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pursuer, continuing to follow him close, and which at last had thrown him down too, so increased his fright that, believing they all knew him, he cried out, "It is very true: I am the man. It was I did it."

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"Nay," says the other; "he must be distracted or in drink. Don't you hear how he talks? I did it,' 'I killed him,' and I don't know what. Why, here's nobody killed, is there? I tell you the poor man is crazed.”

Thus they talked a while, and some run forward toward Cheapside, to look for the real thief, and so they were about to let him go. But one grave citizen, and wiser than the rest, cried,

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Nay, hold! Let's inquire a little further. Though he's not the thief they look for, there may be something in it. Let us go before my lord mayor with him;" and so they did.

It seems, when he first fell, some people, who, upon hearing the noise in the street, came running to their doors, as is usual in such cases,cases,-I say, some people, at the door of a house just against where he fell, said one to another, "There he is! That's he! They have catched him;" and it was upon that saying that he answered, "It is very true: I am the man, and I did it ;" for still he imagined they knew him to be the murderer that killed the man so long ago, whereas there was nobody there that had any knowledge of the matter, and the very memory of the thing was almost forgotten in the place, as it might well be, having been done eigh-voluntarily confessed the fact, and was afterteen years before. ward executed for it; and I had the substance of this relation from an ear-witness of the thing, so that I can freely say that I give entire credit to it.

However, when they heard him cry, "I am the man, and I did it," one of the people that came about him said,

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I think the lord mayor then in being was Sir William Turner.

When he came before the lord mayor, he

It was remarkable, also, that the place where this man fell down when he run, believing he was pursued and known, though at first he really was not, was just against the very door of the house where the person lived that he had murdered.

Many inferences might be drawn from this story, but that which is particularly to my purpose is to show how men's guilt crowds their imagination with sudden and surprising ideas of things, brings spectres and apparitions into their eyes when there are really no such things, forms ghosts and phantasms in their very view when their eyes are shut. They see sleeping, and dream walking: the night is all vision, and the day all apparition,

till, either by penitence or punishment, they make satisfaction for the wrong they have done, and either justice or the injured person are appeased.

But to bring all this back to our business: here's no other apparition in all-this than what is formed in the imagination. The ghosts, the souls of the most injured person, whether injuriously murdered or injuriously robbed and plundered, sleeps in peace, knows nothing of the murderer or thief, except only that it gives that part all up to the eternal Judge. The murderer has the horror of the fact always upon him; conscience draws the picture of the crime in apparition just before him, and the reflection, not the injured soul, is the spectre that haunts him. Nor can he need a worse tormentor in this life; whether there is a worse hereafter or no I do not pretend to determine. This is certainly a worm that never dies; it is always gnawing the vitals, not of the body, but of the very soul. But I say here was no apparition all this while of any kind, no spectre, no ghost-no, not

to detect a murderer.

TICE.

DANIEL DE FOE.

thing.
thing. My friend, if thou hadst all the ar-
tillery of Woolwich trundling at thy back in
support of an unjust thing, and infinite bon-
fires visibly waiting ahead of thee, to blaze
centuries long for thy victory on behalf of
it, I would advise thee to call halt, to fling
down thy baton and say, "In God's name,
no!" Thy "success"! Poor devil, what
will thy success amount to? If the thing
is unjust, thou hast not succeeded-no, not
though bonfires blazed from north to south,
and bells rang, and editors wrote leading-
articles, and the just thing lay trampled out
of sight, to all mortal eyes an abolished and
annihilated thing. Success? In few years
thou wilt be dead and dark--all cold, eye-
less, deaf, no blaze of bonfires, ding-dong of
bells or leading-articles visible or audible to
thee again at all for ever. What kind of
success is that?

THOMAS CARLYLE.

READING AND THINKING.

THOSE who read everything are thought to understand everything too, but it is not always so. Reading only furnishes the mind with the materials of knowledge: it is

THERE IS NOTHING ELSE BUT JUS- thinking that makes what we read ours. We are of the ruminating kind, and it is not enough that we cram ourselves with a great load of collections. Unless we chew them over again, they will not give us strength and nourishment.

IN
'N this God's world, with its wild-whirling
eddies and mad foam-oceans, where men
and nations perish as if without law, and
judgment for an unjust thing is sternly de-
layed, dost thou think that there is therefore
no justice? It is what the fool hath said in
his heart. It is what the wise in all times
were wise because they denied and knew
for ever not to be. I tell thee again there.
is nothing else but justice. One strong thing
I find here below-the just thing, the true,

INFLUENCE.

JOHN LOCKE.

VIRT
IRTUE will catch as well as vice by
contact, and the public stock of hon-
est, manly principle will daily accumulate.

THOMAS BURKE,

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nah, Georgia, January 19, 1807. first collection of his poems was published in 1838. In the year 1842 he became United States senator. His best-known poem is "The Maniac," than which we can scarcely conceive anything more terrible. He died January 18, 1854.

EDWARD ROBERT BULWER-LYTTON.

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THIS poet writes under the nom-de-plume Lesbia wears a robe of gold,

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of "Owen Meredith," and is a son of the distinguished novelist Bulwer. He was born November 7, 1831, and his first collection of poems was made in the His productions have the marks of genius, and many of them bid fair to live in future days. He has filled several important positions under the English government.

THIS

Τ

JAMES MACFARLAN.

HIS writer was a most singular being. His verses bear unmistakable evidence of genius. "His muse," says Dr. Charles Rogers, "celebrated the nobler instincts and aspirations of humanity," and yet his associations were of the lowest kind. For the

greater part of his life he lived in rags, and, notwithstanding the best efforts of literary friends to raise him, he still continued his low associations and died in abject poverty. He was born at Glasgow in April, 1832, and died on the 5th of November, 1862.

