pounds;—and I had hoped to have added it to his stock, and have become his partner as well as his son. I drew this out of the bank where I had placed it. There were other temptations besides the skittle-ground. My new companions introduced me to public-houses, where, in dark and stinking back-parlours, there was card-playing and dicing. I still lost my money, for I hated myself, and I was therefore impetuous. The hours of leisure became too little for my fatal pursuit. I often went to these haunts of infamy at my dinner-time; and, like a careless and wicked servant, I sometimes stayed through the whole afternoon. The garden became neglected; my good old master's trade fell off; he had heard of my follies, and he told me, with a firmness which nothing could shake, that, for the peace of himself and his child, we must part.

"I had long seen how my fatal passion would terminate; but yet I was so besotted that I thought my master used me ill. I loved his daughter, though I had treated her unkindly; and I fancied that, if I could recover back my little property, the objection to our union would cease. I went to the town, and spent all my remaining money in the purchase of a lottery-ticket.

"The day came on which I was to quit my good old master. He would not allow me to see my Susan ;-but he wept bitterly as he gave me his hand. I fell at his feet, and confessed my errors with sincere contrition. But he would not hear of any proposition that I should continue with him. He loved his daughter too well, he said, to confide her happiness to a gambler.

“The day on which I left a place which had been so dear to me was the day on which the drawing of the lottery was announced. I went to the office. I could hardly ask the fate of my ticket;—when the clerk said it was a blank, I stood like an idiot.* He laughed at me ;

* The state lottery was in existence when this was written. It has been wisely abandoned, for some years. But there are now even worse evils of gambling, in connexion with horse-races, which are amongst the disgraces of our times.

--it was well that in my rage I did not strike him to the ground. I rushed out of the town almost like a madman. I passed that night in the fields. The next wicked impulse of my mind was to destroy myself;-but, God be thanked, I struggled with that temptation. In the morning I recovered a little composure. I thought of the Heaven I had so long abandoned;-I prayed most fervently for the assistance of the Almighty-and my prayer was heard.

"I wandered on to the next town. I saw, from a newspaper, that a gentleman wanted a gardener. I applied to be hired. He asked for a reference for my character;-I told him the story of my follies without any concealment. He appeared to trust in my contrition ;he wrote to my old master, who did not speak very ill of me; he engaged me.

"For two years I served this good gentleman with perfect diligence and fidelity. I lost not an hour;-and I shunned all sort of gambling as I would the plague. At the end of that time I heard that the father of my Susan was no more. I hastened to assure her of my repentance and my reformation. I had saved a little money once again;-I threw it into her lap, and it enabled her to pay a pressing creditor,-for her father's business had been neglected, and he had scarcely left money to discharge his debts. She had confidence enough in me to accept this sum as a loan. In another year, her prudence did not prevent her affection from receiving me as a husband. We married; - and the world has gone smoothly with us. But I sometimes grieve to think how my errors must have embittered the lives of those I loved;-and I thank my God, who did not desert me in my extremest temptation. So now you see why I cautioned my boy against a Game at Skittles.'

The good man finished his narrative, which I promised to treasure up in my memory. His kind-hearted wife invited me to partake of their simple meal of bread and cheese and radishes, and I could not help lingering round this abode of peace. The two other children of this worthy couple came in from their play;—and as the

chapter in the Bible was read, and the evening hymn sung by their sweet and innocent voices, I felt what power had called back William Johnson from his course of evil, and had made him the head of a happy and virtuous household.

THE GYPSIES.

