is soon told. Her father, Jonathan Croft, tenantfarmer at Mayfield, had followed the plough in peace, prosperity, and contentment for a score of years. The railway mania set in. He was smitten with the gold-fever; he thirsted to become rich, drew his thrifty savings out of the Norminster Bank, invested them in scrip, bought and sold, and bought and sold again, and in a few months achieved a wonderful great fortune. He did not live to lose it again, but died literally of amazement at his good luck; never having seemed to realize it in any comfortable form, but only as a means of buying up Wynyard of Eastwold-Wynyard of Eastwold being the name most honoured in those parts since feudal days.

Another idea that possessed his half-paralysed brain was that his daughter Pen must be a lady. He sent for the Squire, and begged him to accept her as his ward. The Squire was astonished and a little vexed. He was not a man who loved business. He said he would consult Hargrove-Hargrove was his factotum. Hargrove suggested that it might be an excellent thing. He went over to Mayfield, talked with Croft and his wife, and found that it might be even a better thing than he had thought. He wrote the old man's will, and when it came to be read after his death, the charge of Penelope was coupled with a bequest of two thousand pounds to the Squire and five hundred to the lawyer. There was plenty of gossip about it over pipes and at market dinners as a very queer will, which left the money too free to the handling even of trustees so honourable as Wynyard of Eastwold and Doctor Grey; but Hargrove was a cunning old file, bless you, and knew what he knew. Grey would never act, and he would have it all his own way, for the Squire did nothing without him.

Seventy thousand pounds! The little lass had seventy thousand pounds!-not a penny less. And how that would grow before she came of age. Seventy thousand pounds! And the widow well left too, but tied up not to marry again. Jonathan Croft was a bit jealous, but not so far north as his neighbours would have expected-not nearly so far north. Trust, ay, trust-only let a man make sure where he trusts. Why wasn't his wife given any care over the lass? She came of a good family; she was a woman of sense. Ay, marry was she, and a downright hand at business. And her brother, Lister of Rood, would have made as honest a guardian for the lass as any squire in Craven. But where was the use of talking? Jonathan Croft had put a slight on his own folks and his wife's; but he had willed as he had willed, and Penelope was to be a lady.

Penelope was to be a lady. Her mother gave her up with a half sad, half proud reluctance, and the ugly little woman was carried away to Eastwold in the yellow chariot -a much more pompous and shining chariot then than now; for seven years' wear and tear make a mighty difference in chariots, though they may leave ugly little women much the same for ugliness. And during those seven years there had been a gradual decay and blight creeping over the splendours of Eastwold, such as dim the glossy lacquer of chariots yellow or various, and the lacquer of all other things that need frequent gold-wash to keep them spruce. In fact, the mining property which had enriched the ancient house for generations was working out, and the Wynyards were going down in the world-down.

The children had not yet much character, but they had the germs of character. On the outside they were the boys, noisy, domineering, fearless, generous; the girls, loving, obedient, prone to serve what they loved-all given to enjoy, and without the faintest, remotest idea of what signified self-denial, self-renunciation, or world's work of any sort. For were they not come of a master-race? The traditions of Eastwold were long and honourable. The children had been nurtured on them. It was as much an article of their faith as anything in the catechism that a Wynyard never had been and never could be disloyal to king or church, to kindred or friend. They had commonly been found ranged on the losing side, and had shed their blood in many an historical quarrel on the field and on the scaffold; but their name remained to their posterity without spot and blameless. Not a bit of rusty old armour that hung about the old hall and on the old staircase but had been in its day the defence of a good man and true. Francis had already made up his mind that he was to be a soldier, and to tread in their steps; and Anna already looked to him as the hero who would perpetuate the glory of a long line.

In these hopeful visions of their fresh youth they almost lost sight of the cloud impending over the fortunes of Eastwold. There had been year by year a curtailing of their pleasures, but no complaining. Papa and mamma wrapt their robes of pride about them, and declined quietly from past prosperity. The children imitated the dignified example. When papa looked jaded and despondent, when mamma was tired and tearful, could they be grumbling and dissatisfied? Francis and Anna, at all events, were old enough to see and know better, and they did the best they knew. The troubles that were coming on them would not be embittered by the worst of all wants-the want of love. (To be continued.)

SEEING IS BELIEVING.

(Continued from page 6.)

