian saying, "Cresce dì, cresce'l freddo, dice il pescatore," showing that the experience of two countries at a distance from each other is similar. Our ancestors always hoped for a dry and cold January, considering mild weather at this time to do far more harm than good. "A January spring is worth naething." "If the grass grow in Janiveer, It grows the worse for it all the year." "If January calends be summerly gay, It will be winterly weather till the calends of May." According to old lore, if we have windy or warm weather in January, March and May will be chilly in return. "March in Janiveer, Janiveer in March, I fear." "A warm January, a cold May." So long as people take the general weather for a space of a few days as indicating the probable succeeding weather, some probability is in their favour. But when they assert that the weather on some fixed day influences those coming after, it becomes almost ludicrous. To do this was no un common practice in old times, and many proverbs have arisen from it. Moreover, it is often forgotten by us now that nearly all these old sayings have reference to the days of the month according to the old style of reckoning, while we have adopted for more than a century the new style. Hence, for instance, proverbs relating to Christmas and New Year's Day should be placed under January 6th and 13th respectively, if we are to be fair in examining the truth of the weather wisdom of our ancestors, and the same remark of course applies to all other days. Accordingly, the various proverbs noted in these papers have been arranged under those days in the new style which correspond to the same dates in the old style. Though this has in some cases a peculiar effect, as in taking January 6th for Christmas Day, it nevertheless is the only proper way of treating the subject. Bearing this in mind, we shall get at a true notion of the results of the experience of our ancestors. The neglect of this is a small blemish in the otherwise excellent little work on "Weather Lore," by Mr. Richard Inwards-a book to which the author of these papers is largely indebted. The first day in January to which a proverb is attached is the 2nd (St. Thomas's Day, December 21st), and it is as follows-"Look at the weathercock on St. Thomas's Day at twelve o'clock, and see which way the wind is, for there it will stick for the next (lunar) quarter." We next come to January 6th, which answers to Christmas, and was consequently held in much respect by weather prophets. "Light Christmas*, light wheatsheaf; "If it rain much during the twelve days after Christmas, it will be a wet year." "If the sun shine through the apple-tree on Christmas Day, there will be an abundant crop in the following year." "If Christmas Day on Thursday be, "A windy Christmas and a calm Candlemas are signs of a good year." The 24th is also a marked day, if we believe the "Shepherd's Almanack" of 1676, which tells us. that "if on the twelfth (24th N.S.) of January the sun shines, it foreshows much wind." With this proverb ends the list of those connected with particular days in January. ORIGINAL FABLES. BY MRS. PROSSER. A CROW'S WINGS FOR A CROW'S FLIGHT. BY-BYE Y-BYE, mother; I am off," said the young tortoise to the greatly astonished old one, who was sunning herself under a lavender hedge in the kitchen-garden. "Off!-where? What do you mean?" she asked. If full moon about Christmas Day. |