rated peals of thunder, now awfully rolling in stupendous waves of sound, as if from horizon to horizon-now in the very zenith terrifically exploding, and echoing and re-echoing among the distant reverberating cliffs; the wind at the same time mingling its frenzied chorus with the voices of the surges and the clouds.

Incessantly and fiercely the lightning gleamed over sea, rock, and sky, irradiating them with a wild, unearthly brilliancy; while mournfully and imploringly, at every brief cessation of the elementary war, came the faint roll of minute guns, sounding like a voice of death from the ocean sepulchres. Shocked at the thought of the imminent peril that must threaten the vessel, Miss Rosenford and her neices were soon prepared and on their way to the neighbouring village, attended by a man-servant who slept in the house, to endeavour to procure assistance for the unfortunate passengers and crew of the apparently devoted ship. The early grey of the morning had just reached the heavens, while the downs still looked dark and gloomy between the electric flashes, which gradually grew less and less frequent as they proceeded.

The large rain-drops fell heavily but thinly, and the wind evidently began to abate as they reached the village, which was situated very near the cliffs and under the shelter of a shelving declivity.

The one neat, though small, street was thronged with the anxious inhabitants, all speculating on the probable fate of the vessel, for no boat had yet ventured out. The manifest assuaging of the winds and waters now, however, in a degree restored the confidence of the boatmen; and they stood irresolute and undetermined, wishing, yet fearing, to push off, when Miss Rosenford arrived.

The loan of a boat which she kept on the spot in readiness for such contingencies, stronger and better fitted for the arduous undertaking than their own, which had seen long and hard service, with a few words of encouragement, joined to the promise of an ample reward if they succeeded in rescuing the imperilled voyagers, quickly decided them; and the boat rowed off, amidst the enthusiastic cheers of the assembled crowd. Slowly and anxiously passed the time before the boat could possibly return with its living freight; but as the vessel had fortunately struck near the shore, ere very long they had the inexpressible satisfaction and comfort of seeing the boat re-appear, laden with In its second passengers from the distressed ship.

transit the boat was again filled; and the men being now inspirited by success, in a comparatively short period the whole of the passengers, officers, and crew, were safely landed-the vessel almost immediately going to pieces. Only one of the passengers accepted Miss Rosenford's invitation to the lodge; the rest being anxious to save whatever of their property might be washed on shore by the heaving surges,

This person was scarcely English in appearance, though his voice and pronunciation proclaimed him to be such, so darkened and tawnied was he by the suns and services of the south; which, however, could not conceal the intellectual expression of his countenance. Above the standard height, his form was yet unbending; and his erectness typified the unbending spirit within. He appeared taciturn from long habits of observation and reflection; and, haply, on the present occasion from choice. He spoke but little on the way, merely uttering a monosyllabic reply or two to unevadeable questions or remarks; and as soon as he arrived, declining all refreshments, he begged to be allowed to rest himself for a few hours. Many hours, however, elapsed, and still he appeared not. The evening had tracked its way of light over the glistening waters, and had sunk beneath the horizon-waves; and night appeared enrobed like a bride in her pale mantle and myriad sparkling gems. Miss Rosenford gazed

long and admiringly at the beautiful pageant of nature; but at length, with some anxiety respecting her guest, whom she still felt reluctant to disturb, retired to rest. Immediately afterwards her maid brought her a note from the stranger, somewhat vague in its expression of thanks and apologies, and expressing his intention of passing her house on his way to a neighbouring seaport in a short time, and of then thanking her in person for her hospitality. The handwriting was awkward and cramped, and all signature omitted.

They heard after his departure that his coolness, advice, and example had alone saved the first boat from being swamped; the captain being, unfortunately, unfitted by a deficiency of presence of mind and want of firmness for the command of the vessel-his timidity depriving him of the respect of his men and of the obedience of his subordinate officers in hours of peril, He had appealed to their courage as British sailors and officers, as natives of England; proved that their only chance of escape was in patience and self-control; and finally avowed his determination of being the last to quit the ship. His eloquence and good sense had the required effect; and thus the boat received no more than it was able to carry safely to shore.

About a month had elapsed, when one evening-as the setting sun flung a golden radiance over the lulling waves, that seemed sinking into slumber beneath its bright enchantments, lavishing the most glorious tints on its circling clouds, shedding a farewell crimson gleam on the highest eminences of the darkening earth ere it sank beneath the billows, and finally changing to a rich vermilion hue a pale fleecy cloud that hung in the deep blue zenith, as if to take a last view of the dazzling luminary ere it disappeared-a plain travelling carriage was seen to stop at the gate of Rosenfordlodge, and a gentleman sprung out. A moment sufficed to recognise the stranger who had so abruptly quitted the house a month before; whom we must now leave for a few minutes in the quiet parlour, while we turn to the morning succeeding that of the wreck.

As he was then pacing to and fro on the beach in a ruminating mood, this apparently unsocial being on turning a cliff that formed a small picturesque promontory-from the summit of which the long grass and weeds were wildly waving in the fitful gales that still swept athwart the strand-perceived a group of persons gathered together; in the centre of which stood an old fisherman, whose silver hair was streaming in the wind, and whose piercing dark eye was brightening with the eagerness with which he was dilating upon some favourite topic, which appeared also equally to interest his auditors; and the whole party were too much occupied with their subject to observe the approach of the stranger. The first word which met his ear was Rosenford-it fixed his attention at once. "Aye," continued the old man, "fifty good pound of her own money-and she not over rich neither-over and above the new boat she had built last autumn-as pretty a craft and safe as you may see anywhere upon the coast, I say that cost a pretty penny to my own knowledge; and all for the poor people castaways like from the wrecks, as she knows nothing about and is not likely to see again. Aye, she is an angel, if there is such on this strifeful earth! And then to think how she sent me cordials from her own table, and cooked by her own sweet hands, when I was laid up with the sickness that weary time; and paid little Willy's schooling too, till I got about again. May every blessing" The stranger turned hastily away, overpowered by some sudden emotion: the first coach that passed through the village that day bore him away to London, and thence to the North of England, to his native place.

