friend asserts, that he is a duck, and changed to a man for some sin he has committed. What a punishment! I dare say he would give something to be afloat again.'

"He cannot provide for his bills-"

"Thank goodness, we can!" interjected my mother.

"And so," continued our master's friend, "he is at present on the

wing."

66

Feeding on the air, I suppose," said my mother.

Having once lost his feet, he will never keep his head above water."

"No more should we!" sighed my mother. been a wild duck, indeed!"

"Alas! he must have

"He used to take spirit with his water," continued the friend; but now he takes it neat, and he must sink!"

"There's a lesson!" said my moralizing mother. "I wish all my children to be of the temperance society. Never abandon the water. Take to the water with spirit, but never spirit with the water! I shall call a meeting to-morrow while this water's in my head-this moral, I mean, and I have no doubt my resolutions on the subject will be approved by an universal quack! I shall conclude my address by proposing this appropriate sentiment: - May every duck die with water on his chest!"

THE OLD MAN'S LOVE.

BY T. J. OUSELEY.

I KNEW thee ere thy heart had felt
The breathing of a single sigh—
Before thy spirit's joy did meet
Within the cup of misery:

Yes! ere the veil of life was drawn,
Ere Beauty's smile was Passion's dawn.

Ay ! like the breath of summer's day,
When light of gold and silver hue
Rains from the east, o'er flower and spray,
To drink from each the crystal dew,
Wert thou, but ah! the tender flower
Has lost its bloom in Sorrow's bower.

And still I know thee! and I feel,

How sad soe'er the change is now,

A light through memory's cavern steal,
That frights Care's furrows from my brow:
And I can smile with calmness yet,

Remembering when first we met.

For, shall we not at evening's close,

Look out beyond the mid-day storm,

And see the morning as it rose,

Clad in its glowing multiform?

Though Time has breathed upon thy face,
Thy mirror'd heart has Virtue's grace.

Yes! though thine eyes have lost their fire,
For ever fled the raven tress;

Yet there's within thee pure desire,
A life of faith and godliness:

My love is deeper for thee now

Than when youth smiled upon thy brow.

COLIN CLINK.

BY CHARLES HOOTON.

BOOK THE THIRD.

CHAPTER IV.

Introduces certain new characters upon the stage, and amongst them the real heroine of this history. Besides containing a love-story far superior to the last.

WHILE the loves of Miss Sowersoft and Mr. Palethorpe yet leave their tender impress on the mind, let me take advantage of the opportunity to mention another delicate matter which has been making some progress, although no allusion has been hitherto made to it.

Notwithstanding the little amours in which our hero has been engaged, it must have been evident that the opportunity which promised the most appropriate match for him had not yet arrived. Towards Fanny, it is true, he had never entertained any love, nor professed any; on that unfortunate girl herself lay all the pain of having nourished an affection for one who was insensible of it: while, with respect to Miss Wintlebury, not only had she herself withdrawn from his knowledge, but the altered circumstances in which he was placed by Mr. Lupton, could scarcely fail to influence him in his decisions upon this important point.

While in this uncertainty, Mr. Lupton had taken an opportunity of introducing him to one Mr. Henry Calvert, a gentleman of fortune, residing in the suburbs of London, and in whose family he soon found as his father had secretly desired,-a companion much after the heart of any young man of sense and sensibility. This was Miss Jenny Calvert, the youngest of two sisters, and within a year or two of his own age. Well-educated, sensible, and good-tempered, she was one of those creatures who, as they grow up, become unconsciously the life and light of the household. To whom parents, brothers, and sisters, all instinctively look up; one of those happy things that would be most missed if taken away; but who was least felt while present, save in the quiet and gentle sense of unobtrusive happiness which her presence ever occasioned. She was sufficiently tall to give dignity to an elegant figure, while a brilliant complexion, associated with hair and eyes of a hue which nature had coloured in admirable correspondence, gave no fairer a representation exteriorly than the soul within deserved.

