standing or falling, to the rugged stem round which it hath early entwined itself, and covering even its falling frailties with a kind and beautifying shroud." "Why, Tom, my boy, you're growing poetical; I had no idea you had a taste that way, this is better and better," said John, involuntarily grasping his hand and shaking it, "we shall be sworn friends from this day." "Poetry is the language of nature,” replied his friend, "and consequently the natural voice by which man finds utterance. It is the voice with which God by the mouth of his prophets appeared to mankind, and he who is insensible to its silent but persuasive tones, has little to boast of beyond mere animal endowments. The words of truth are naturally words of poetry,* and so far as there is truth in my delineation, I am poetical, and no farther.” During the occurrence of this little scene, old Blinks and his wife had mutually exchanged glances of pleasure and satisfaction, and it was easy to read in the eager countenance of Frank how much she felt interested in the tale and its narrator. "Captain Paisley had now retired from the service and with his young and lovely bride was returning to put the bright visions of both to the trial of actual experiment. "But though nothing could exceed his kindness and attention to her, she had even before this time discovered her mistake. However much she might respect his character and appreciate his devotion, she felt that the true love which ought to have united them, upon her part at least was wanting. She saw when too late, that youth, inexperience and the longing desire she had felt to return, had blinded her as to the true nature of her feelings, and the consequences of the step she was taking. True, she was returning to the scenes and companionships of her childhood, but no longer as the child she had left them; three months of wedded life had given her a deeper knowledge of herself than years before she felt towards her husband as she might have done towards a kind and indulgent father; she could not help respecting and admiring his character; but when she thought of Sidney and his unknown fate, she felt that with him was buried all that in her breast could claim the name of love." Just at this particular period of the narrative there was a knock at the hall door, a few moments after which the servant entered the room and announced a visitor, Mr. James Daly and a tall athletic young man advanced into the apartment and saluted the host and hostess cordially, shaking hands with John, and bowing courteously to Frank who had The proverbial expression "there is more truth than poetry in it." is like many other things sanctioned by time and custom utterly false. Poetry is to truth what beauty and fragrance are to the flowers: impressing the outward senses-but leading through them to the heart. Erro. risen suddenly from her half recumbent position at the entrance of a stranger. We must freely confess to those discriminating readers who have followed us thus far, that we perfectly agree with them, that the entrance of the stranger in the very middle of Tom's story is most inopportune and provoking. We feel, as our friends over the water would say, "riled" at it ourselves, and are inclined in one of their still more expressive phrases to "cut up dirt, and act kinder darned sarcy;" but what would it avail us? In this true and veritable history, he appeared as we have indicated at a moment when his room was more desired than his company, and having thus intruded himself and as it were incorporated himself with our occasional glimpses of the Blinks family, he must take the consequences, and whether of good or evil repute be exposed in all his beauty or deformity mental and physical, to that enlightened portion of the civilized world into whose hands these papers may pass. It is needful however that we should know him again when we meet him, and for this purpose we will take a short run over him as he stands, and then let Tom conclude the history of his dog with as little delay as possible. Tom rose as the new comer was introduced, and saw before him a tall well made young man, some 20 years of age; not so tall however as he might have been had he carried himself erect, for he stooped in his shoulders considerably. With his hat on he might have passed for a handsome man, for his features generally speaking were well formed; but as he now appeared with his hat off, the extreme lowness of his forehead with the hair encroaching upon either temple, gave him a most unintellectual look; and though he was evidently bent upon rendering himself as agreeable as possible, Tom felt a rising dislike towards him which he could in no way account for, almost before Iris introduction was completed. "That's a formidable looking animal you have there," he remarked, as his eye encountered Borcas. "I suppose," turning to Tom, "he is yours?" Tom replied in the affirmative, and old Blinks took occasion to acquaint his guest, that at the time of his arrival they were listening to some incidents in his history. Daly expressed a hope that his coming might not interrupt their amusements, and leaning forward in his chair was about to lay his hand upon the head of