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insisting on his friend relating the same to me. solicitation, and the old man at length yielded to treaties, and related, as nearly as I can remember, the following story:

"I was born at a small village, consisting of about a dozen houses and a parish church, lying in a deep, richly-wooded, and beautiful valley to the left of the road leading from Dover to Canterbury. My father was farm-bailiff to the wealthy old squire of the place, an awfully grand personage to my boyish simplicity and ignorance. I remember well the respect and even terror with which I was accustomed to take off my cap to him on a Sunday, the only day on which I ever remember seeing him, when he got down out of the carriage, with the assistance of the footman and the butler, my lady's tiger, as they called him (though in those days I could never make out why for he was very unlike the picture which hung against the school room wall with tiger written under it, and which, standing all in row once in a week, we were taught to call an inhabitant of Africa. Little did I think then, that, in after years, I should assist in capturing one of those spotted nightmares of my infant life). But to return, her ladyship's tiger would place a soft cushion for his gouty foot to rest on before he walked into church with the rector, who, whenever he saw the squire (Oh, how great are the big men of a little place!), lost all his starch and vinegar looks, and became radiant with smiles from the crown of his cocked hat to the silver buckles on his shoes. I did not reflect on the cause of the sudden pride-pampering change then-no, I was too young-but, on reflection, I have since thought, perhaps, the fact that the squire (who, by the way, had received several admonitions from the gout that rich and poor alike, without distinction, are called upon to discharge the debt of nature), was accustomed to take him back to the hall to dinner, where, indeed, he had of late been a frequent visitor, may in some measure account for it; and I dare stake my old crutch and medal, two things that I could not well do without, against one of that same rector's sermons, that he never lectured the squire about going to sleep in his snug crimson curtained pew, as it was his practice to do during the preaching, though it was an offence for a year if any of the poor folk in the parish, who left their hard pallets with the sun, and worked hard, faring but meanly all the week on the squire's rich lands, stole a bit of a nap, or were seen to be nobbled by the beadle, who seemed to have been born only to terrify every child within his jurisdiction, and

drink all the week at the Red Lion with the shoemaker and the wheelwright.

"But I grew out of pinafores, dreaming of the beadle, going to school and marble playing, and was put to work under my father, who intended that I should succeed him; for he had obtained the squire's promise, whose generosity was wisdom, for he knew my father was a faithful servant and wished to perpetuate the breed. He had done much for the improvement of the estate, though little good for himself; as the squire never gave him more wages than served to provide the common necessaries of life, so he was unable to lay by for a rainy day, or provide against the infirmities of age; though, by the way, he always appeared to have a presentiment that he should never arrive at patriarchal distinction. He often said to me 'Nathaniel, be steady, my boy, work hard and honestly, and strive to win the squire's good opinion, and when I am carried to the churchyard there, and laid under the green turf in the shade of the old grey tower, keep the cottage as I have done, and be good and kind to your poor mother, for she will have no one else to look to then.' And my mother, heaven rest her soul, would sit looking at him, the big tear of affection rolling down her dear old cheek, and, in her mild and quiet way, she'd say, 'God preserve thee long, John, and may the grass spring from our graves together, and the flowers which Nathaniel and Fanny plant there, grow together and live together in love, as we have done, and as I hope they may do, with God's blessing.'

"This allusion to Fanny was a little piece of gentle rallying of which my mother was very fond, and it always served to rouse us from the melancholy into which such conversations (and they were not uncommon) usually cast us. And, indeed, my mother was right, none, as matters then stood, were more likely to plant flowers on their graves than Fanny Eardley and Nathaniel Davenport.

"But oh! the memory of that same Fanny as she was then; it seems to me now as a dream or a fair story that I have read, like an isolated part of my existence, though the circumstances else surrounding that period appear all to have flowed on in the ordinary course of my life.

"But I have'nt told you, Sir, who Fanny was, and you must bear with me if I should play the woman a little while I am talking about her, for although I have stood before many a well-served battery, and seen comrade after comrade bite the dust, serving but as stepping-stones to fresh victims-although I am an old cripple,

with one leg really in the grave and the other on the verge of it, still the memory is as fresh with me as a lover's last parting with his mistress, and is almost as tender, but I will do my best.

