primroses, when Jack Bartlett, who carried the basket, suddenly exclaimed that he had forgotten to get a bit of paper to put in the bottom to keep the soil from tumbling through, and just at that moment he saw some paper lying among the dry sedge roots; he picked it up and laid it in the basket: that was all. I did not wish to excite curiosity; therefore, after some further talk on casual subjects, I got them to describe the exact spot, and then set off by myself to find what further waif and stray might be cast up by the waters of the pond. My search was more successful than I expected. I found also, among the dry roots of the sedge, a little old pocket-book covered with dry mud, and which, having been saturated with water, was now dried by the sun and wind. I opened it with a peculiar sentiment of awe and interest. The hands which last closed it were cold in the grave, and it was itself evidence of events and feelings which had been mysteriously laid open before me. The flap of the pocket-book was torn, and thus the letter had fallen out, but the rest of the contents seemed safe. It is one of those "ladies' memorandum-books" which are published every year, and this bears date fourteen years ago and contained occasional notings down-mostly rendered illegible by the wet. One or two, however, I can make out, thus: "May 6.-At Kirkton, Miss G. gave me a new gingham dress; it is pink, and very pretty. June 12.-Miss G. angry because I trod on Fan's tail. Have finished the mits; Miss G. likes them. My father fetched me me home. 26.-Back again at Kirkton. I do love this old house and all its old pictures and furniture. Miss G. can not do without me; she is very good to-day. Have brought my father's shirts here to finish." These are a specimen of the entries contained in the book-evidences, they, of a simple, innocent, childlike life. She knew not love: the serpent had not then entered her Eden. The larger packet contained various short but passionate declarations of love bearing date a year later and signed "C. J." (Charles Jellico), and two others, of a still later date, evidently written after she had illegally become his wife. I am tossed and tempested in mind. Perhaps I have done wrong in reading them. I think not-for how otherwise could I know their nature?—and I shall make no unworthy use of them. But one thing, however, is clear to me the unfinished letter was designed for Mr. Jellico's reading, and to him it shall go. The pocket-book, perhaps, was meant only for the boy: I know not; but it also shall go to the squire to the writer of those delusive letters, to the destroyer of that innocent heart which has left its childlike impress on those pages. Easter Monday-This being holiday. I put on my Sunday suit and walked up to the Hall. I felt considerably agitated, as my errand was so strange and altogether unprecedented; and the squire, though well disposed toward me, is not a man of easy access or one who relishes the familiar approach of inferiors. I found him, however, more affable than usual; he had just finished breakfast, and conducted me into the library, where, he said, he preferred transacting business. He seated himself in a large leathern chair, and, pointing to me to take another, turned to me with a laugh, saying, แ Well, Mr. Goodman, what trouble have | Joseph Pudsey, who, though an old man, is you now in hand? Is the schoolhouse burned ill of whooping-cough-a very rare case— down or have the children got the small-pox?" for I wished her out of the way before I "Sir," I said, "it is not a trifle which brought the squire into the house, having brings me to you, neither is it a laughing- reason to suspect her of listening. Here I related as briefly as possible the history of the boy's sojourn amongst us, recalling to his mind the funeral which had stopped his carriage on the last evening of the old year. Without exciting his suspicions as to what my communications tended to, I then added that, strange as it might appear, the papers about which the last living thoughts of the boy had been occupied, and which had come into my hands, appeared to have reference to himself, and that I considered it right, therefore, that they should pass direct from my hands 19th. No message from the squire. I feel anxious and perturbed. I desire to know the effect produced on this hard man of the world by that affecting chronicle of suffering caused by himself. 23d, Saturday. The squire came to my house to-day. I had just finished tea when Becky rushed in, all excitement, saying that he was walking in the garden and desired to speak with me. I went out, well knowing that this visit could have reference to only one subject. Before going out, however, I bade my servant Becky go and inquire after The first words the squire put to me were whether I had read the papers which I had put into his hands. I replied that I had done so, and, moreover, I again related to him how they had fallen into my hands; for, though I had already told him this, he seemed to have forgotten it. He said I had done very wrong, as they ought to have been given at once into his hands, seeing they were on private business, and that of a serious nature. I showed him, in return, how impossible it would have been for me to know for whom they were designed unless they had been first read, saying, furthermore, that it was well that they fell into my hands instead of others', who might not have respected their contents as I had done. He could not but confess the truth of my words, and then, resting his head upon his hand, sunk in deep thought for some time, his countenance wearing an air of deep dejection. 