Boreas in a conciliating manner, which proffer of acquaintance Borcas repelled with a deep, smothered growl, of so threatening a nature that the young man hastily withdrew his chair to a safe distance upon the opposite side of the fire. Frank, too, at whose feet he was lying, had started involuntarily at his savage rejection of Daly's addresses, but Boreas rising to a sitting poe¡ture at the moment looked up in her face with BY CULPEPPER CRABTREE. such a kind and benignant expression of SCRAPS FROM MY COMMONPLACE-BOOK. countenance that she became at once reassured, and resumed her seat, and at the general request of all parties, Tom Ferrers went on with his tale. (To be Continued.) LINES, ON SEEING SOME AGRICULTURAL GOD speed the keel of the trusty ship There is little chance that ye'll ever glance O'er yon boundless path of blue; You'll often think of the blackthorn leaves, And the merry-beating flail; You'll call to mind good neighbour Head, You'll often think of the village spire, And the churchyard green and fair; Perhaps ye leave a white-haired sire, Perhaps your heart has dared to part If so, then many a time and oft Your better thoughts will roam, ELIZA COOK No. I. FUNERAL OF OLIVER CROMWELL. Evelyn, in his diary, under date 22d October 1658, mentions that he witnessed the funeral of Oliver Cromwell. It was very gorgeous, "but," he remarks, "the joyfullest I ever saw. There were none that cried but dogs, which the soldiers hooted away with a barbarous noise, drinking and taking tobacco in the streets as they went." AN EDITORIAL PRESERVE. The uninitiated can form but a very inadequate idea how precious, at times, an appetizing morsel of news is to the editorial brotherhood. When there happens to be a dearth of intelligence, a cold-blooded murder," will make the eyes of the most philanthropical knight of the scissors and paste-pot to sparkle with heartfelt satisfaction. And though he may be a type and walking advertisement of all the domestic virtues, "an elopement" causeth his grinders to water consumedly. There is a notable story of an English coun. try editor, who, discovering that one of his neighbors had hanged himself in a sequestered out-house, would neither cut him down, nor mention the occurrence to any one, but kept the suspended body under lock and key for three entire days. He had an orthodox and a simple reason for this, apparently, un accountable conduct. His paper appeared on Thursday, the broad sheet of a rival on Wednesday. "Do you think"-he triumphantly asked "do you think I was going to say any thing about the suicide of neighbor Blue, and let that scoundrel over the way have the paragraph?" WOMAN. Witlings who make a constant practice of jeering and flouting at the gentler sex, would do well to ponder the following observation of that distinguished lawyer, Sir Samuel Romilly: "There is nothing by which I have through life more profited, than by the just observations, the good opinion, and the sincere and gentle encouragement of an amiable and sensible woman." MODERN LONDON. London at the present day, with its two millions and a half of souls within seven miles of St. Paul's, has a population equal to onehalf of that possessed by the whole kingdom in the reign of Queen Elizabeth. PASSABLE PUN. The following is one of the most tolerable of the pun family, which we have recently met with. Whenever a wish is father to the thought, it will be a(p)parent! WHAT IS A NEWSPAPER? In England this is a question more easily asked than answered. Baryn Parke,recently stated in the Court of Exchequer, that in the case of Household Words, the Bench were not agreed as to what constituted a newspaper, within the stamp act. "Who shall decide when Judges disagree?" HINT TO CONTROVERSIALISTS. The learned and eccentric Bishop Wilkins gives the following sound advice to arguers. "It is an excellent rule to be observed in all disputes, that men should give soft words and hard arguments." GENUINE POLITENESS. Many definitions have been given of the word politeness. but, perchance, Col. David Crockett has furnished the most practical one. Crockett, speaking of the late Philip Hone, with whom he was in Congress, observed: "He was the perlitest man I ever knew, was Hone, cause why? He allers put his bottle of milk-punch on the sideboard before he asked you to drink, and then turned his back as not to see how much you took." FIGHTING BY MEASURE. SO A locality, called Fifteen Acres, used to be a common place of resort for Dublin duellists. Sir Jonah Barrington tell us that a Hibernian attorney, in penning a challenge, called upon his antagonist to meet him "at the ground called Fifteen Acres, be the same more or less." RICH WIDOWS. Benjamin Franklin used to observe that wealthy widows were the only species of second-hand goods, that sold at prime cost! WIT. Wit is one of the few things which has been more frequently rewarded than defined. A certain bishop said to his chaplain :"What is wit? "The rectory of Z———— is vacant," replied the chaplain—“give it to me, and that will be wit." "Prove it," said the prelate, "Why, my lord," rejoined the petitioner, "it would be a good thing well applied!" He gained his request. The dinner daily prepared for