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so as to plant the little equipage in a position nearly at right angles to ours. Thus far his condition was not improved, except as a first step had been taken toward the possibility of a second. If no more were done, nothing was done; for the little carriage still occupied the very centre of our path, though in an altered direction. Yet even now it may not be too late; fifteen of the twenty seconds may still be unexhausted, and one almighty bound forward may avail to clear the ground.

Hurry, then, hurry! for the flying moments, they hurry! Oh, hurry, hurry, my brave young man, for the cruel hoofs of our horses, they also hurry! Fast are the flying moments, faster are the hoofs of our horses. Fear not for him, if human energy can suffice; faithful was he that drove, to his terrific duty; faithful was the horse to his command. One blow, one impulse given with voice and hand by the stranger, one rush from the horse, one bound as if in the act of rising to a fence, landed the docile creature's fore-feet upon the crown or arching centre of the road. The larger half of the little equipage had then cleared our overtowering shadow; that was evident even to my own agitated sight.

But it mattered little that one wreck should float off in safety, if upon the wreck that perished were embarked the human freightage. The rear part of the carriage, was that certainly beyond the line of absolute ruin? What power could answer the question ? Glance of eye, thought of man, wing of angel, which of these had speed enough to sweep between the question and the answer, and divide the one from the other? Light does not tread upon the steps of light more indivisibly than did our all-conquering arrival upon the escaping efforts of the gig. We ran past them faster than ever mill-race in our inexorable flight.

Oh, raving of hurricanes that must have sounded in their young ears at the moment of our transit! With the swinglebar we had struck the off-wheel of the little gig, which stood rather obliquely, and not quite so far advanced as to be accurately parallel with the near wheel. The blow, from the fury of our passage, resounded terrifically. From my elevated station I looked down, and looked back upon the scene, which in a moment told its tale, and wrote all its


records on my heart for ever. The horse was planted immovably with his fore-feet upon the paved crest of the central road. He, of the whole party, was alone untouched by the passion of death.

The little caney carriage-partly, perhaps, from the dreadful torsion of the wheels in its recent movement, partly from the thundering blow we had given to it-as if it sympathized with human horror, was all alive with tremblings and shiverings. The young man sat like a rock. He stirred not at all. But his was the steadiness of agitation frozen into rest by horror. As yet, he dared not to look round; for he knew that, if anything remained to do, by him it could no longer be done.

But the lady! Oh! will that spectacle ever depart from my dreams, as she rose and sank upon her seat, sank and rose, threw

ир her arms wildly to heaven, clutched at some visionary object in the air, fainting, praying, raving, despairing? Figure to yourself the elements of the case; suffer me to recall before your minds the circumstances of the unparalleled situation. From the silence and deep peace of this saintly summer night-from the pathetic blending of this sweet moonlight, dawnlight, dreamlight-suddenly as from the woods and fields-suddenly as from the chambers: of the air opening in revelation-suddenly as from the ground yawning at her feet-leaped upon her, with the flashing of cataracts, Death the crowned phantom, with all the equipage of his terrors and the tiger roar of his voice.

The moments were numbered. In the twinkling of an eye our flying horses had carried us to the termination of the umbrageous aisle; at right angles, we wheeled into our former direction ;, the turn of the road carried the scene out of my eyes, in an instant, and swept it into my dreams for ever.


(PROFESSOR WILSON.) Jolin Wilson, late Professor of Moral Philosophy in the University of Edinburgh,

was born in Paisley in 1785. He died in Edinburgh in 1854. Of his poems, the best known are, “The Isle of Palms," and "City of the Plague;" and of his prose works, “Recreations of Christopher North," and "Noctes Ambrosianae."


In an English village--highland or lowland-seldom is there any spot so beautiful as the church-yard. That of Grassmere is especially so, with the pensive shadows of the old church tower settling over its cheerful graves. Ay, its cheerful graves !

Startle not at the word as too strong-for the pigeons are cooing in the belfry, the stream is murmuring round the mossy church-yard wall, a few lambs are lying on the mounds, and flowers laughing in the sunshine over the cells of the dead. But hark! the bell tolls-one-one-one —a funeral knell, speaking not of time, but of eternity! To-day there is to be a burial—and close to the wall of the tower you see the new dug grave. ...

