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Pillowed his white bead on her filial breast,
Dropped her cold tears upon his upturned face,
And watched the passing of the failing life
With which her own should end.

She was the last
Of all the brave, and bold, and hopeful throng,
The last of all the bright and beautiful
Whom in the flush of proud and vigorous youth
That

poor old man bad seen around him fall,
The daughter of his age, his youngest born.
She had come forth this night from many a home
Where fair young hands had crowned her with green wreaths,
And loving hearts and lips besought her stay,
And mourned for her departure. She had come
Though great fires heaped with red and crackling logs
Had been piled up to warm ber frozen limbs,
Though feasts were spread, and rich vines poured for her,
And love and mirth and youth together met
In the swift circles of the merry dance.
She had left homes where lonely mourners wept
For those who but a little year before
Had been the gayest of the gay and glad,
And now lay sleeping through the long, long night,
Which knows no morn on earth. She would not stay
To comfort the afflicted, nor to breathe
Hope to the hearts whose loved ones were away
'Mid death and danger. No, she left them all,
To soothe the death-bed of her failing sire,
And die with him,

He blessed her as he lay,
And wept for all the precious months and days
Squandered and slighted, lost for evermore.
“My child,” he said, " the midnight hour is near,
And the first gleam of the to-morrow's dawn
Shall shine upon our graves. Alas! alas !
I thought my summer days would never end,
My summer flowers never fade away.
I recked not of this last, this fearful bour,
Or the dread world beyond the sea of death,
When suns were bright, and every hour that sped
Brought some new jewel to my diadem.
Oh! for the days which are for ever lost!
Like argosies laden with priceless gems,
Which never reach the shore for which they sail,
But sink in the deep ocean.

Lost! lost I lost!
Oh! for another grant of life and strength!
Time for repentance of my wasted gifts-

Time for amendment-time for better things
Than those whose memory haunts me to my doom!
I have been prodigal of promises,
But niggard in fulfilment, and my sins
Before me rise in terrible array-
At once my crime and punishment.

Ah me!
Another hand shall take my sceptre up,
Another head shall wear the crown I leave,
Another fill the throne that once was mine,
Like me, perhaps, to reign in thoughtless joy,
Nor dream of the 'to come' till all too late.
I have rejoiced above red battle-fields,
Where thousands fell to die. And the loud din
Of thundering cannon and of flashing steel,
The cries of those in the death agony,
The maddened neighing of the wounded steeds,
Have made me tremble with a fierce delight.
I have made helpless children fatherless,
Mothers bereaved, wives widows. I have rent
The brother from his sister's lingering clasp,
The lover from his fond and gentle love,
And sent them forth, to come no more again.
The blood of noble hearts has dyed my robes
With glowing crimson. Yet have I rejoiced,
And joined my voice to the loud rabble-cry
Which welcomed victories, won with the cost
Of untold lives, and tears but death can dry.
I had no sorrow for the early dead,
Or those who lived to mourn them.

But too late
I know the better from the worse, and feel
How deeply I have sinned. My days are done
A darkness deeper than the gloomy night
Is closing round me -I no longer feel
The gentle pressure of thy duteous hand.”
He spoke no more. Then rose a thrilling cry
Through all the realms of air ; there was a rush
Of spirit wings upon the dreary blast-
A plaint of spirit voices low and sad;
The clouds closed round the moon, and darkness fell,
Utter and rayless, over all the earth,
And the waves rose and swept away the dead.