WE were checked in our walk along Fore Street, Lambeth, at the corner of York Wharf, by an overpowering odour, for which it would not be easy to find a more appropriate comparison than the stench of rotten teeth. This evil smell came with the wind, ceptible movement of the air from the westward. I or, strictly speaking, with the languid, almost imperthought of escaping the annoyance by passing up York Wharf into Princes Street. No, really!" said my companion; and under his gentle constraint I was compelled to face about, and continue along Fore Street, parallel with the river. At every step the cadaverous odour increased in intensity. Still we persevered, and whatever the reader may think, something like the virtue of perseverance was really called tinct, and yet, surely, it could not be a fact! Curiosity for. The vision of rotten teeth became painfully dishad now got the better of disgust, and I was stepping out in advance of my companion, when he suddenly nudged my elbow, and bent his thumb to the right, without speaking. Yielding to the tacit injunction, I paused to look down an open gateway, and saw huge heaps-not of the mortal remains I had pictured to my fancy, but of raw-looking bones and blood-bethan other people, and have seen enough of squalor and misery in my time to be less so than many. But if the reader will recall what I have already said of the sordid condition of all this neighbourhood, and the

smeared skins of beasts. I am not more fastidious

:

Again, a few steps further, bones and skins on the right. Further, again, bones and skins on the left. We were running the gauntlet of unwholesome smells and sights. Right, left; left, right bones in heaps; bones in huge vats; bones fresh from the butcher, with the meat just scraped off; bones not so fresh; bones decidedly not fresh, with shreds of rotten meat clinging to them; and from some of the yards volumes of odoriferous steam! "In Heaven's name, what devil's kitchen is this ?"

"These," said my companion, "are Hunt's boneyards. The cartloads of raw bones and skins, at which your bile rises when they pass you unexpectedly in the crowded streets, are brought here and shot down in the midst of the crowded poor." Thus it ever is. The further we penetrate into these fever bedsthese abodes of physical and moral pestilence-the more heartsick we are to discover wheel within wheel of corrupting agencies, like the circle within circle of Dante's "Inferno." It is not enough that whole families of the poor should live, and sleep, and perform every domestic office in a single room; that room must be one of a dozen like it in a filthy den called a house; and that house, one of fifty, a hundred, or of many hundreds not a whit better, in a filthy conglomerate of streets, called, by a shameful abuse of words, a neighbourhood; and those streets again but the outworks, stretching, like spider's legs, from some

| for the season, the family having gone out of town, hop-picking. The man who rented them was a tinker, and has the reputation of having invented a smokeconsuming apparatus, for which he wishes to take out a patent; but as he refuses to explain his scheme before he gets the money, and the money refuses to be got before he explains his scheme, he makes about as much progress as the old woman with the pig in the nursery tale. This benighted genius has seven children to support.

In the front room over the tinker's we found a family of eight persons, consisting of an Irish widow with seven children of all ages. This is the room represented in our engraving. Wretched as it appears, the reality was far more so. Neither pen nor pencil can portray adequately the squalor which offends every sense. The details of the engraving deserve the most careful scrutiny, as being a transcript from the life.

The adjoining back room is occupied by a costermonger and his family, father, mother, and four children. One of the four, at the time of our visit, was away at the fever hospital. The smell of the room was very close and offensive: it contained several baskets with the remains of vegetables in them.

In a room above this dwelt a shoemaker (ve beg pardon, a cobbler), with his wife and three children. Thus, the five rooms we have mentioned were occupied

by twenty-eight persons when all are at home, an average of nearly six in each.

in.