Miss Jenny had seen our hero but few times before she became conscious that, happy as she was, she might yet be happier. Up to this time she had never dreamed of love beyond the circle of her own home: now she felt that loveable creatures exist out in the world, that the heart is capable of other affection than that of parents, sisters, and brothers: and that such may become too necessary to its happiness, ever to be happy without it.

Her family lived in that quiet retirement which sought not the excitement of company to enable them to get through life without ennui. A tasteful home afforded them higher pleasures than the conventional affectations of happiness which occupy so much of that

class in which they might have shone conspicuous. But Mr. Calvert was too much a man of mind to precipitate his family into the whirl of fashionable life. At the risk of having his daughters neglected, and his sons regarded as "unlike what one expects young men would be," he preferred to all other pleasures that pure domestic training, and quiet attention to his estate, which never fails to produce real happiness. Hence, his daughters had never been carried to market, neither had his two sons any knowledge of those vices which, though they might have added to their character as young men of spirit, could not have done them credit on any other

account.

This happy family found abundant recreation in an admirablyselected library, as well as amusement in an extensive garden, which enclosed the house on three sides, and threw a quiet air of English comfort over the scene.

With such a man, and in a family with such an attraction it is not to be wondered at that Colin soon found himself happier than

ever.

Happiness, however, especially in love, seems like sunlight in the world, as too bright to endure without intervals of shade. Not long had Colin and Jenny been acquainted; they had just learned to speak confidingly, and to tell each other those thoughts which before had been stifled, when our hero was astonished to find in the behaviour of Mr. Calvert a marked difference from that which hitherto he had pursued towards him. It was not less kind, but seemed marked by regret, as though the bosom in which it originated felt like that of a friend who knows that he must part, —not that he wishes to do so. Miss Jenny, too, seemed downcast. And sometimes, when her father chanced to catch a glance of her countenance, he would find those pretty eyes wet, as if the well-spring within would overflow in spite of her. Did he ask what was the matter? she smiled, and replied "Nothing;" but instantly would leave the room, thus telling there was something, though something not to be told.

These things, it was observed by Colin, first occurred after Mr. Lupton and Mr. Calvert had had an interview; during which, he now felt little doubt, his union with Jenny had been discussed.

Still it was not easy to imagine the cause of this difference. All that he knew was that all the family, with the exception of Roger Calvert, even Jenny herself-and that was worst of all-conducted themselves in a manner which left little doubt that some cause appeared to render the continuance of his acquaintance with the young lady unadvisable. Still there was no offensive carriage from any party.

One day, as he was rambling with Roger, the most open-hearted friend he had in the family, Colin mentioned the subject, and ventured to ask the cause of this coldness.

"Perhaps," replied Roger, "I am not doing right by telling you, -though, for my own part, I think you ought to know. But, since you require me to name the reason, I will. Mark, however, that I do not agree in the opinion; nor do I see how we, at all events, ought to visit the sins of the fathers upon the children."

Conviction flashed on Colin's mind. His cheek became pale, then red, he would have burst into tears had not his pride forbidden.

"I told you," continued Roger, "that I did not know whether it was right to tell you; but I am no keeper of secrets. Frankly I tell you, it is owing to the story of your birth, which your father told to mine some days ago, with all he meant to do for you, that there might be no misunderstanding between the families. My father and mother like you; as for myself, I think you a good-hearted fellow, and should have no objection to your wedding Jenny; but their notions are not mine. I assure you it is nothing else; for though such a match would be equal to anything Jenny could expect, as Mr. Lupton volunteered to give you a handsome fortune; yet, with them, especially with my mother, it is a sort of matter of conscience, which cannot readily be overcome. Yet it is the source of a deal of grief to them, especially as Jenny seems to have taken a liking to you. However, I can only say this, that if I were in your place, and in love with any young lady, I would make up my mind to have her, and HAVE HER I WOULD."

In this strange speech Colin saw at once the cause of all his fear, combined with something which yet inspired hope. Surely he could not fail with perseverance, and the assistance of such a spirited auxiliary as Roger.