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your fare, and

HOW WE WENT TO SEE THE MILITIA REVIEW.
This was after the fashion of it. Our cousin, Symthe de Symthe,
having been a good sober country gentleman for the space of at least a
dozen years, got at last wearied of improvements on the farm,” in the
shape of lopped, distorted trees, and grounds painfully harrowed up on
the score of production, and determined that in the present “crisis” it
was the duty of every true Briton to serve his country, and therefore he
should take up service in the militia. It was wonderfully becoming to
him, as we all told him, the uniform ; and as for the “undress," with
that dear duck of a foraging-cap, and those lovely moustaches, why we
never knew before how handsome he was. Then he was so clever about
getting his men into training, and whatever the “real army” (as those
impertinent officers at the barracks called themselves) might choose to
say about “ playing at soldiering,” it was plain to see our cousin Symthe
de Synthe might have been used to it all his life. He took such great
delight in it also. He was never wearied of getting up parties of gay
ladies and gentlemen to visit him at his “quarters” and partake of the
charming champagne breakfasts he and his brother-officers" were de-
lighted to provide for them. He would take them afterwards down long
dirty passages into the “men's quarters," and expatiate with delight
over boiling messes of dingy potatoes and steaming questionable-looking
meat. All the men touched their hats to him, like a real soldier as he
was, and he would

say,
“ I hope, my men,

that
you

like
that you have no complaints to make ?" just as if he had always lived
amongst them. It was astonishing how we got ourselves up when we
attended these demonstrations of our cousin's. We cased our children in
scarlet cloth, or leggings, or comforters, or something that looked mili-
tary, and we put feather streamers in our bonnets, and walked to the
sound of the drum, and looked like the real cousins of a real soldier, as
indeed we were. It was very disgusting, though, when the drafts for the
Crimea called so many of the militia out of England to fill up the dif-
ferent foreign stations left vacant by the Queen's regiments abroad; and,
worse still, the craven spirit that showed itself amongst the militia when
they were informed that those who had enlisted under the idea they
would not be called out of England, would be allowed to retire before
the new act of foreign service came into force. Half of

my

cousin's regiment was cleared in a morning. It was in vain that he apostrophised them as “sons of England, and defenders of her soil," and spoke of " leading them to glory,” and “wreathing their brows with laurels”—(I do not know where he intended to procure them from in the dirty foreign quarters in which they were to be billeted)—they were low and degraded enough to prefer their wives and sweethearts to all the glory he could offer them, and were actually seen drivelling on parade under a mystical impression they had imbibed from his speech to them, that they were to be torn from the bosoms of their families, and offered as bleeding sacrifices on the altar of their country. It was just at this period that we visited the town in which our cousin's regiment was quartered, and in an unhappy moment asked him to give us one of his beautiful military reviews before he left England. Always too gallant to refuse, he fixed an early day for us, and Mrs. Delorme, at whose hogpitable house we were staying, insisted upon having her beautiful bays

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put into her new barouche, and driving us all on to the ground. The morning was dull, foggy, and disagreeable, but our military enthusiasm kept us warm, and our difficulty in deciding on the exact spot of ground designed for the review made it all the more interesting. Clementina was certain it was where the reviews had been held before, but Theresa had private information this ground had been taken away from them, and that we must go up to the gate of a certain large turnip-field, vividly impressed on the

memory of all of us by reason of the unpleasant odour that exhaled therefrom as we passed it the day before, owing to a right of road that had been opened through it over rotten turnips on a humid ground. Theresa was right, as she always is. We heard their delightful guns popping away through the mist at the very moment the savoury turnip-steam again assailed our nostrils. It was clear we must go right through the turnips to get at the ground on which they were practising. You might have thought a soup-kitchen, of a very low description, was already established there, such a steam the greens gave out

such a warm, moist, pungent atmosphere. We came upon Symthe de Symthe quite by surprise-"sunbeams breaking through the mist” — he called it; but I think privately he was a little annoyed as a rusty-looking private was just wiping down his “charger” with a wisp of damp-looking hay, that noble animal having lost his footing in the mud, and rather blemished his beauty by the thick coating with which he had bedaubed himself. It is true we could not see all the geography of the field, as there was a large puddle and a gate facing us which refused, under any persuasion, to allow itself to be opened; but now the gallantry of Mr. Cousin shone forth conspicuously. Raising himself in his saddle-girths, and pointing in a commanding manner to two of the soldiers, he ordered them “ to come forward, and make way for the ladies !" It was well that John had the good sense to get off and hold the horses' heads, or they and the soldiers would inevitably have come into collision. As we went in foundering knee-deep in mud through the remains of the shattered gate, and found ourselves really on the field for practice, the drafts from the regiment made it look somewhat ridiculously small, and it struck me that both the men and their garments were rather“ seedy;" but, as our cousin said, “it was necessary to keep up discipline in these stirring times, and perhaps they were rather