66

On arriving at the Princes Street end of York Wharf we turned into one of the wooden houses shown in our first engraving (the overhanging house on the left). We groped our way up a very dark and narrow staircase with much difficulty, and were about to return without seeing anything, when a door was suddenly opened at the top, and an elderly man asked us to come He was just going to dine, having a toasted herring on a fork, which he held in his hand when he opened the door. He spoke very cheerfully of the view from his window among the chimneypots of the neighbouring houses. He was a lone widower, and had lived in this airy little apartment (not more than six feet high) for eleven years. The contents of his room may have been worth something less than thirty shillings, including his tools and a withered "old man" in a flowerpot, which the first old man had evidently abandoned to its fate, in despair of ever making it flourish again. Why had he stayed so long in this little den ?" "Well, it was not easy for a cobbler to get a fresh lodging in these old houses; the landlords thought their continual hammering was damaging to the property. Then, he had come to like the prospect. He had never suffered in health; the smoke and stench blew over from the potteries and bone-yards, and entered the windows of the respectable houses a little farther off; and now and then he could spare a minute to look at the trains of the South Western Railway running along among the chimneypots in the distance." Like the philosophic cobbler of Goldsmith, the old fellow could patter of his experiences; for though he had lived forty years in Lanibeth, and eleven years in this little room, he knew something of the world and its doings. Our interview with him was quite a bit of sunlight in the general gloom of the afternoon's experiences. It was impossible not to feel the better for having seen him, and seen, at the same time, that in certain circumstances a halfpenny herring toasted with difficulty over a few hot cinders, in a grate heaped up with dirt, may make a sumptuous and cheerful repast. On descending we entered the room beneath that which the old cobbler occupied. Here we found two or three poor children, who had been alone since early morning. Dirty and ragged, they had not so much as a dry crust to eat, and the whole aspect of the place was squalid in the extreme. "Mother was dead." 'Father went out early in the morning to buy leather" (he too was a cobbler). "He could not leave them anything to eat, because he had no money." "They did not know when he would be back." The man was probably drunk, and the poor children, hungry and dirty, and almost naked, had heroically obeyed his injunctions to mind the place;" and would mind it till he returned, far into the night perhaps, to pollute their ears with foul words, and drive them like starved dogs to their kennels in the several corners of the room. Thus the fountain of our national life is corrupted at its very springs, and there seems to be no sufficient moral force, nor legislative wisdom enough in this mighty nation to deal with the monstrous evil. Even Lord Shaftesbury has no hope that anything of importance can be accomplished by legislative enactments, or that capital can ever be remuneratively employed in the erection of suitable dwellings for the very poor.* Yet it is an undeniable fact that the aggregate rental of dwellings such as those we have visited is very much in excess of a fair percentage on their value. Without committing ourselves to the unqualified assertion that his lordship is wrong, either in his data, or in his conclusions from them, we cannot help taking a more hopeful view of the subject. But of this hereafter.

66

NATURAL SOUNDS.

WE sometimes speak of "perfect silence," "profound silence," and we liken the sudden cessation of noise and clamour to the "stillness of death "-without reflecting on what these terms signify, or whether the thing, or the no-thing they represent be at all known to us, familiarly as we use such expressions. In truth, silence utter and complete is a very rare thing indeed, and it is difficult to say where it is to be found, unless it be in the brain of the deaf mute who has his world outside of the "realm of sound." We do not get silence in the deep gloom of the forest, though there may be the repose of utter solitude; that is rather a change from one region of sound to another: in summer the leaves lift up their voices, the insect millions fill the air with a chorus so faint during the livelong day, as to be hardly recognizable save by its absence when the night comes-to say nothing of the songs of birds which from time to time burst on the stillness; and in winter, even though "horror wide extends her desolate domain," it is not a horror of utter silence-the dead leaves are heard to rustle, the bare branches to moan and gnash their teeth, while ten thousand minute crepitations tell of the changes going on upon the surfaces of things around through the contraction of bark and fibre in consequence of the cold. We do not get it out in the midnight solitudes of heath or prairie, or in the lonely churchyard. The poet's idea, "Stars silent above us-graves silent beneath," may apply to the stars and the graves, but not to the pool that reflects the stars or the grass that fringes the lips of the grave, both of which will respond to the whisper of the night-wind in whispers of their own-" making night vocal to an ear attuned." For our own part we are free to confess, that notwithstanding some attempts in that direction, we have never been able to get into the actual presence of silence perfect and absolute.