LESBIA HATH A BEAMING EYE.

LESBIA hath a beaming eve

But no one knows for whom it beameth; Right and left its arrows fly,

But what they aim at no one dreameth.

But all so close the nymph hath laced it Not a charm of beauty's mould

Presumes to stay where Nature placed it. Oh! Nora's my for gown me,

That floats as wild as mountain-breezes, Leaving every beauty free

To sink or swell as Heaven pleases.
Yes, my Nora Creina dear,
My simple, graceful Nora Creina,
Nature's dress

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O'CONNOR'S CHILD; OR, THE FLOWER
OF LOVE LIES BLEEDING.*

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H, once the harp of Innisfail Was strung full high to notes of gladness,

Yet why, though fall'n her brother's kerne Beneath De Bourgo's battle stern, While yet in Leinster unexplored Her friends survive the English swordWhy lingers she from Erin's host So far on Galway's shipwrecked coast? Why wanders she a huntress wild, As winds that moan at O'Connor's pale and lovely child?

But yet it often told a tale
Of more prevailing sadness.
Sad was the note, and wild
its fall,

night forlorn

Along the isles of Fion-Gall, When, for O'Connor's child

to mourn,

The harper told how lone, how far
From any mansion's twinkling star,
From any path of social men,
Or voice but from the fox's den,
The lady in the desert dwelt;
And yet no wrongs nor fears she felt.
Say, why should dwell in place so wild
O'Connor's pale and lovely child?

Sweet lady! she no more inspires
Green Erin's hearts with beauty's power,
As, in the palace of her sires,

She bloomed a peerless flower.
Gone from her hand and bosom, gone,
The royal broche, the jewelled ring,
That o'er her dazzling whiteness shone
Like dews on lilies of the spring.

* This poem was suggested by Campbell seeing a flower in his own garden at Sydenham called "love lies bleeding." To this circumstance we owe the touching narrative of "O'Connor's Child," composed in December, 1809, and published in the spring of the following year. It has been considered by many good judges as the most highly finished of all Campbell's minor pieces.

And, fixed on empty space, why burn

Her eyes with momentary wildness? And wherefore do they then return To more than woman's mildness? Dishevelled are her raven locks;

On Connocht Moran's name she calls; And oft amidst the lonely rocks

She sings sweet madrigals. Placed 'midst the foxglove and the moss, Behold a 'parted warrior's cross: That is the spot where, evermore, The lady at her shieling door Enjoys that in communion sweet The living and the dead can meet ; For, lo! to lovelorn fantasy, The hero of her heart is nigh.

Bright as the bow that spans the storm,
In Erin's yellow vesture clad,
A son of light, a lovely form,

He comes and makes her glad;
Now on the
Now on the grass-green turf he sits,

His tasseled horn beside him laid;
Now o'er the hills in chase he flits,

The hunter and the deer a shade.

Sweet mourner! these are shadows vain
That cross the twilight of her brain;

Yet she will tell you she is blest,
Of Connocht Moran's tomb possessed,
More richly than in Aghrim's bower,

When bards high praised her beauty's power
And kneeling pages offered up
The morat in a golden cup.

"A hero's bride, this desert bowerIt ill befits thy gentle breeding; And wherefore dost thou love this flower To call My love lies bleeding'?" "This purple flower my tears have nursed; A hero's blood supplied its bloom; I love it, for it was the first

That grew on Connocht Moran's tomb. Oh, hearken, stranger, to my voice: This desert mansion is my choice, And blest, though fatal, be the star That led me to its wilds afar: For here these pathless mountains free Gave shelter to my love and me, And every rock and every stone Bore witness that he was my own.

"O'Connor's child, I was the bud

Of Erin's royal tree of glory;
But woe to them that wrapped in blood
The tissue of my story!

Still, as I clasp my burning brain,
A death-scene rushes on my sight;

It rises o'er and o'er again—

The bloody feud, the fatal night, When, chafing Connocht Moran's scorn, They called my hero basely born,

And bade him choose a meaner bride Than from O'Connor's house of pride. Their tribe, they said, their high degree, Was sung in Tara's psaltery;

Witness their Eath's victorious brand,
And Cathal of the Bloody Hand ;
Glory (they said) and power and honor
Were in the mansion of O'Connor;
But he, my loved one, bore in field
A humbler crest, a meaner shield.

"Ah, brothers, what did it avail

That fiercely and triumphantly Ye fought the English of the Pale

And stemmed De Bourgo's chivalry? And what was it to love and me

That barons by your standard rode, Or beal-fires for your jubilee

Upon a hundred mountains glowed? What though the lords of tower and dome From Shannon to the North Sea foam? Thought ye your iron hands of pride Could break the knot that love had tied? No; let the eagle change his plume, The leaf its hue, the flower its bloom, But ties around this heart were spun That could not, would not, be undone.

"At bleating of the wild watch-fold

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Thus sang my love: Oh, come with me: Our bark is on the lake; behold,

Our steeds are fastened to the tree. Come far from Castle Connor's clans; Come with thy belted forestere, And I beside the lake of swans

Shall hunt for thee the fallow-deer, And build thy hut and bring thee home The wild-fowl and the honeycomb, And berries from the wood provide, And play my clarshech by thy side. Then come, my love!' How could I stay? Our nimble staghounds tracked the way, And I pursued by moonless skies The light of Connocht Moran's eyes.

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