the Royal Chaplains in St. James's, was reprieved for a time from suspension, by an effort of wit. Charles II. had appointed a day to dine with his chaplains, and it was understoad that this step was adopted as the least unpalatable mode of putting an end to the feed. Whenever the monarch honoured his chaplains with his presence, the prescribed formula ran thus: “God save the king and bless the dinner." On this occasion it was the turn of the famous Dr. South to invoke the benediction, and he took the liberty of transposing the wonted words, saying: "God bless the King, and save the dinner!" "And it shall be saved!" exclaim ed Old Rowley, who, with all his faults, could CANADIAN NEWSPAPERS PLEASE COPY-CANA- Mrs. Swisshelm, who edits the Pittsburgh FOREST GLEANINGS. BY MRS. TRAIL, that he would be over early in the morning, Mr. Sackville bade Philip good night. From Sarah, Philip now gathered the par Authoress of the "Backwoods of Canada." ticulars of the sudden attack which had taken THE BLOCK-HOUSE. CHAPTER III. place during a violent altercation between his father and mother, a matter of only too frequent occurrence,-she had been summoned by a strange cry. On entering the sitting AN EVENING AT WOODLANDS-ALICE AND PHILIP. room, Sarah beheld Mr. Harding lying on the (Continued.) floor, black and convulsed, his eyes fixed and THE lightning flashes not more swiftly from "And my mother?" asked Philip. "She stood with folded arms, silently re Philip shuddered. "What apathy towards Philip staggered backwards, as if struck by some heavy blow. With all his faults he was generous and affectionate. All cause for offence was forgotten at that moment; he thought only of a dying father. Something akin to remorse filled his heart: the yearnings of his better nature were strongly felt. He had been rash, too, in his judgment of Sarah. The hot flush of shame rose to his temples, as he thought to what unworthy motives he had attributed her appearance at the cottage. Had it not been to save him from the pangs of self-reproach that this devoted creature had hurried through the lone forest at dusk-fall, and overcome by emotion and over-fatigue had sunk at the door. Philip was not indeed aware that the proof of his love for Alice had stricken a deathblow to the hopes of the unhappy Sarah, and had been too much for her sensitive nature to bear. Hopeless and heart-stricken she now slowly turned away, as Philip said in hurried tones "farewell, Alice, dear Alice," and wrung the young girl's hands, lifting them for a moment to his lips, and pressing them to his breast: then turning to Sarah, he said, "You are tired and weak; come lean upon my arm and I will support you," as if to make amends by the altered kindness of his manner for his former harshness; but she refused his proffered help coldly and briefly, and they proceeded to retrace the path to the block-house in silence. It was some relief to Philip when the trampling of a horses' hoofs met his ear, and at a turn in the forest-road he beheld his friend, Mr. Sackville, who wrung his hand, as he leaned down from the saddle, and said, "Hasten, my dear boy, or you will be too late. Your father desires to see you, but is failing fast. I have tried to bleed him without effect. This has been a sudden and I fear a fatal stroke of apoplexy." Then assuring him VOL. II.-C Fortunately, one of the sawyers chanced to come up to the house on an errand, and with his help, I got your father laid upon his bed. Mr. Sackville rode past a few minutes after this, and sent me off to summon you, Philip, for your father gasped out your name, and so I hurried away.' "Did my mother render any assistance in this extremity ?" "She paced to and fro the stoop, but would not look upon your father's face. Philip, I do not think she cared to look upon the dying man, in spite of her high spirit." They now reached the dwelling-house, and Philip, springing up the steps, was hastening to his father's room, when his mother, laying her hand on his arm, detained him. "Mother, let me see my father, let me speak with him," said Philip stiiling the agitation, and speaking slowly and distinctly. "It is useless, Philip," she answered, sinking into a chair, and covering her face with her clasped hands, "he is dead!" There was a convulsive motion of the body, a movement of the tightly clasped hands, but no tear fell nor sob broke forth to tell the grief of the newly made widow. Philip gazed upon her in mournful silence for a minute. He then rose, opened the door, and entered the silent chamber of the dead. With terror-blanched check, he gazed upon the dark and rigid face of his father. How changed within a few brief hours! It was the first time he had ever looked upon death. He knelt down beside the bed and wept and prayed: his heart was softened: forgotten at that moment was all his father's harshness, all his faults. He remembered only how often he had rebelled against his authority,-how often he had disputed his will and irritated him by contradiction. He thought of his love to him in his boyhood, and his tears flowed fast. "Mother," he said, "let us pray. It is good for those who are in sorrow to pray. Did my poor father pray before he died?" "He