Seeing that such is the case, what a wonderfully kind and beneficent arrangement of Providence it is that the sounds we hear are what they are, so bountifully fitted to our perceptions as to impart satisfaction and pleasure to us, and that of an enduring kind which for the most part never palls on the senses. This provision is one of the wonders of creation. All the sounds of Nature are sounds, so to speak, that wear well. When the winds lift up their voices, do they not strike upon the ear like the greetings of old friends, and is not every note they breathe full of the associations of things foregone and past which it is worth while to have thus recalled? Think of the voice of waters, the leaping of the ocean waves when "the floods clap their hands"-the seaward swirl of the running river as it sings along between the green banks-the glad ripple of wind-ruffled lake or mountain tarn-the shout of the torrent as it leaps along among the lichen-clad boulders-the grand roar of the cataract as it thunders from the steep. How thoroughly do all these sounds tell each its peculiar tale! how freshly do they appeal to the senses every time we hear them, with feelings and suggestions that are ever new and refuse to grow old! Who would wish to change them for sounds, however exquisite, produced by art or man's device? For, please to note, no sounds of voice or instrument, artificially produced, will wear half as well, or a hundredth part as well as do the accompaniments to which Nature has set her own melodies. The poet tells us of the brook "which all night long singeth a quiet tune," and the figure is pretty and touching enough. But how happy for us that it is only a figure! Just imagine it to be a fact! Suppose yourself living in a cottage on the banks of a brook that all night long was singing, for instance, "We're all a-noddin;" that's a quiet tune-or "The Last Rose

of Summer;" that's more quiet still. How long do you think you could stand it? You know very well that you could not sit out a twelve hours' concert at St. James's Hall, even were all the talent of Europe assembled to charm you: what would you do with a single tune grinding eternally in your ears? Of a truth, whatever the tune might be, you would come to the conclusion, ere long, that it was the identical one the cow died of, and that it would kill you too unless you got out of hearing; and away you would run accordingly.

No; with all due regard to poets and musicians, Nature never plays tunes; if she did she would only worry and weary us, whereas her gentle design is to soothe us to rest or to invigorate us for work. As already stated, her sounds are everywhere; everything animate or inanimate has a voice, and things we call dead speak to one another. "The cataracts blow their trumpets from the steep;" the sedges in the pool talk and gossip together in the quiet evening hours; deep calleth unto deep, and amidst the mad and yeasty waves "we hear old Triton wind his wreathed horn." | Her gamut extends through a tremendous scale, from the topmost treble of the shrilly gnat to the deep diapason of the bellowing thunder; and she has the wonderful knack of making sweet harmonies out of the sourest materials, softening them by distance or modifying them by artful combinations. Then she arranges her concerts with the kindliest regard for her auditors, putting the rougher performers in the background, and the sweetest and best in the front. Thus the boom of the bittern, the plaint of the stork, the hoarse cry of the carrion crow, and the caw of the rook, reach us from afar, shorn by distance of their harshness; while the thrush and the blackbird pipe joyously in our orchards, the linnet and goldfinch build in our gardens, the nightingale sends his song into our open windows as we lie and listen to him by starlight, and the merry cricket chirps in our chimney-corners till the whole house rings with his jollity.

It is no great cause for wonder that all the sounds of Nature have not yet been traced to their source. If any one by way of experiment will betake himself to some lonely spot far from any human dwelling-say in the afternoon of a summer's day-and try to account for all the sounds he hears, even in a spot where he can hear the fewest, he may chance to find himself puzzled beyond his utmost skill. Travellers have been thus puzzled in a most inexplicable manner, and have tried in vain, with all their science and all their knowledge of natural phenomena, to solve the difficulty the strange sounds presented. There is a sound familiar to dwellers on the sea-coast, which is occasionally heard towards nightfall and for an hour after sunset, and which fishermen call the "sough." It is neither the noise of the wind, nor of the waves, nor of the breakers on the shore-at least it seems conclusively not to be either of these, because all three of these can be heard and distinctly recognized simultaneously with the moaning of the "sough." We have ourselves heard it several times on certain parts of the coast, and have also listened for it at the same season of the year on other parts, and failed to detect it. Seafaring men seem to care nothing about it, and it is vain to ask them for any explanation. It does not seem to come from the offing, but rather from the windings of the shore, and from the quarter from which the wind is blowing. What can it be? Perhaps the following story, upon which we chanced the other day in a volume of extracts, may throw some light on the subject. One fine Sunday morning an American clipper was making all sail for port, running with a side wind on a track parallel with a part of the coast then a hundred miles distant. The men were assembled on deck enjoying the beautiful weather, when suddenly they all started and looked at each other with amazement as the sound