66 I respected his feelings too much to break the silence, and waited for him to speak. At length he said in a low and tremulous voice, You are a man of honor, Mr. Goodman, and I believe that any confidence reposed in you will be inviolate. In your eyes I appear at this moment as a villain; few, however, are so bad but that something may be said in their extenuation. I will now, as regards this most unhappy affair, relate to you some. facts which have never before passed my lips, and these, though they may not excuse me, will prove at least that I am not wholly hardened, and that I have not been without | land of strangers to me, and I feel as one my own share of suffering." about to be disinherited; yet so full of contradictory impulses is the heart that I do not feel free to decline it. I am in a sore perplexity. For half an hour he spoke, and I listened without interrupting him, satisfied that not only are the wages of sin death, but the greater the violation of principle and the sin against knowledge, the severer the penalty inflicted by an accusing conscience. I pitied the man whom I thus saw agonized by self-condemnation, but I will not reveal-will not commit even to this sacred transcript of my life and my feelings-the agony of another, who, in a moment of self-forgetfulness perhaps, laid MY voice is still for war. O Lord, I am in thy hands: do thou guide me, and all will then be well. bare before me the secrets of his own soul. I 24th.-I am in a singular position with regard to the squire. I know too much regarding him either for his peace or my own. regret the confidence which he has placed in me; he will soon regret it himself, if he have not done so already. It will be galling to a proud spirit like his, and he will probably seek to remove me from this place. 26th.-Becky brings me word that the squire has suddenly left the Hall. He set off for London last night, travelling post, as usual. Some think this has reference to his lady, who is now in Rome. More probably, I think, it is owing to this communication to He has, perhaps, left this neighborhood me. for ever. 30th.—Letter from the squire in London. He offers me his interest in obtaining the situation of master of a grammar-school in Yorkshire, the income of which is one hundred pounds per annum. I am taken by surprise. I know not whether this is meant by him as a punishment or a reward. I do not of my own free will incline to leave this place, to the rising generation of which I am become greatly attached. Yorkshire is a MARY HOWITT. SEMPRONIUS'S SPEECH FOR WAR. Gods! can a Roman Senate long debate Which of the two to choose, slavery or death? No! Let us rise at once, gird on our swords, And at the head of our remaining troops Attack the foe, break through the thick array Of his thronged legions, and charge home upon him. Perhaps some arm, more lucky than the rest, May reach his heart and free the world from bondage. Rise, Fathers, rise! 'Tis Rome demands Rise and revenge her slaughtered citizens. Senate Manures the fields of Thessaly while we If we should sacrifice our lives to honor Or wear them out in servitude and chains. Pharsalia Point at their wounds and cry aloud, “To battle!" Great Pompey's shade complains that we are slow, And Scipio's ghost walks unrevenged amongst us. JOSEPH ADDISON. CHARLES THE TWELFTH. N what foundation stands the But did not Chance at length her error mend? warrior's pride, How just his hopes, let Did no subverted empire mark his end, Or hostile millions press him to the ground? A frame of adamant, a soul He left the name at which the world No dangers fright him and To point a moral or adorn a tale. no labors tire; O'er love, o'er fear, extends his wide domain. Unconquered lord of pleasure. and of pain; No joys to him pacific sceptres yield; grew gloom, War sounds the trump: he rushes to the The cottage windows blazed through twilight bine, And one capitulate, and one resign; Peace courts his hand, but spreads her charms in vain : Think nothing gained," he cries, "till That cares not for his home. All shod with naught remain ; On Moscow's walls till Gothic standards fly, Hide, blushing Glory, hide Pultowa's day. steel, We hissed along the polished ice in games The pack loud-chiming and the hunted hare. And not a voice was idle: with the din Of melancholy not unnoticed, while the stars Eastward were sparkling clear, and in the I love-oh how I love !—to ride west away. The orange sky of evening died To cut across the reflex of a star That fled, and, flying still before me, gleamed The rapid line of motion, then at once With visible motion her diurnal round. Behind me did they stretch in solemn train, Feebler and feebler, and I stood and watched Till all was tranquil as a dreamless sleep. On the fierce foaming, bursting tide, I never was on the dull tame shore The waves were white, and red the morn, And the dolphins bared their backs of gold; |