Thirty years ago-how short a time in national historyhow long in that of private sorrows -all tongues were speaking of the death that there befell, and to have seen the weeping, you would have thought that the funeral could never have been forgotten. But stop now the shepherd on the hill, and ask him who lived in that nook, and chance is he knows not even their name, much less the story of their afflictions. It was inhabited by Allan Fleming, his wife, and an only child, known familiarly in her own small world by the name of LUCY OF THE FOLD. In almost every district among the mountains, there is its peculiar pride-some one creature to whom nature has been especially kind, and whose personal beauty, sweetness of disposition, and felt superiority of mind and manner, single her out, unconsciously, as an object of attraction and praise, making her the May. day Queen of the unending year. Such a darling was Lucy Fleming ere she had finished her thirteenth year; aná strangers, who had heard tell of her loveliness, often dropped in, as if by accident, to see the Beauty of RydalOne summer day a youthful stranger appeared at the door of the house, and after an hour's stay, during which Lucy was from home, asked if they would let him have lodging with them for a few months-a single room for bed and books, and that he would take his meals with the family. Enthusiastic boy! to him poetry had been the light of life, nor did ever creature of poetry belong more entirely than he to the world of imagination. Home, friends, colleges, cities—all sunk away into oblivion, and HARRY HOWARD felt as if wafted off on the wings of a spirit, and set down in a land beyond the sea, foreign to all he had before experienced, yet in its perfect and endless beauty appealing every hour more tenderly and strongly to a spirit awakened to new power, and revelling in new emotion. In that cottage he took up his abode. In a few weeks came a library of books in all languages; and there was much wondering talk ver all the country side about the mysterious young stranger who now lived at the Fold.


Every day-and, when he chose to absent himself from his haunts among the hills, every hour—was Lucy before the young poet's eyes; and every hour did her beauty wax more beautiful in his imagination. . ,

What wild schemes does not love imagine, and in the face of very impossibility achieve! “ I will take Lucy to myself, if it should be in place of all the world. I will myself shed light over her being, till in a new spring it shall be adorned with living flowers that fade not away, perennial and selfrenewed. In a few years the bright docile creature will have the soul of a very angel-and then, before God and at his holy altar, mine shall she become for ever- r- here and hereafter-in this paradise of earth, and, if more celestial be, in the paradise of heaven."

Thus two summers and two winters wheeled away into the past; and in the change, imperceptible from day to day, but glorious at last, wrought on Lucy's nature by communication with one so prodigally endowed, scarcely could her parents believe it was their saine child, except that she was dutiful as before, as affectionate, and as fond of all the familiar objects, dead or living, round and about her birthplace. She had now grown to woman's stature- tall, though shę scarcely seemed so except when among ber playmates; and in her maturing loveliness, fulfilling, and far more than

, fulfilling, the fair promise of her childhood. Never once had the young stranger-stranger no more-spoken to daughter, father, or mother, of his love. . .

At last it was known through the country that Mr. Howard--the stranger, the scholar, the poet, the elegant gentleman, of whom nobody knew much, but whom everybody loved, and whose father must at the least have been a lord, was going, in a year or less, to marry the daughter of Allan Fleming-Lucy of the Fold. ....

In spring, Mr. Howard went away for a few months-it was said to the great city-and on his return at midsummer, Lucy was to be his bride. They parted with a few peaceful tears, and though absent were still together. And now a letter came, saying that before another Sabbath he would be at the Fold. ...... Lucy saw the Sabbath of his return, and its golden sun, but it was in her mind's eye only; for ere it was to descend behind the hills, she was not to be among the number of living things.

Up Forest-Ullswater the youth had come by the light of_ the setting sun; and as he crossed the mountains to Grassmere by the majestic path of the Hawse, still as every new star arose in heaven, with it arose as lustrous a new emotion from the bosom of his betrothed. The midnight hour had been fixed for his return to the Fold; and as he reached the cliffs above White-moss, according to agreement a light was burning in the low window—the very planet of love. ... Prayers crowded fast into his soul, and tears of joy fell from his eyes as he stood at the threshold, almost afraid in the trembling of life-deep affection to meet her first embrace.

In the silence, sobs and sighs, and one or two long deep groans! Then in another moment, he saw-through the

open door of the room where Lucy used to sleep-several figures moving to and fro in the light, and one figure upon its knees--whọ, else could it be but her father! Unnoticed he became one of the pale-faced company—and there he heheld her on her bed, mute and motionless, her face covered with a deplorable beauty--eyes closed, and her hands clasped upon her breast !'“ Dead, dead, dead.!" muttered

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