cursed me with his last breath." A deadly shudder seized the young man, as he listened to this awful declaration. "And me-me, mother,—his only son?" he gasped forth. "He asked for you, Philip,-he desired you to care for Sarah-for-for your motherthat is all. Leave me : this is a sudden blow! I cannot think I cannot talk. Leave me to myself," and the young man, accustomed to obey her stern commands, left the room and continued to pace the verandah till the streaks of early dawn lightened the eastern horizon He had listened all night to the never-ceasing foot-fall of his mother, as she paced through that lonely room. He had watched, with almost superstitious awe, the dark flitting shadow of her tall unbending figure, as it passed and repassed the window. There was something so unlovely, so unnatural, in that stern, | pale, tearless countenance. Grief there was none-a restless moan-a stifled groan, was all she gave vent to. The workings of that iron heart what mortal could penetrate? It was great relief to Philip when he heard the kind soothing voice of his friend, Mr. Sackville, who came to give directions in regard to the last rites to be performed for the dead, and to offer such consolations as his friendly heart suggested as most desirable to allay the grief that this melancholy event had called forth. "Philip," he said, when the young man had become more composed, "has your father left no will, or private letters, or papers?" "I do not know of any. I have made no search: I have not yet had time to think of these things." "My young friend, it is necessary that this should be attended to. Much of your future welfare may depend upon it. I doubt, my young friend, that there was much want of harmony between your father and mother?" "They lived in constant warfare, sir." "I feared so; your mother seems a woman of violent temper. Yet, Philip, remember that she is your mother-your only surviving parent. She needs your care and support, in her now desolate widowhood. I trust you will do your duty by her." "It has ever been my desire to do so. But, Mr. Sackville, must I confess my fault? I love her not. I have been accustomed to bow beneath her iron sway; to tremble at the glance of that cold, hard eye,-but love her I could not-and I cannot. In spite of my father's harshness, still there were times when he would relax, when his heart would overflow with tenderness and love; and then I loved him, yes, with all my heart-a heart that yearned for love, and found it not, till you, sir, became my friend." The warm grasp that met Philip's outstretched hand, as he said this, brought tears into his eyes. "Philip, I love and esteem you, and feel for you scarcely less than a father's interest," said the good man, in a voice broken by emotion. "Never forfeit that respect. In all your trials look to me, and I promise to aid you to the best of my poor abilities." "Mother," said Philip, some hours after this conversation had taken place, "did my father leave any papers, or letters, or any will?" "Who directed you to ask?" was the evasive reply. "It is necessary that I should make my self acquainted with them, if he have." "There are none of any consequence. Of course everything remains as it was. I am mistress here," and she rose and left the room, leaving no opportunity for further discussion. Philip bit his lip. "Mistress here," he repeated, and his thoughts flew towards some gentler mistress,-some more loveable ruler of the household. CHAPTER IV. THE FUNERAL-THE DISCLOSURE. THE funeral rites were ended; the few scattered inhabitants from the distant settlement that had been summoned, as was the custom, to assist in the interment of the dead, had gone away, after having been courteously treated at the Block-house. Mr. Sackville read the burial-service. In remote places (for it is now many years ago) the funeral rites were performed by the nearest or eldest friend of the deceased,-a simple head-stone or young sapling, or, if a catholic, a wooden cross, being the only memorials of the dead. The spot selected was at the foot of a silver birch, near the stream in the glen, but on the rising ground, to ensure the grave from inundations, which usually occur after the melting of the winter snow. Full of mournful reflections, Philip turned his steps to a secluded spot, not far from the mill, but had not proceeded far when he beheld Sarah sitting on a block of stone, at the foot of a thorn-tree that grew on a little grassy mound in the glen. He paused, struck by the girl's attitude. She was sitting with her head bent down upon her hands, her elbows resting on her knees; her long black hair, of which she was usually so proud, all unbound, fell like a veil over her arms, and hung down till it almost swept the ground. She did not notice his approach till he was close beside her, and laying his hand gently on her head, said, in a voice of much kindness :-"Sarah, why sit you here all alone? Come, come, bind up your hair, and dry your tears; we cannot recall the dead," for he thought she was fretting for his father's death. She mechanically obeyed his injunction, and bound the masses of silken hair like a turban above her forehead, and then said in a low subdued voice, |