|

of church-going bells burst upon the ear. For several minutes the familiar peal continued, louder or fainter as the vessel rose or fell on the bounding billows, while, the crew stood motionless as if spell-bound. The skipper, a thoughtful man, after listening for a time with the rest, went to the helm and slowly altered the vessel's course. As she rounded a little seaward, the sweet sounds stopped as suddenly as they had come: he then put her back on the old tack, when the bells began to peal again, he repeating the experiment several times to satisfy himself of the facts of the case. The reader has probably guessed what the facts were. Although the village where the bells were ringing was a hundred miles off, and under ordinary circumstances such sounds would never travel so great a distance, yet under the circumstances then existing the fact was clear enough that they did so travel. The wind which bore the sounds blew in a stiff breeze off the land; the large concavity of the broad bellying mainsail caught the musical vibrations, and, by reflecting them back as it were in a focus upon the deck, rendered them audible. This was the skipper's explanation of the phenomenon, the truth of which he had tested by altering the vessel's course. Now here, it appears to us, is a key to the mysterious sounds of the "sough" as it moans along the autumnal shore at nightfall. We have only to imagine, in place of the village church bells, a storm or gale of wind raging at the distance of some hundred or more miles, much too far off to be heard under ordinary circumstances, and, in place of the bellying mainsail, such a conformation of the coast and circling cliffs as shall serve the same purpose, by catching and concentrating the exhausted undulations of sound, and thus rendering them audible. We believe that this may be the right solution of the mystery; at any rate it points to a reason why the sough" is frequently heard on some parts of our coast and never on other parts.

Concerning the strange and inexplicable sounds heard by travellers in various parts of the world, there have been from time to time many interesting reports. Among the most curious of these are perhaps the accounts met with in the narratives of Australian explorers. Mr. Wood is not the only witness. Stuart mentions that one morning, when in the interior, among the red sandhills of the inhospitable desert, he was startled by hearing a loud, clear, reverberating explosion, like the booming of artillery. These noises, which have been frequently observed in sandy districts, seem to come with an explosive echo from the sandhills, and reverberate for a considerable time amongst the surrounding mountains. Sounds of a like kind have alarmed most of the Australian explorers. Captain Sturt, who followed the course of the Darling River in 1828, describes an extraordinary sound which about three in the afternoon, on a day in the month of February of that year, astonished himself and party. "The day," he says, "had been remarkably fine, not a cloud was there in the heavens, nor a breath of air to be felt. On a sudden we heard what seemed to be the report of a gun fired at the distance of between five and six miles. It was not the hollow sound of an earthy explosion, or the sharp, cracking noise of falling timber, but in every way resembled a discharge of a heavy piece of ordnance. On this all the men agreed, but no one was certain whence the sound proceeded. Both Mr. Hume and myself, however, thought it came from the north-west. I immediately sent one of the men up a tree, but he could observe nothing unusual. The country around him appeared to be equally flat on all sides, and to be thickly wooded. Whatever occasioned the report, it made a strong impression on all of us, and to this day the singularity of such a sound in such a situation is a matter of mystery to me."

If travellers are alarmed abroad by sounds they

cannot explain, dwellers at home are no less alarmed at times by sounds perfectly natural in themselves, but which are often made formidable by fear and superstitious dread. We have known a series of grueful groans which made a whole family miserable for a month to proceed from the vibration of a strip of leather and baize nailed on a door to keep the draught away. Wailing and sobbing noises are often heard in old houses from defects which a few nails and a gluepot would remedy. New houses, fresh from the hands of the builder, will indulge in the strangest noises for months together; and if they happen to be full of new furniture there is no telling when one could reckon on domestic quiet. As you lie in bed you hear a crack here, a bang there, a creaking above, and a groaning below; and if you choose you may shiver with apprehension at each fresh demonstration; but you may be wiser if you call to mind that all woodwork when new is liable to shrink, and that the shrinking will often announce itself by a detonating noise. You don't hear such noises in the day because they are stilled by other noises, but the silence of night gives them a startling effect. It is far otherwise with sounds to which we are accustomed, but of these we do not here speak.

TO A WATER-FOWL.

BY THE AMERICAN POET, BRYANT.

NOTE. It is our purpose, so far as opportunity can be found in the pages of "THE PEOPLE'S MAGAZINE," to promote a better understanding, between Englishmen and Americans, of those higher feelings and purposes of each which usually find expression in literature. Mutual respect is worth something more than mutual for bearance. But respect and admiration presuppose knowledge; therefore let us have all the knowledge we can of the cultivated American mind. The following beautiful stanzas are indeed familiar to English lovers of verse, who know the name of Bryant as they know that of Longfellow. Still, among the readers of this Magazine, there may be many who have not hitherto had the opportunity of becoming acquainted with this admired American poet.