worn on the strength of it." They went through their " evolutions," however, in a wonderful manner, the swords flashing, the guns firingthe legs all going together—and of course we applauded at each new act. Clementina said, indeed, she did not see what there was in it to bring us all out of our beds on such a wretched morning ; but I know she was disappointed because young Robson was not on the ground ; and as for Theresa, she did not know

whether they or Symthe de Symthe were most to be admired. She told us, after leaving the ground, that she thought she was cut out for a military life, and hoped we did not imbibe the foolish prejudices some people had against widowers; but we did not agree with her at the time, all our dresses having come “limp," and there being some very unorthodox spots of mud on our new French bonnets. Of course we told our cousin Symthe de Symthe what beautiful order his regiment was in, and how much we were charmed and edified by all we had seen ; but to you, dear public, to whom our hearts are opened, we have no hesitation in confessing that there was base metal in the sounding gold even in the glorification of a militia review.

ADVENTURES OF BENJAMIN BOBBIN THE BAGMAN.

BY CRAWFORD WILSON.

CHAPTER XXVI.

THE COUNTRY CURATE.

“SPEAKING of clergymen,” said Mr. Cripps, in his mild tones, “I'N tell you a fact that of late years happened under my own observation.” He evidently desired to change light subjects; he considered them unfitted for the Sabbath evening.

You are all aware that I am not the youngest individual in the room. I've ran already nearly two-thirds of the race allotted to men in the present generation. My hair, like many of our worldly friends, began to fall off from me when I commenced descending into the vale of years. But as it is not of myself but of a dear friend I mean to speak, I shall not trespass upon your patience by a lengthened preface that can be of no possible interest to you, but commence at once with the hardships endured by my uncomplaining friend.

When at school, some thirty-five years ago, I had the good fortune to gain the esteem of the senior boy; he was my elder by six years. Í was twelve, he eighteen. He was of a very steady cast of character reflective, generous, amiable, and docile almost to a fault; passionately fond of reading, gifted with most extraordinary retentive faculties, possessed of great concentrative powers, indomitable perseveranee, and extreme fortitude and patience under difficulties. He was the only son of a widow, whose little stipend barely sufficed to give him a good classical education, and keep herself and daughter in a respectable position. He was exceedingly attached to her, and laboured severely to advance himself (as he knew that that was her heart's dearest wish), with the Church for his goal.

As I was also of a retiring nature he took great notice of me, pitied and cheered my dulness and stupidity, aided me in my tasks, and delighted in conversing with me. I have sat by his side and listened to him-boy as I was--for hours, in a secluded corner of the playground, whilst he read or expounded passages from history or Scripture that to me were as sealed books until his simple method of explaining them made all elear to my comprehension. I cared not for play when he was disengaged, nor for the nickname of “ Tom Morton's Dervise,” with which my schoolfellows branded me. I loved him and his society, looked upon him with awe and reverence, and only felt happy when we were together.

But the time came when he had to leave the school, and with it a misfortune to himself and his family of which they never dreamt. His mother had commissioned her solicitor to raise a sufficient sum of money upon her slender annuity to put her son through his collegiate examinations, but the wretch mortgaged the full amount heavily, and decamped. Poor Tom! it nearly broke his heart. It is a sorry omen when a young man, full of hopes, strikes his legs against such an obstacle as ruin at the first step he takes from his school, in this world of trouble. Another man would have been crushed by the calamity, but Tom had others to live for

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