difficulty, but such zeal and energy were displayed by the woodmen, that, ere long, the giant trunk lay prostrate on the ground, Its hollows were now fully exposed to view, but they were empty.

"Set fire to the accursed piece of timber!" roared the king— "burn it to dust, and scatter it to the wind."

At these orders, two yeomen of the guard advanced, and, throwing down a heap of fagots, straw, and other combustibles, on the roots of the tree, soon kindled a fierce fire.

Meanwhile, a couple of woodmen, stripped of their jerkins, and with their brawny arms bared to the shoulder, mounted on the trunk, and strove to split it asunder. Some of the keepers likewise got into the branches, and peered into every crack and crevice, in the hope of making some discovery. Amongst the latter was Will Sommers, who had posted himself near a great arm of the tree, which he maintained, when lopped off, would be found to contain the demon.

Nor were other expedients neglected. A fierce hound had been sent into the hole near the roots of the tree, by Gabriel Lapp, but after a short absence he returned howling and terrified; nor could all the efforts of Gabriel, seconded by a severe lashing with the whip, induce him to enter it again.

When the hound had come forth, a couple of yeomen advanced to enlarge the opening, while a third with a pick endeavoured to remove the root, which formed an impediment to their efforts.

"They may dig, but they'll never catch him," observed Shoreditch, who stood by, to his companions. "Hunting a spirit is not the same thing as hunting a wolf or a fox."

"Not so loud, duke," said Islington, "his majesty may think thy jest irreverent."

"I have an arrow blessed by a priest," said Paddington, "which I shall let fly at him, if he appears."

"Here he is! here he is !" cried Will Sommers, as a great white horned owl, which had been concealed in some part of the tree, flew forth.

"It may be the demon in that form-shoot!" said Shoreditch. Paddington bent his bow. The arrow whistled through the air, and in another moment the owl fell fluttering to the ground; but it underwent no transformation, as was expected by the credulous archer.

Meanwhile, the fire, being constantly supplied with fresh fagots, and stirred by the yeomen of the guard, burnt bravely. The lower part of the tree was already consumed, and the flames, roaring along the hollow within, with a sound like that of a furnace, promised soon to reduce it to charcoal.

By this time, the mouth of the hole having been widened, another keeper, who had brought forward a couple of lurchers, sent them into it; but in a few moments they returned, as the hound had done, howling, and with scared looks. Without even

LONDON PUBLISHED BY CUNNINGHAM & MORTIMER, 1843.

facing their enraged master, they ran off with their tails between their legs, towards the castle.

"I see how it is, Rufus," said Gabriel, patting his hound, who looked wistfully and half-reproachfully in his face. "Thou wert not to blame, poor fellow. The best dog that ever was whelped can be no match for the devil."

Though it had long ere this become the general opinion that it was useless to persevere further in the search, the king, with his characteristic obstinacy, would not give it up. In due time, the whole of the trunk of the enormous tree was consumed, and its branches cast into the fire. The roots were rent from the ground, and a wide and deep trench digged around. The course of the hole was traced for some distance, but it was never of any size, and was suddenly lost by the falling in of the earth.

At length, after three hours' watching, Henry's patience was exhausted, and he ordered the pit to be filled up, and every crevice and fissure in the ground about to be carefully stopped.

"If we cannot unkennel the fox," he said, "we will at least earth him up."

"For all your care, gossip Henry," muttered Will Sommers, as he rode after his master to the castle, "the fox will work his way out."

Thus ends the Second Book of the Chronicle of
Windsor Castle.

TO HIS FIRST LOVE, BY AN ELDERLY POET.

AN INTRODUCTION TO MR. O'CONNELL IN 1842.

BY MRS. WARD.

I HAVE always given it as my opinion, that women should never interfere with politics-certainly not openly and avowedly; and though I do not mean to say that any one beyond my own friendly and familiar circle care a straw about my opinion (any more than the public do for that of the WE of some of the newspapers), I am glad I have so expressed myself; otherwise, being as I am the wife, daughter, and sister of soldiers, I might be considered as strangely inconsistent in having resolved on obtaining an introduction to Mr. O'Connell. The simplest remark of a man of genius and celebrity has always an interest in my eyes; and without possessing any of that morbid curiosity which induces some to seek out any who have become celebrated, no matter whether by good or evil deeds: I confess to the weakness (if it may be so called) of wishing to make the acquaintance of any man or woman who may have distinguished themselves from the rest of the world by superior ability. Many people, opposed to Mr. O'Connell in politics, speak of him as though he did not possess a single good quality. It is said, "The devil is not so black as he is painted;" how true this axiom may be, I am not competent to judge-I suppose, however, some charitable person first started it. Now people, violent in politics,especially in religious politics,—have seldom any charity at all; indeed, those who set themselves up above the rest of the world as shining lights, are frequently so much taken up with meddling with other people's ways, that they generally lose their own; and, getting confused in the mist of fanaticism and argument, only confuse those whom they may really wish to serve. By the way, this has nothing to do with my introduction; I shall be accused of wishing to "spin out my paper," as school girls say,—so allons.

I had always had a curiosity even to see the Agitator. Many of my friends would never acknowledge the same weakness; and yet I have known them linger in the cold at the door of the house on a winter's afternoon, just to get a glimpse of his broad shoulders and broadbrimmed hat to match. Now I confess to having followed him all along Pall Mall, to the very steps of that princely building, the Reform Club.

To say that Mr. O'Connell is a wonderful man, would be to advance a truism that even his bitterest enemies allow. His friends talk of his eminent genius-his foes, of his indomitable assurance. They may give his talents and his moral courage what name they please, but, like "Luther, the solitary monk," Daniel O'Connell has already given the world a shake; whether for good or evil, it is not my part to determine: indeed, the result of his "agitation" may yet remain to be proved. However, let me again disclaim all intention of leaning to one side of politics or the other-at least, in print. As I have said before, "women burn their fingers by meddling with politics, and get no pity for it afterwards." My chapter has chiefly to do with a few minutes' conversation with Mr. O'Connell, as entertaining as it was unexpected. By the way, I am afraid my first words to him may betray what I would fain keep to myself; however, they may be looked upon as becoming the lips of one who has been soldiering nearly