WHITHER, 'midst falling dew,

While glow the heavens with the last steps of day, Far through their rosy depths, dost thou pursue Thy solitary way?

Vainly the fowler's eye

Might mark thy distant flight to do thee wrong,
As, darkly painted on the crimson sky,
Thy figure floats along.

Seek'st thou the plashy brink

Of weedy lake, or marge of river wide,
Or where the rocking billows rise and sink
On the chafed ocean side?

There is a Power, whose care
Teaches thy way along that pathless coast,-
The desert and illimitable air,-

Lone wandering, but not lost.

All day thy wings have fann'd,
At that far height, the cold, thin atmosphere,
Yet stoop not, weary, to the welcome land,
Though the dark night is near.

And soon this toil shall end,

Soon shalt thou find a summer home, and rest, And scream among thy fellows; reeds shall bend, Soon, o'er thy shelter'd nest.

LADY JANE GREY. LADY JANE GREY was a daughter of Henry Grey, third Marquis of Dorset, by his wife Frances, daughter of Charles Brandon, the first Duke of Suffolk, who had married the sister of Henry VIII. Henry VII. was her great-grandfather. She had been educated with her cousin, Edward VI., under the direction of Queen Catherine Parr; and, according to the Zurich letters, there seems to have been some talk of her marrying him. The king was a marvel of learning, his age considered, but Lady Jane surpassed him in power of intellect. Her accomplishments were various. She wrote an excellent hand, was skilled in music, and had an extraordinary knowledge of Hebrew, Greek, and Latin, as well as of the French and Italian languages. John Ab Ulmis speaks of her knowledge of Greek and Latin as being sufficient to enable her to "speak and argue with propriety" in both those languages. It must be remembered that Lady Jane's abilities had to stand the test of comparison with those of many other clever women. The sixteenth century was rich in learned ladies. The Princesses Mary and Elizabeth were very clever-the former translated out of Latin into English a prayer of St. Thomas Aquinas, in the eleventh year of her age. Roger Ascham tells us that on one occasion, when he paid a visit to her father's house at Bradgate, he found the Lady Jane reading Plato's Phædo in Greek, while the rest of her family were engaged in a hunting-party in the park; and on his expressing surprise at her studious habits, she replied that she should receive more pleasure from the perusal of Phædo than her relations would reap from their amusement. He further asked how knowledge came to be such a pleasure to her, and she rejoined: "One of the greatest benefits that ever God gave me is that he sent me so sharp and severe parents, and so gentle a schoolmaster; for when I am in presence of father or mother, whether I speak, keep silence, sit, stand, or go, eat, drink, be merry or sad, be sewing, playing, dancing, or doing anything else, I must do it in such weight, measure, and number, even so perfectly as God made the world, or else I am so sharply taunted, so cruelly threatened, yea, presently sometimes with pinches, nips, and bobs, and other ways, which I will not name for the honour I bear them; so that I think myself in hell till the time comes that I must go to Mr. Elmer, who teacheth me so pleasantly, so gently, with such fair allurements to learning, that I think all the time nothing whilst I am with him."

At the time of Edward VI.'s death Lady Jane was sixteen years of age, and had been married but a few weeks to Lord Guildford Dudley, the son of the Duke of Northumberland.

Her love of study was in no way diminished by her marriage. Literature and music continued to engross all her attention, to the exclusion of the amusements and occupations usual to her sex and station. She passed her time at Sion House as industriously as she had done at Bradgate, and thus was in a great measure ignorant of the arts employed by her father-in-law to have her nominated by the king's will heiress to the throne of England. It was the Duke of Northumberland's ambition to secure the English crown for his youngest son, Lord Guildford Dudley, by means of marriage with one of the ladies of the blood-royal, descended from the Protestant branch of the house of Suffolk. His eye at first rested upon Lady Margaret Clifford, the grandchild of Mary Tudor, the sister of Henry VIII., by descent from her youngest daughter; but he became more daring as the king's illness assumed a more dangerous form, and brought about a match between his son and Lady Jane Grey.

It is said that Northumberland was actuated by another motive, viz., his detestation of the Princess Elizabeth-which detestation was caused, it is supposed,