The old man shook his head. "How then came you to quit the ship, or rather leave the boat clandexterously?" inquired he.

"It's a long story, messmate," returned the prisoner, "and mayhap you haven't time to hear it now

"But I have though," responded Wills, " and here's Muster

has got the order.—Ah, I thought Sir Isaac, rum un as he is, wouldn't go for to refuse an ould shipmate."

"I am very grateful, sir, for your remembrance of me," said Collins, turning to where I was standing, "the seeing you yesterday clapt a taut strain on my heart, for I had not heard a friendly hail for many a long day, and it's tedious work Mr. to sit here hour after hour in one universal gloom-with a vision of the fore yard, and running gantiines constantly afore the eyes. I know I must die, sir, and I would meet my doom as a man ought to do—but this here's killing of me a bit at a time. I dont fear death, messmate, to old Wills, "it arnt that! but there's them-" his voice faltered for an instant, but he regained his firmness by an effort, and added, "no matter, old boy-you shall never say that Jem disgraced you, though you may have to see him sewed up in his hammock

afore his time."

I felt I was a restraint upon their free communication, and therefore, after assuring Wills of my earnest desire to serve him, and exhorting him to place every confidence in the old quarter master, I bade him farewell, and ascended to the deck-the sun was still shining in all its brilliancy and light, but I could not chase from my mind the darkness I had just quitted-nature looked as lovely as ever, but her smile could not banish from my remembrance the scene I had so recently witnessed -there were still to be seen happy faces and gay apparel, but they could not supersede the vision of that care-worn woe-stricken countenance I had so lately seen—an unusual depression of spirit came over me, and I experienced a sickness of heart amidst the joyousness of life.

SABBATH EVENING MEDITATION.

DELIGHTFUL hill fast by the tombs of Eyam!
Where as I wander all alone, I seem
Lifted above the sordid things of earth,
And raised to objects worthy of my birth.
Oh! how it fills my spirit with delight

To gaze in wonder from thy verdant height
On all the glories of this varied world-

Rocks, woods, and vales in wild confusion hurl'd.
Here, as on this most smiling Sabbath ere,

Sweet inspirations may I oft receive,
Blending my spirit with the scenes I love,
That whisper of the eternal bliss above.

W. C.

THE CHILD AMONG THE FLOWERS.

(BY THE AUTHOR OF THE STAR-SEER.)

DREAMS of green fields !-A silver voice is singing
Some-where among the flowers-sweet as the ringing
Of faery bells at eve; and I will go

Search for the charmer: for my heart would know
That voice among a thousand-every tone

So mellow, so endearingly its own!—
Giving such luminous glory to the words,
They seem to sparkle like the trembling chords,
When gently wakened into music bland,

By the charmed touch of Beauty's jewelled hand.

Lo! seated there, like one of the young hours,
The songstress, on a little throne of flowers!
Her white straw bonnet garnishing all over
With blue-bells bright, and ruby gems of clover;
Warbling the while-unconscious who is near,
With yearning heart, o'erbent to see and hear—
Snatches of song, all redolent of joy,

Learnt from swart Broom-girl, or Italian boy;
Who by her lattice oft were wont to stand,
And lured with toys stored halfpence from her hand.

Sing on my child! "Twere sin to break the charm That now rests on thee. To the outpourings warm From thy young heart, I'll leave thee for a while; And, wandering through the meads, the time beguile In converse with the flowers; from which to cull Rich gems for thee, love, bright and beautiful.

'Tis sunset's hour: but yet my soul feels loth To prison thy sweet will: I love thy troth Plighted so early, innocent and free,

To nature's tenderest, purest poesy—

The charming flowers!-bright stars, with which besprent, Glows like the heavens, earth's verdant firmament.

Yet soon the chill may harm thee. Come, my love,

Let us away to-morrow we may rove

Hither again;-but lo! my bird has fled

Her floral bower!-haply by fancy led

Down yonder dell :—yes ; do you not discern
The truant, with a parasol of fern,

Mincing the lady, so demure and prim,

Along that lagging streamlet's flowery brim ;

And, where the waters, 'neath that bending tree,

Linger the most, pausing anon to see

Her garnished figure, with a smiling look,
Reflected in the mirror of the brook?

Nor Naiad, by the lily-margined rill,
Flower-crowned, bent listening to the silver trill
Of pebble-music; nor, in woodland lawn,
Fair Hamadryad, round the neck of fawn
Stringing oak-apple beads, and from the tops
Of wild white roses, wringing lucent drops
Into her emerald urn, wherewith to make
Cool vintage, her beloved's thirst to slake-
Could e'er appear more beautiful than thou
In all thy field-flower gaudery art now,

My sweet May Queen!-I would I had the power
To build thee here a little cottage bower!