But to resume our narrative. Gertrude and Amy had taken a long walk that evening, allured by the serene and hallowed beauty of the sky, ocean, and

distant hills, lit up by the lamps of heaven as they emerged from their fading veil of light; and when at length they re-entered their aunt's cheerful parlour they started at the sound of a strange voice (a voice too of suppressed emotion, of subdued happiness), and at perceiving the mysterious hero of the wreck. Their aunt turned as they entered, and with more than her accustomed dignity of manner presented Mr. Rosse to her bewildered and astonished nieces.

Time passes quickly to the happy and well employed: the early autumn came, bringing with its quiet flowers and peaceful skies, the quieter nuptials of the mistress of Rosenford-lodge; for true happiness needs not the attendance of pomp and ostentation, and the reality of conscientious conduct requires not the glittering garb of illusive hope. No one can calculate on success in life, no one can rightfully vaunt of mortal power, no one can ensure against disease or death; but all can obtain a share of real happiness, for all can conform to the requirements of Religion, the true PHILOSOPHY OF LIFE!

THE WISHING BRIDGE.

BY JOHN J. NEWTON.

The old bridge from the city grey
Lies little further than a mile;
O'er many a sequestered stile,
And many a daisied meadow way,

And thence into a lane, that seems
So cool and quiet-not too wide,
With hedgerows upon either side-
A place you sometimes see in dreams.

And 'neath the bridge a streamlet flows,
With mingling sounds of song and sigh;
And listless breezes wander by,
Laden with dreamy long-agos.

The trees around hide heaven from sight, Save one small speck of summer sky, That gazes like a calm blue eye Entranced with a strange delight.

Those leafy trees, that gurgling rill,
"Tis years since I beheld them last;
But arching o'er the shapeless past
The wishing-bridge is with me still.

A place becomes almost a part

Of us, when linked unto the place
Is some dear old familiar face,
Or some strong feeling of the heart.

In childhood, what a glad belief

We give to each wild legend's truth!
Alas, that joys of early youth
Should be the seeds of after grief!

For oft before the sleepless eye
Each dead wish, rising from the dead
At night-time, with funereal tread
In mournful mock'ry shall pass by;

Each, shrouded well in time's dark pall,

Shall pass a troop of sable woes→ Whene'er the flickering night-lamp throws Its ghastly shadows on the wall.

Yet what tried spirit hath not seen,

And, seeing, chid his heart's wild fret-
That it were idle to regret

He is not what he would have been?
For God hath measured unto all

Their nature rather than their fate

And some of us he maketh great. And some of us he maketh small:

And grants to none so close a span,

And gives to none so dark a doom,
That hath not in the wide earth room
To work, and prove himself a man.
Go there, dear friend, in trust-for you
Have that strong trust that nothing shakes;
You have the fervent faith that makes
A truth of that it would have true;
Go when the sun, that soon must set,
Lingers in love about the place,
And earth is as an angel's face
O'ershadowed by a vague regret;
And when the dizzy insect hum

Is hushed, in reverence to the power
And solemn beauty of the hour
That makes the glens and valleys dumb:
Then, baptized with the setting sun
In liquid hues of dying day,

Look up to the great heaven, and pray
Your only wish-Thy will be done!"

FALSTAFF AND HIS COMPANIONS AT THE BOAR'S HEAD.

IN the centre of one of the busiest thoroughfares in London, in what was then called Great Eastcheap, once stood the Boar's Head tavern, made illustrious for all time by the revels of the immortal Jack Falstaff and his merry followers. Modern improvements may be all very well in their way (as no doubt they are), but they are sad destroyers of antiquarian interests. The case of the famous Boar's Head tavern is a special exemplification; for not only does there not exist the smallest trace of the original tenement, but the very street in which it stood has now only a kind of legendary fame-Eastcheap and the church of St. Michael's, Crooked-lane, with all the houses between it and the river, having been swallowed up in the approaches of New London Bridge in 1831, the name only surviving in the church of St. Clement, Eastcheap, in Clement-lane.

In the very vortex of an ever-moving population, where five tides meet in constant eddy and crush, and under the very feet of the granite monarch William the Fourth, the quarrel between Falstaff and "mine ancient Pistol" may be supposed to have taken place. Whether this be so in fact or not, certain it is that the statue marks pretty accurately the site of the tavern known as the Boar's Head.

In Boswell's Life of Johnson we have mention of the Boar's Head, in connexion with its ancient reputation. There is a club in Eastcheap, says the famous old toadeater, at the Boar's Head--the very tavern where Falstaff and his joyous companions met-the members of which all assume Shakspere characters. One is Falstaff, another prince Henry, another Bardolph, and so on. Boswell was telling Johnson of this, but the "great cham of literature" quickly put him down. "Don't be of it, sir," said he: "now that you have a name"-at once flattering his follower and feeding his own vanity; for Johnson knew well enough that Bozzy could only have a reputation in connexion with himself "you must