That same night, as he was on the eve of departure for the liberation of Woodruff, our hero obtained an interview with the lady of his heart. It was about eight in the evening, when this unhappy couple walked along the garden in view of Mr. Calvert's house. It was a soft, autumnal night; while an increasing moon seemed to sail, like a lone wreck, amongst white and billowy clouds. Jenny leaned more lovingly, he thought, upon his arm than ever; and during some minutes they paced to and fro, without either venturing to speak. At length that meaning silence became insupportable. Colin stopped, and bent his face earthward, as he said,

"Young lady, there is no farther occasion for disguise. I know all. We must part-and for ever. I am thought unworthy of you; but I will not render myself so by persisting in attentions which even she to whom they are offered, thinks proper to reject."

"Oh! no

so, indeed!'

"

do not say so!" exclaimed Miss Calvert. "It is not

"I speak," replied Colin, "from what I have seen. I have-I do love you. The rest you know as well as I."

"In truth," answered Jenny, "I know nothing. ago I thought we were so happy, and now— told the painful difference between then and now. "You know nothing?" demanded Colin.

"

Only a few days

"Nothing, I assure you," answered his companion. "Then why shun me?

A flow of tears

"My father," sobbed the lady, "told me I must forget you." "And you will do so?

"

"I must try, for it is my duty."

"But will you?-can you?"

"Oh! if you love me, do not ask me. I ought not to say it. But I feel-yes, dear Colin, I feel that what they demand is impossible."

If ever the reader have been in love, he or she must be aware that a climax of feeling of the kind described is not arrived at without involving ulterior consequences of a physical nature, which philo

sophers designate by the verb to kiss. It must, therefore, be understood that no sooner had Miss Calvert expressed the sentiments here recorded, than our hero, with becoming alacrity, converted that verb into a substantive. This experiment had never been tried between them before; but, as Colin made it a rule to act according to the proverb that "what is worth doing, is worth doing well," I am happy in having to record that it perfectly succeeded. Declarations of eternal attachment were afterwards repeated, and vows of love made, such as Diana, who was listening over their heads, hath seldom heard excelled. Mr. Clink and the lady eventually tore themselves asunder, with the understanding that neither would ever love another so long as the moon continued to shine or the seasons to change.

CHAPTER V.

Relates one of the best adventures in which Colin Clink has yet signalised himself.

THE sun was setting behind the westward extreme of Sherwood forest; when Jerry Clink, silent and alone, might have been seen sitting by the door of a sort of half hut, half cavern, in a dell, down in the heart of the waste, far below those horizontal lines of light that now only tinged the tops of the higher hills. By his side stood a pitcher containing his favourite compound, and out of his mouth ascended in spires the smoke of the immortal herb; beside him lay a heap of bright purple heath, which he had cut during the day. The old man looked the personification of solitary enjoyment; a being to whom cloud and mountain were as friends. Solitude had no pain for him; day no pleasures, nor night any fears. The crow that flew overhead would caw as it cast an eye downwards, and saw him below; and the cuckoo utter his notes from the tree closest upon his habitation. He never molested them, but seemed, as it were, a part of the wild nature around him. A tame jackdaw, that hopped and chattered about his dwelling, was the only sound he heard there, save only one human voice, that sometimes cried in complaint or pain from a part of the cavern behind-that of James Woodruff.

As Jerry sat thus, sipping, smoking, or talking to his saucy jackdaw, which had now perched itself on the point of one of his toes, the figure of a man half seen amongst the heath, appeared at a distance, winding a devious path amongst the irregularities of the ground; anon he would stand still, and look around, as though irresolute which course to pursue. Jerry watched a long time, but at length lost sight of him, owing to the broken nature of the earth, and the approach of night. As darkness fell upon the world, Jerry retired into his hut: and having lit an oil lamp, which shed as much light as might have been comprised within the circumference of a tolerably-sized table, he sat down, with a huge pair of spectacles on, to the perusal of apparently the only book on the premises. Well nigh had he read himself to sleep when the phenomenon of a rap at the door was heard.

Were some learned gentleman meditating in his study, suddenly to receive a clout beside the head from an unseen hand, he could not start with more abruptness than did Jerry, on hearing that unusual summons. Throwing the door wide open, he beheld the spare figure of a man before him.