Ir is a threatening eve, but yet the sky
Hath tints of loveliness. That plain of small clouds,
How still it lies upon the glimmering blue,
Like a calm rippling lake, or sheet of snow,
That the keen wind hath ruffled into ridges!
Onward the rain-storm strides :-'tis overpast.
Those skirts of yellow-grey show that the West
Is lighted up how beautifully!-Stand,
Stand on this hillock; 'tis a gorgeous sight,
To see the black clouds struggling with that gleam
Of parting splendour! What a brilliant flood
Breaks momently, and paints those massive heaps
With gold and crimson, while their edges glow
As with a living fire. And now those rays
Strike down in delicate lines, while the full orb
Sinks gloriously. Awhile, the golden beams
Dapple the sky, and then a mountainous pile
Blackens in sullen triumph. Still the light
Strives with the storm, and mingles with its depth,
In one broad plain of dull and coppery hue.
O! for a tranquil eve, to fill the soul
With a repose of thought; a still warm eve,
When the woods glow, and the unfretted water
Lingers beneath the green boughs; then the weeds,
Thistle and dock, that batten on this bank,
Seem beautiful: the linnet hides in them,
And, as she upward springs, they gently wave
In the soft level light. But a thick dusk,
A lowering solemn dusk, when the stream rolls

Rapidly, as the cold willows dip their leaves
Into its colder swell; when homeward rooks
Fly past in silence, and the grey hern flaps
His steady wing,-a dusk, gloomy as this,

Hath its own joy. Hark! now, how sweetly mournful
The sound of distant bells comes up the wave;
'Tis not the flickering tone that we have loved
To hear commingling with the dreamy notes
Of folded flocks ;-it is a quiet music

That the sense strains to catch,-a low soft voice,
Something more earthly than the hollow wind,
And yet a sound that seems not as of man.
That owlet's screech-it is not dissonant-
The full rich flow of nightingales accords

With the clear moonshine and the blossomy gale;
But that harsh shriek was made for nights like this,
It is the storm's own song.

Saw you that light,

That sparkles on the stream? A low smoke creeps
Above the curved bank; that fugitive glare,
Which leaps upon the old oak's scanty twigs,
Proclaims the Gypsies' fire: this sudden turn
Shows all the trappings of their leafy haunt.
It is a quiet nook; the stunted tree,

And the lithe weeds that twine about the bank,
Will form their night-bower. O! how drowsily
They bask before the murky flame, which flings
Its faint gleam o'er their black dishevell'd hair,
Shrouding their deep-tann'd faces! Their old horse,
His rough grey hide whitening in that dim light,
Browses beside the low, close-covering tent,

The only busy one.

That wither'd hag

Hath heard our voices; now, she stirs the flame,
And throws aside their dusky canopy:-
There lie the lazy group, women, and men,
And children, all with vacant upturn'd cye,
Tasting an animal joy, which lazier wealth
Not seldom misses.

Most happy, or most wretched, though your tasks Of pilfering idleness have bowed you low,

G

Ye seem to me as things of other times,
And other countries, relics of mystic beings,
That held communion with the silent heavens,
And talk'd of destinies. Cheats as ye are,
Ye have within you dregs of a deep spirit,
That dwelt by mountains, or by mighty streams,
In forests that no mortal hand had rear'd,
In desert plains wide as the pathless sea.
There liv'd that spirit, gazing on the clear stars,
Till it would read the hidden depths of fate,
In their eternal courses. Lone enthusiasts,

Sages and seers! is your mysterious lore

Yet known to such as these? They have a bond
In their traditions, but the soul is fled
Of divination; and the undoubting faith,
That lent its wings to pierce the sightless world,
Abides not with these children of the wilds:-
They see the stars with no oracular soul;
They hear not songs of fate in the low wind;
Planets eclips'd have no deep lore for them ;
The very herbs have lost their healing balm :
Devotion knows them not; the light of truth,
Simple, and pure, and common as the air,

For them hath ignorance veil'd ;--but yet they cling
To shadows of tradition, and beguile

The simple maid with many a perilous tale
Of dark or blissful chance. I scorn you not,
Poor wanderers! for still ye seem to me
Heirs of a pastoral life, the charter'd tenants

Of glade or dingle; something that Nature owns.

THE BURIAL OF CHARLES THE FIRST.

"AND now, good Master Mason, you may to your work. Hereabout I think be the spot;-and by the time that you have removed the earth I will again attend you."