"Fanny Eardley's father rented a small farm from the squire, and their cottage was only a few fields removed from ours. There's not room for a blade of grass in those same fields, where our feet have not dimpled the turf. In the spring we've gathered daisies and buttercups together, made the summer-hay, sat beneath the autumn-wheat-sheaf, or pulled the blackberries in the hedge-rows; and in the winter season, with a leaden sky overhead, and snowclad fields beneath looking like a great winding-sheet for the dead summer, and the black funeral-like trees standing out from the midst as so many mourners, we have tracked the silent-footed hare, have written our names together within one love-knot on the pure, but perishable surface; or made a great snow-house, which, like a light cloud in a June sky before the summer breeze, had passed away ere we returned, a foreshadowing of the instability of those air-built castles which our love, fancy, and inexperience have many a time created as we have sat in love-conference (having passed from childhood), beneath a chorus-filled old elm tree, half way between our homes; or wandered along the tortuous brook-path, listlessly listening to its stilly murmur, or watched in silent love our united shadows wrought upon its clear waters by the harvest moon, one soul in two bodies. (The old campaigner here paused and passed his sun-burnt hand across his eyes; he really appeared to renew his youth, while thus speaking of these scenes of his life and early love; he was much affected, but, making an effort, he continued). I began to discover that my companion was beautiful, and it would indeed have been strange if I had not, for every youth in the village, and for miles around, thought so as well they might.

"I can give you no adequate idea of her beauty, of her simple native grace, of the arch smile that played about her coral lips and deep blue eyes, dimpling her rose-tinted cheeks, rich luxurious golden hair, falling in wavy ringlets over her marble brow down on to her neck of snow, her budding figure full of ease and loveliness, and a step so ethereal and light, that the modest wild flower on her path did but bend its head beneath her pretty feet, and when she had passed on her way seemed but to have paid homage to the beauteous girl. Yes, I not only thought her beautiful, but I found more love for her in my heart every day; it became painful to me to be absent from her; she was the object of my thoughts in the field,

in the house, aye, even in the church; our meetings became frequent, our partings more lingering, our language more tender; and as I have said, in our ignorance or thoughtlessness of the vicissitudes and ever changeableness of all sublunary things, we planned years of happiness for ourselves, when, could we have been permitted to take one glance down the vista of the future, we must have trembled to behold the airy paradise which, in our want of omniscience we had created for ourselves, vanish, as water spilt upon the ground.'

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"But, alas! the first black cloud of the approaching storm soon gathered on the horison of our hopes.

“In a state chamber of the old hall, a May sun cast its early rays upon a richly curtained bed, on which, with all the form and pomp of death, lay the lifeless body of the rich old squire. (To be concluded in our next.)

Verses written in Sickness.

OH! Thou who stay'st the ocean's rage,

And softly whisperest "peace, be still!"
When anxious cares too much engage

The erring, wandering human will,
I bless thy kind afflicting hand,

Which lays my frame in sickness down,
When all-engrossed with earth I stand,
Forgetful of my crown.

"Tis when the frame can mix no more
Among the busy scenes of time
That the freed spirit turns to soar
Unto a more congenial clime :

Seeing the inborn vanity

Of all that dwells beneath the skies,

It seeks, in penitence, to Thee,

On faith's strong wing to rise.

Oh! ever thus, when cares engross,

When earth from heaven my thoughts would hold,

When sunshine gilds terrestrial dross

Until it seems like purest gold,

Do Thou, Most Merciful, Most Wise,

My brightening prospects dash with gloom;

And cast athwart my sunny skies

The shadow of the tomb.

THOS. RAGG.

To the World Movers.

BY J. J. BRITTON.

BE never shame-hearted, ye workers!
Nor blush to be told of your trade,
As showeth the court-doll his baubles,
Show chisel, or pencil, or spade.

As place-seated ones fold their ermine,

That marketh the place, round their breast, Show work rags! Show fingers smoke-blackened ! The signs of your noble unrest!

Most love to be thought of the idle,

The gay boats on fashion's long shore! Would rather be seen with the trinkets, Than getting or fusing the ore.

But workers, though low ye be rated—
By fools whom the sloth-god hath made,
Hang out on your toil-strengthened bosoms
Each trophy, each sign of your trade.

Young sailor, for sake of thy mistress,
Hide never one victory-scar!
Thy smooth face it was not so comely
As those valour-witnesses are!

Pale student, pale student, thy pallor,
Thy weakness, thy grand forehead's care,
Hide never, but show to our wonder,
Thy work-medals honored and rare!

Oh, poet! prove thine inspiration,
Oh, artist! thy canvass display,
Oh, soldier! be proud of thy weapons,
Like thee, they are battered and grey !

All, all in your brethren's dull eyesight,
Flash out your toil-trophies like flame;
Write to them, speak to them, incite them
Το go forth and win them the same!

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