Then thou shouldst dwell in it, as dwells the dove,
Deep shrouded in a honeysuckle grove,

Far, far aloof from any reeky town,

Wandering at will this green dell up and down;
And I would bring thee all the charms earth yields
Spontaneously, in vernal woods and fields:
Flowers of all colours, loading with perfume
Young zephyrs' wings; song-birds of varied plume,
To wake thee every morn with choral hymn,
And sing to slumber, when the woods wax dim:
Those thou shouldst plant where'er thy fancy willed,
By rock, or rill, or bower; and these should build
Above thee on green boughs, in hollow roots,
Clasping old hills' scathed hearts, 'mong overshoots
Of golden-fingered broom, or in the mouth

Of mossy cave, fretted with ivy-growth.

Thine eye has spied me in my green retreat :
But wherefore suddenly dost thou drop, my sweet,
Thy parasol, with downward look of shame?

Him who could harbour towards thee thought of blame
For mimic art which Nature's self commends,
"I would not number in my list of friends;"
And my worst wish to one so cold should be,
That he might never own a child like thee.
Fly to thy father's arms, my spotless dove!
Come to my swelling heart, where lives a love
For thee, a seraph's tongue, and lyre of gold,
Would fail in all its fervour to unfold.
Look up, and greet me with thy wonted smile!—

May holy angels keep thee from the soil

Of human ills! and may thy head ne'er bow

With cause for shame more culpable than now!

A Father's prattle!-Diver into deeps

Of the mind's sea, where many a pearl-thought sleeps
Dark in its coral chamber, canst thou see
No precious things meet for thy treasury,
Outpeeping from the varying yellow sand,

O'er which this streamlet flows with murmur bland?
Then is thy heart a stranger to the love

That warms a father's bosom; and the dove,

Mourning in solitude, a lesson yet

Might teach e'en thee, which thou should'st ne'er forget. O lov'st thou not those sweet philosophies,

Blossoms of feeling, which, like cinnamon trees,

Smell balmiest when shaken, better far

Than those which cause dull sage with sage to war?

Then shall I cease to marvel that my theme

Should fail to win the meed of thy esteem.

SHE LOOKS UPON THE RING.

SHE looks upon the ring,

In a dream of happiest days,

When the lips of one now dead and gone,

Were opened but to praise.

When life o'erflowed with promise
Of happy, happy years,

In one dread day that passed away
To torture and to tears.

She looks upon the ring,

In the bloom of purest youth,
And can recal, remembering all
His tenderness and truth.
The flowers he fondly gathered,
And in her bosom laid,

Have never lost their summer bloom,

Those flowers will never fade.

She looks upon the ring,

And the winter melts away,

The very air is golden-

It is the prime of May.

The fields through which they walked to church

She sees, the bloom, the sky,

And of the beauty of that day

The sense can never die.

She looks upon the ring,

And her cheek a moment glows,

Again seem blending in her hair

The lily and the rose.

She sees a bridal party

Of maiden white a gleam

And the merry chime of village bells
Is mingling with her dream.

She looks upon the ring,

And her native home she sees,
As last she took a lingering look,
Beyond the village trees.
She hears her father's blessing-
She feels her mother's tears-
And in one moment knows again
The bliss and woes of years.

RICHARD HOWITT,

THE

HAUNTED MANOR HOUSE.

BY THOMAS FEATHERSTONE.

"IMPRIMIS; a fat buck. Set me down that, Master Wynkyn," exclaimed the knight, "I'll not be thwarted."

Imprimis;" slowly responded the lean secretary; his teeth chattering, and his knees knocking together, "Imprimis; one fat-ugh! there again, Sir Gasper."

Master Wynkyn's hand darted across the writing desk, as though some one had given his elbow a sudden jerk, which made the pen screech, and sent the ink sputtering over the paper before him.

"Write it me down, knave," said the knight, " I'll not be thwarted by ghost or devil!" and Sir Gasper put on one of his most terrible looks, which would have puzzled both ghost and devil to have surpassed.

The knight was a short, thick, bull-necked, choleric-looking man, about forty years of age, with a head of the shape and apparently of the consistency of a bullet, covered with a quantity of black, wiry hair, and flanked with monstrous whiskers. His eyes were small, and set deep therein, the pupils reposing in the furthermost corners, as if they were at bitter enmity with each other, and were both surmounted with triangular tufts of black bristly hair. His nose was hooked. His mouth, curved downward, and almost obscured by a spade beard, and a pair of enormous moustachios, which were twirled upward in the most ferocious and brigandish fashion. He was clad in a claret-coloured doublet, considerably stained and faded, the breast and sleeves of which, were slashed and puffed with blue velvet; and his legs were cased in a pair of huge, funnelshaped boots. His belt sustained a sword and dagger in accordance with the fashion of the age; and on the table beside him, lay his velvet cap, decorated with single cock's feathers. He was lounging at his ease in a high straight-backed arm chair of carved walnut tree, and rested his heels on a cushioned stool, while he dictated to his clerk, and moistened his lips from time to time from a capacious silver tankard which stood upon the table.

The clerk was a tall slender wight, with a sallow visage, low forehead, straight prominent nose, and retiring chin, which was kept scrupulously free from beard. His hair was long and sleek, and combed carefully behind his ears; and his limbs were arrayed in a black doublet and hose.