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ESTHER WHARNCLIFF; A TALE OF THE REIGN OF MARY. 



It was a drear December evening, in the year 1555, and the thickly- 

 falling snow had for several hours announced an approaching storm, 

 when the curfew rang clearly through the cold air from the tower of the 

 Crutched Friars. But though the purpose of this ancient signal was 

 not entirely forgotten, in London it was no longer obeyed ; and, instead 

 of every light being extinguished at tlie warning, most of the honest 

 citizens who dwelt in the narrow winding streets, within reach of its 

 sound, only considered it as a notice to suspend the labours of the day, 

 and betake themselves to their blazing hearths, and the mirth and jollity 

 of the season. 



Many were the fresh logs thrown on the crackling flames, and many 

 were the tales and jokes which went merrily round the social board on 

 that stormy evening, before the good inhabitants of the city betook 

 themselves to repose. But it was not thus in every dwelling; and, 

 long after the echo of the bell had died away, Esther Whamcliff still 

 busily plied her wheel by the dim light of her scanty fire. The gloomy 

 chamber she dwelt in was one in an extensive building, divided into 

 many tenements, and inhabited by poor, though respectable families. 

 It was large and meagrely furnished ; and as occasional flashes from the 

 hearth momentarily illuminated its rugged walls, the extreme cleanliness 

 and order which every where prevailed, seemed only to render more 

 conspicuous the poverty and wretchedness of the whole scene. 



Esther might appear to be not more than seven-and-twenty years of 

 age. Her features had doubtless once been beautiful, and her form had 

 possessed the bounding elasticity of youth ; but those who looked upon 

 her calm and solemn smile, the tranquil yet hopeless expression of her 

 air, and her elevated and thoughtful countenance, would have neither 

 criticized her beauty, nor remembered that the lustre of her eye and 

 the brightness of her cheek were gone. Intellect, that undying flame, 

 which seems to burn the brighter as its shrine decays, cast its indescriba- 

 ble light over her whole form ; and care, not time, had engraven its 

 stamp on her brow. 



Her hair was drawn back from her forehead, under a plain coif of the 

 simplest fashion and material, and her serge dress of sober hue was that 

 of the lowest class ; yet it was easy to discover, even in this mean attire, 

 that Esther Whamcliff" was not of humble birth. 



She had but one companion in her desolate chamber — but one com- 

 panion, it might be said, in the wide world — and he was her child ; a 

 boy of eight years old, who, on a low stool, sat crouching before the fire, 

 over a large and open volume, from which he read, in the tender voice of 

 childhood, those blessed words of comfort which Revelation has given. 



He occasionally paused in his discourse, sometimes to hear his 

 mother's comments and ask her explanation of difficult passages, and 

 even more frequently to listen if all was still around, and ascertain if he 

 might proceed in his dangerous and forbidden task without fear of 

 interruption. 



The seeds of truth were at this time widely scattered through Eng- 

 land ; and, nurtured by the partiality of the Protector Somerset, during 

 the reign of the preceding king, Edward the Sixth, the reformed religion 

 had already taken deep root, and the shadows of its branches were 

 M. ]M. New Series.— Voh. VIII. No. 46. 3 C 



