With respect to this horrid judgment, Christian, in his notes to the same work, goes on to say: that "the prosecutor and the court could exercise no discretion, or show no favour to a prisoner who stood obstinately mute." "In the legal history of this country," (England,) he continues, "are numerous instances of persons who have had resolution and patience to undergo so terrible a death in order to benefit their heirs by preventing a forfeiture of their estates, which would have been a consequence of a conviction by a verdict. There is a memorable story of an ancestor of an ancient family in the north of England. In a fit of jealousy he killed his wife; and put to death his children who were at home, by throwing them from the battlements of his castle; and proceeding with an intent to destroy his only remaining child, an infant nursed at a farm-house at some distance, he was intercepted by a storm of thunder and lightning. This awakened in his breast compunction of conscience. He desisted from his purpose, and having surrendered himself to justice, in order to secure his estates to this child, he had the resolution to die under the dreadful judgment of the _peine forte et dure_." This tale is the base of our romance. THE SEA NYMPH'S SONG. BY WILLIAM H. C. HOSMER. Sound is he sleeping Far under the wave-- Sea nymphs are keeping A watch for the brave: Deep was our grief and wild-- Wilder our dirge When the doomed ocean child Drowned in the surge. Within a bright chamber His form we have laid; With spar, pearl and amber The walls are arrayed-- Though high rolls the billow He wakes not at morn, And sponge for his pillow From rocks we have torn. I heard thy name spoken When down came the mast; His hold was then broken, That _word_ was his last. A picture is lying, Lorn maid! on his breast-- That picture in dying His hand closely prest. Why turns thy cheek paler These tidings to know? The truth of thy sailor Should lessen thy wo: The wave could not chill it That stifled his breath; Pure _love_--can aught kill it? Give answer, Oh, Death! THE LITTLE GOLD-FISH. A FAIRY TALE. BY JAMES K. PAULDING, AUTHOR OF THE "DUTCHMAN'S FIRESIDE," ETC. In the reign of good King Doddipol, surnamed the Gnatsnapper, there lived in a stately castle, on the top of a high mountain, a rich old Norseman, who had an only son whom he loved with great ardor, and little discretion, on account of his being the last of an illustrious family. The youth was called Violet, partly because he had for his godmother the Fairy Violetta, and partly on account of having on his left shoulder an impression of that flower, so perfectly defined, and so vivid in color, that the old nurse mistook it at first sight for a real violet, and declared it smelled like a nosegay.