“The widow and children of —— return their heartfelt thanks to all the kind friends who spontaneously attended the High Mass for, and the funeral of, their lamented husband and father on ——. They are not only grateful for this mark of respect, but they wish to assure these good neighbors that the loving sympathy and the kind manner in which it was offered by each, have done more to soften their grief than they can now express.” “We are a small community,” continued Herr H——,“ only 14,500 inhabitants—simple folk, working our way on through life without any rich manufacturers or overgrown proprietors, as at Zurich, Berne, and Geneva, so there cannot be much rivalry or pretension. You will not find private villas or large châteaus round this lake—nothing, for instance, even like those handsome ones on the Lake of Thun; but we all hold together, and I only hope the young generation will continue to walk in the footsteps of their fathers.” To Be Concluded Next Month. Roger The Rich.(33) A Ballad. Dedicated, Without Permission, To Victor Emanuel. God prospereth King Stephen! His sway is o’er the land. The Empress Maud hath bowed her head; Her knights are slain, her armies fled, Herself beneath his hand! God prospereth King Stephen! The land is all his own. From north to south, from east to west, The whole wide kingdom is at rest— Firm sits he on his throne. God prospereth King Stephen! Yet he hath cast his eye On the rich lands of Sherbourn, spread O’er many a hill and kie‐cropt mead, And many a bosky lea. King Stephen sware a grimly oath— God wis he kept it true: “Since Roger Niger (bishop then) Hath led against us armèd men, Roger shall dearly rue!” Roger hath lands and riches too, Marks forty thousand told; And well I wot the monarch’s vow Hath less to do with justice now Than with the bishop’s gold. Roger hath to Devizes ta’en His wealth with all his speed; Stout men‐at‐arms, and billmen true, And bowmen armed with sturdy yew, Attend him in his need. Now he hath stored his fortelace well With beeves and sheep and grain. He standeth on his topmost tower; And sayeth in the pride of power, The king shall knock in vain! What, O my knights! the monarch cries, Shall he thus brave our wrath? Shake forth our banner to the blast, And gather round us, liegemen fast; We’ll sweep him from our path! The king, with mighty following, Hath sat before the tower; But massy walls and valiant hearts Have nobly played their several parts— The bishop mocks his power! And loudly sware King Stephen then A fearful oath to hear: “Build me a gallows‐tree before The haughty prelate’s guarded door; This yet shall cost him dear.” Now they have built the gallows‐tree, And raised it in the air— Its height is forty feet and three, A laidly thing it is to see— And led his nephew there. Roger the bishop stands and sees Young Roger led to die— The nephew he had reared with care, His only sister’s son and heir: