another. When the court of the 16th of October sat, it was found that in two months sixty-three men and fifteen women had been carried off. In thirty-one instances there were only women or children to succeed; in nine cases there were no heirs, and the little estates had escheated to the lord. Incredible though it may sound the fact is demonstrable, that in this one parish of Hunstanton, which a man may walk round in two or three hours, and the whole population of which might have assembled in the church then recently built, one hundred and seventy. two persons, tenants of the manor, died off in eight months; seventy-four of them left no heirs male, and nineteen others had no blood relation in the world to claim the inheritance of the dead. I have no intention of laying before my readers a detailed statement of the documentary evidence which has passed under my notice. The time has not come yet for an elaborate report upon the case, nor can I pretend to have done more than break ground upon what must be regarded still as virgin soil; but this I may safely say, that I have not found one single roll of any Norfolk manor during this dread ful twenty-third year of Edward, dating after April or May, which did not contain only too abundant proof of the ravages of the pestilence - evidence which forces upon me the conviction that hardly a town or village in East Anglia escaped the Scourge; and which in its cumulative force makes it impossible to doubt that the mortality in Norfolk and Suffolk must have exceeded the largest estimate which has yet been given by conjecture. When I find in a stray roll of an insignificant little manor at Croxton, near Thetford, held on the 24th of July, that seventeen tenants had died since the last court, eight of them without heirs; that, at another court held the same day at Raynham, at the other end of the county, eighteen tenements had fallen into the lord's hands, eight of them certainly escheated, and the rest retained until the appearance of the heir; that in the manor of Hadeston, a hamlet of Bunwell, twelve miles from Norwich, which could not possibly have had four hundred inhabitants, fifty-four men and fourteen women were carried off by the pestilence in six months, twenty-four of them without a living soul to inherit their property; that in manor after manor the lord was carried off as well as the tenants and the steward; that in a single year upwards of eight hun dred parishes lost their parsons, eighty three of them twice, and ten of them three times in a few months; and that it is quite certain these large numbers represent only a portion of the mortality among the clergy and the religious orders- when, I say, I consider all this and a great deal more that might be dwelt on, I see no other conclusion to arrive at than one, namely, that during the year ending March, 1350, more than half the population of East Anglia was swept away by the black death. If any one should suggest that much more than half died, I should not be disposed to quarrel with him. It must be remembered that nothing has been here said of the mortality in the towns. I believe we have no means of getting at any evidence on this part of the subject which can be trusted. In no part of England did the towns occupy a more important position relatively to the rest of the population. In no part of England did three such important towns as Lynn, Yarmouth, and Norwich lie within so short a distance of one another, not to mention others which were then rising in the number and consideration of their inhabitants. But the statements made of the mortality in the towns will not bear examination they represent mere guesses, nothing more. This, however, may be assumed as certain-that the death-rate in the towns at such a time as this cannot have been less than the deathrate in the villages, and that the scourge which so cruelly devastated the huts and cabins of the countrymen was not likely to fall less heavily upon the filthy dens and hovels of the men of the streets. Town life in the fourteenth century was a very dreadful life for the masses. How did the great bulk of the people comport themselves under the pressure of this unparalleled calamity? How did their faith stand the strain that was put upon it? How did their moral instincts support them? Was there any confu sion and despair? What effects-social, political, economical-followed from catastrophe so terrible? How did the clergy behave during the tremendous ordeal through which they had to pass? What glimpses do we get of the horrors or the sorrows of that timeof the romantic, of the pathetic side of life? a I hope to deal with some of these questions in another paper; for on all these matters our records have something to tell. I believe they have a great deal more to tell than, in the present state of our knowledge, most men could be easily brought to suspect. The evidence is ready at hand. Who will examine it? The rolls of manor courts dating back to the beginning of the fourteenth_century still exist in large numbers. They are for the most part hidden away in private depositories, a very small proportion of them having found its way, or being at all likely to find its way, into our public archives. Except for the satisfaction of antiquarian curiosity, and for the light they throw upon certain historical problems, these rolls are as useless as our grandmothers' spinning-wheels. But because they do throw some light upon these problems, some students are beginning earnestly to ask, or will soon ask, that they may be allowed to see these documents, consult them, make notes from them, turn them to account in fact, before they are flung upon the dust-heaps - for they are not likely to be consigned to the flames.* Unhappily, they who are able and willing to devote much time to the study of such sources of information are few, and the skilled laborers are hardly to be had for the asking. But this is not all - there is an inveterate reluctance on the part of some people to allow inquisitive explorers to look at their papers; and as a rule family solicitors strongly object to non-professional Paul Prys poking into their clients' deed-boxes. I hardly wonder at the fact I only deplore it. While such difficulty exists, however, time is devouring its thousands, and neglect and ignorance their tens of thousands, and these written voices of the past are perishing-going down into silence. Must it be so? For myself, I hereby protest to all those whom it may concern, that if any of those gracious and much-favored persons noble and gentle - who may still possess the ancient evidences of their manorial rights will be pleased to grant me access to them, and allow me to examine them, I will concern myself with nothing and look at nothing less than five hundred years old. I will eat my own bread and drink my own tea. I will hold my tongue, and get in nobody's way. And though it is slanderously reported that any man with the remotest pretension to be an antiquary can no more be honest than a horse-dealer can, yet I will prove myself as far as in me lies - an exception to the general rule, and I will steal less than, A SKETCH FROM THE RUSSIAN BALTIC. SPRING reigns supreme in the land! She has stolen upon us unawares, disguised under her misty cowl, and we knew her not until, lo! she has flung aside her mummeries, and, dashing aside the hypocritical tears, she turns on us her bright and laughing face. And away she dances with floating tresses over fallow field and forest. At the touch of her glowing feet there is a mighty stir; a thousand tiny arms stretch up towards her. The wood hepatica rubs the sleep out of her blue eye, and peeps and pushes her way through last year's decay, whilst her fragile friend the pale anemone follows trembling in her wake. The golden saxifrage has already got tidings of her coming, and starts up full dressed in her green mantle to stare barefaced into the world. Up rises the enraptured lark, and shivers, heart-full of her beauty, his love-song into the balmy air. At her beck comes the stork from over the sea, to fan her burning cheek with his snowy wings. And a wondrous song of love and hope and joy is raised, to which the rushing brook sings tenor, and the larch keeps time with her rosy fingers. But at the door of the peasants' quarters sits Wild Säfing, her restless blue eyes seeking ever for that something which cannot be found. The breeze lifts her white hair and playfully touches her withered cheek, but she heeds it not. On the barn roof the stork repairs her last year's nest, and calls to her mate in the adjacent field. Säfing starts and listens. "The stork, the stork," she mutters. "It is spring then; he will surely return in spring." She rises and totters across the court and down the poplar drive, whence she can look along the highroad, where she stands a while straining her dim sight. A vehicle grows out of the distance, and the anxious look deepens in the wrinkled face. It is a Jew pedlar with his wares: he sits dozing on the seat in front. Before he is aware, Säfing has darted forward and put her shaking hand on the horse's reins. * Observe that papers burn easily-you may light" Have you seen him-my Jürri?" she your fires with them. Parchment does not burn-if you thrust it in the fire it will go some way towards putting your fire out, and it will infallibly make a smell. cries in a shrill, cracked voice. "Let be, little mother! I have told thee a hundred times that I know him not. Let him rest-thy husband; he surely sleeps half a century ago, and thou must soon follow him." As he spoke he jerked the reins and drove away from her. A sudden wave of passion sweeps over the face of the ancient crone; she stamps her foot and spits upon the ground, a dangerous light flashing up into her still handsome eyes. Dog dog Jew!" she shrieks, and hurries back to her seat, muttering as she goes. And there she will sit all through the warm season, watching and waiting until the ice king comes again to drive her indoors with his frosty breath. Then she will cower all the winter by the stove in gloom and silence, without hope until spring returns again to rekindle the feverish expectant light in her face, for Jürri left her in the spring. She makes a strange picture as she crouches there on the rough bench beside the low doorway. White as a snowdrift is her close frilled cap, her sparse and wavy locks, her linen apron; the only bit of color, the fever spot on her cheek. Is it the magic wand of spring which touches, as I gaze, the aged lineaments, transforming them into the tender beauty of a far distant bygone? Back roll the years on the swift pinions of thought, and out of the mists of the past arises the vision of her life-story. The same glad sunshine floods the land. It is a glorious spring! You can almost hear the corn grow out in the fields, and already the lilac bush hangs out its gay clusters in the court. In the mellow evenings when the peasant girls stand chatting at the door, they each pluck a spray and seek eagerly for five-petaled flowerets, for they bring the finder luck, and blithest among them is Säfing the dairymaid, for she is strong and young and fair. Her thick, lint-blonde plait hangs far below her waist, and she is as straight and supple as a willow rod. In all her young life she has never known sorrow or fatigue, and of her many lovers the man her heart has chosen is her be. trothed husband. Early and late, after he has returned from the fields he labors at the new homestead. It is only when the darkness begins to gather that he can spare time for his beloved, and when he stands beside her in the moonlight they have little to say, for their hearts are too full of joy for language. This evening he comes not at his usual hour. Säfing's companions have all slipped away to bed, leaving her alone. "Come in, child, it is bedtime," calls her mother from within. 66 Directly, mother," she replies, then with a quick glance around her she flies across the court and down the long avenue. The still air is full of the pungent odor of the poplars, and the continuous hum of myriads of cockchafers. Over the low-lying fields hangs a curtain of mist white and motionless. Before she has gained the highroad she runs into her lover's arms: her little scream of surprise is answered by his low happy laugh. She looks up into his dark, moonlit face as she whispers reproachfully, "How late you are! And now I dare not stay a minute; mother has already called me." He draws her hand through his arm, and they saunter slowly towards her home. As they emerge from the avenue the large, low-roofed mansion, with lights twinkling from many a casement, tells them that the gentry are still astir. "They stopped me at the inn, the lads are all there," Jürri explains. "There was much talk going." Well, and what of it?" replies Säfing, with a little outburst of temper. Jürri's face flushes, he tosses back his long black hair with a gesture of impatience. "Nothing, save that the lads were talking of the lottery. The sergeant comes three weeks to-morrow." In a moment Säfing's face changes as she stops and confronts him. Her features work with agitation, and the big bright tears swell in her eyes. "Oh, Jürri!" she exclaims, "they will not take you - they cannot." "I must take my chance with the rest," he answers, trying to speak calmly, but with a quiver in his voice. "It will surely not fall on you: why should it, amongst so many?" she pleads. "Why should it?" he repeats; then taking her bright head between his rough hands and looking down into her eyes, he whispers, hoarse with emotion, "But if it should, Säfing — if it should?" "Then the dear God help us!" she gasps, flinging herself in a storm of sobs on to his breast. He strokes her shining hair and murmurs broken words of comfort, thrusting back the fear which would possess him. And soon she takes heart again and looks up hopefully. "We will think no more of it," she says; "the cruel moment must come, and it will go, and you will be left. We shall be so happy together." 66 She clings to him a moment. "No more partings," she whispers. As she turns to enter, he calls after her. "The stork settled on our new roof to-day, Säfing; that brings luck!" She flashes a row of white teeth upon him for reply, as she disappears in the gloom of the house. And time rushes by on golden wings. The orchard is ablaze with blossom, the cuckoo calls from the woods, and the day of days, God's day and Säfing's, dawns without a cloud and breathless with joy. At the door they pause, and he looks There is a large gathering at the church fondly into her upturned face. 'Only door. The bridegroom, with his rare ten days, little one, and no more part- black locks combed and shining, is a promings." inent figure. The crimson scarf which he wears round the waist of his wide skirted coat is a present from Säfing. After the pastor, they enter the church, which is strewn with pine twigs, and take their places at the altar. Säfing trembles like an aspen leaf and hears little of the service. She falters her responses, at a nudge from her mother, who prompts her from behind. When the pastor receives the rings, she holds out the wrong hand and is covered with confusion at the general titter; but at last it is over. The few earnest words with which the pastor conAt an early hour the peasants' holiday cludes find their way to her heart, for his carts are drawn up in a row before the words are always good. It is all like a door, they are gaily decked with lilac and dream to her how Jürri leads her through bird cherry boughs; the knitted woollen the crowd, and how they drive away toreins are of all the colors of the rainbow.gether through the smiling country until Already the men stand about in knots, they stop before the door of their own dressed in their grey homespun suits, home, where Jürri's mother is waiting to wide felt hats, and high boots. They receive them under the new porch which wear their thick shock hair, mostly of the is adorned with young birch-trees. tawny hue peculiar to the Lettish peas- Soon the friends and relations crowd ants, flowing over their shoulders. The in, and the feasting and dancing is kept old baron and baroness, with their numer-up until long past midnight. ous family, stand on the verandah to see them start. The female servants, their beads adorned with bright silk kerchiefs, are at the side door ready to take their seats in the long wagon. Particolored ribbons flutter from the coachman's whip and the ears of the horses. At length the bride's mother appears at the door of the peasants' quarters, followed by Säfing in her long white veil and myrtle wreath, the mother a blotch of vivid color, the bride like a snowdrop, save for her flushed cheeks. They take their seats in the foremost vehicle, the rest follow their example. The drivers call to their quick little horses, and off they start amidst the din of the bells which shake from the harness. Along the winding highroad, between fields of springing rye and flax, past log huts where little white-haired children peep from behind stacks of firewood; through the odorous pine wood where glances the gay woodpecker, and clouds of feathery dianthus seem to float like faint white mist over the ground. Then out into the open country, across the thymy heath, where the silent mill stretches long, motionless arms to the blue sky, and there, on the hill, stands the little whitewashed Lutheran Church, with the pastor wending his way thither on foot, and waving a jovial greeting to them as they pass. Then follow those halcyon days, speeding, ah, how swiftly! into eternity, with the one grim shadow growing ever nearer to cast its gloom over their young hearts. Already the young men of the district are gathering at the inn, whilst husband and wife stand in their porch, and she is this time the comforter. "It will all come right," she whispers. "Why should it fall on thee, amongst so many?" There is settled gloom on Jürri's face, though he tries to brighten at her words, as he moves away. "Thou wilt not stay long at the inn, my Jürri?" she calls after him. "No, no, little wife; I shall be with thee before sundown," he replies. And she watches his tall figure with pride, until a bend in the road hides it from sight. But now that she is alone she drops on to the bench beside the door, and gives herself up to the torments of doubt and fear. Soon, however, she rouses herself, and her sanguine nature prevails. She will think no more of it: why should the worst happen? And in a few minutes she is singing at her work. Meanwhile the day wears away, and Säfing sits at her spinning-wheel, watching the sun creep to the west. How won. drous are his evening robes of crimson and gold! The world seems awed into a solemn silence at his splendor. But why does Jürri linger? She rises to her feet, too anxious to sit still, and wanders up the road. In the distance she soon descries a knot of men approaching. "Then it is over!" she murmurs, with her heart in her mouth. The noisy mirth of the men as they advance jars rudely the peace of the calm evening. Her Jürri is not one of them. All the dread which she has kept at bay until now comes upon her with overwhelming force: she rushes towards them. "Tell me," she gasps, and her quivering lips can say no more, but she stretches her clasped hands imploringly towards them. No one replies, the embarrassed flush rises to each face, and they stand before her great anguish smitten with dumbness. "Where is my husband?" she cries at length. "He is at the inn," some one replies, and like a hunted animal she flies in search of him. Jürri bites his pale lip, and, shaking himself free, he darts a furious look at his tormentor. A titter goes round, but he heeds it not, he only sees the agony in his young wife's blue eyes. In a moment his strong arms support her sinking form, and her blonde head rests on his shoul der. Thus silent and broken-hearted, they creep slowly homewards. The sun has gone down in a great glory ere they reach the homestead. Not a word is spoken, but their souls are mingling in mute despair. He leads her to the bench against the house and sits beside her, until twilight deepens into night, and the stars look out of the heavens, but still no word is spoken. At length a big tear falls on the hand which incloses hers, Säfing's breast heaves, and she bursts into a tempest of sobs. After a time she dries her eyes, and begins to talk to him quite calmly of the future. In reply to her question he tells her that he must join the sergeant at Tuckum in a week. Then she talks of herself, and how she will shut up the house and live with her mother until his return; thus his heart grows lighter to hear her so rational. When they go indoors, she bestirs herself to light a fire and prepare the evening meal, partaking of some herself to encourage him to eat. "She is quite resigned," he thinks, The din of a babel of tongues meets her ears long before she is near enough to distinguish the figures that are grouped about the inn door, or seated at the tables, whilst ever and anon loud cheers rend the air. Panting and breathless, regardless of the eyes which turn towards her, she dashes onward. At one of the tables sits the sergeant; he has his hand on the shoulder of the powerful young man at his side. Their backs are towards her." and the time will soon pass. I will just The peasant is just raising a glass to his lips as he shouts in a hoarse, discordant voice, "God preserve the emperor!" and a score of voices strike up the Russian national anthem. Suddenly a sharp cry pierces the song, which stops abruptly and dies on the air “Jürri!” The upraised hand of the young man drops as if struck by a gun-shot, and he turns his wild, excited eyes in the direction of the voice. The false exultation, which the fiery vodki had kindled in his face, vanishes like some weird spectre, leaving nothing behind it but blank dismay. The sergeant turns and regards the young woman with a mocking air. "Well, my pretty one," he exclaims, "and do you grudge to lend your fine lover to our emperor? In truth, he will make as fine a soldier as ever wore the grey! Come, my lad, you are not going to leave us? he continues to Jürri, as he tries to pull him back into his seat. "It is his wife," some one whispers. "Ah, I see," jeers the sergeant: "he is already under the slipper!" be thirty when I return." But he feels bitter when he thinks of his little farm lying idle, and his patch of rye and buckwheat which promises such good returns. A deep solemnity falls upon Säfing during the days she still spends with her husband. She seems to stand before the gloomy portals of the unknown, through which her love must pass, leaving her alone behind. The time is too short for her to say all that fills her heart, and like a faithful dog she follows him about, wistfully watching him with a sermon in her eyes. "Jürri, thou wilt keep from the drink; thou wilt not let thyself be persuaded, when I am not there to look after thee," she often repeats. And his answer is always the same. "No, little wife, I promise - I swear to thee, I will not." And all too soon the day of parting comes, when they drive together for the last time, between the springing fields, through the balsam-breathing wood, and the limpid waters of the Abau. Desolate under the bright sun looks the Jewish graveyard, where the cart-wheels sink into |