not seen before. Our etiquette, dispensing with the fashionable forms of introduction, left me for some time in ignorance as to who the stranger was, or from whence he derived his title to a seat at the table of Sir Oliver Jones. My curiosity, however, as far as his name was concerned, was soon satisfied; and with this I rested for some time content, well knowing my uncle's aversion to being troubled with questions himself, or hearing them put to others, while he was more importantly employed in the pleasant business of eating and drinking. I therefore prudently kept silence, not doubting but that in due time I should be informed of every particular relating to the unknown gentleman; for such, in truth, his bearing bespoke him to be; and I fancied I could discover in his manners a something which plainly indicated that he was now occupying a post for which he had never been intended by dame nature. It will hardly be necessary for me to inform the reader, that my honest uncle was particularly fond of the cup; this being of course a necessary consequence of his admiration of the good Old Times: and when pouring forth his libations to the jolly god, few persons could have been more communicative-on certain subjects; one of which was the story of the singular adventure by which his grandfather, the colonel, had become possessed of the before-mentioned picture of Oliver Cromwell. Another, and not less favourite theme of his, was the exalted virtues of the men who had been so fortunate as to be born and to live in the good Old Times, contrasted with the vices and follies of the present degenerate generation. It was in the midst of a long and vehement oration upon this latter theme, that he introduced an account of the accident which had made him lame: but hereby hangs A TALE.' 'I will tell you my boy,' said he, 'what it was that first obliged me to use a stick. You perhaps think it was the gout. No, no. The gout never entered the threshold of Fonmon Castle since it was given to the brave Oliver de St. John, by the still braver Fitzhamon, in the year one thousand and ninety one. And if it had not been for an accident, I should walk as firm and as upright now, as my grandfather, the colonel, did when he walked to the scaffold at the restoration, and paid the forfeit of his head for having been fearless and noble enough to sign the death-warrant of a tyrant ! ''Twas one cold morning, four years come next November, that as I had been taking my usual ride and was returning home, I heard a great shouting under the Black-Cliffs, and going down to see what it was all about, I found half the men of the village making signals to some strange brig which was bearing down upon the coast evidently without knowing where she was. She had seen rough weather, for both her masts were gone, and she had no power to turn herself one way or the other, for her rudder was unshipped at bottom, and her bows shook like a young ash in a high gale. The tide ran in with that furiously terrific swell which it always does round the Black-Cliffs, and the wind, rushing through the different gaps in the surrounding rocks, made the waves boil and roar again, loud enough to break the drum of the strongest ear. Well then, on she came, without being able to make a single effort to beat to windward, and, as you may suppose, in a few minutes was as complete a wreck as ever the salt sea washed ashore. We looked out for a long time expecting to see somebody belonging to her, and at last perceived two brave fellows clinging to a large cask, rolling about at the mercy of wind and water: by and by the cask, striking against a mass of rock, spun round like a top, and one of her gallant passengers lost his hold and was never seen more; while from the look of the other 'twas quite clear he must have gone to the bottom too, in a very few minutes.-"Now, my boys!" said I, as I took out my old leather purse, "here's twenty guineas to the first who takes a rope to that brave fellow, and if he saves his life, free fare for ever at Fonmon Castle to boot." But the cowardly scoundrels only stared at me; and, by St. Athan's beard! I don't think one of them would have ventured if I had offered twenty thousand! Every knave now-a-days thinks his own life worth too much to risk it in saving that of an honest man. Was it so in the good Old Times? No, no, a man then thought another's life worth as much as his own!" Well then, you cowards," said I, "here, hand me the rope, and if ye keep good hold and bring me safe ashore, I'll give you half the money for your bastard pains." I knew how to swim tolerably well when a boy; and a man who lives as a man ought to live, is a boy at seventy; so I plunged in without more ado, and though every wave beat me back, or else rolled over me like a huge millstone, after many a hard tussle with them, I got at last alongside my prize, and catching hold of his collar, I managed to slip the rope round his middle, which, when the rascally dogs on land saw, they contrived to hawl us up somehow or other, the Lord knows how, I don't, for I was as dead as my great great grandfather for a good hour afterwards; and the clumsy knaves, not content with saving their own bones, must needs drag me right against a piece of rock, and so break my leg for me; and that's what obliges me to walk with this stick, instead of laying it across the shoulders of the cowardly rascals who call themselves men, yet shrink from a manly action. But that's the way with the world new-a-days! hey, boy, hey!" 'And," said I, "what became of the man whom you saved?" "What became of him, boy? why, he became Judy's husband to be sure; aye, and an excellent husband he makes, too: but what's become of him now the lord Harry knows perhaps, for I don't. Hey, Nelson, boy, what the deuce makes you run away? Can't a man tell his own story without frightening you from the board, as if you had seen the Grey Monk of Llan Illtid, hey?" The mystery was now unravelled.-The stranger (whose emotions during my uncle's narrative had compelled him to retire) was then the son of the good Sir Oliver; and my cousin may I call her so?'-had, it seems, found a husband where she had doubtless least expected it-in the salt sea. After this explanation, every thing, of course, proved quite correct. And having spent that night and part of the following day in the company of as warm-hearted and happy a family as ever breathed the breath of heaven, I bade them a long and (as it has since proved) a last farewell; more than half convinced that it was possible, as well as desirable, to recal again into existence the feelings and virtues of the Good Old Times. THE STREAMLET. TRANSLATED FROM THE ITALIAN. MARK yon lonely mountain rill From its pure mossy fount descending, With the sea-wave its own is blending; Whether thro' cavern depths it flows Where sparry gems alone are shining, In vain dark rocks oppose its course 'Mid deaf'ning roar the torrent falling, Or gloomy rocks of fortune spurning; E. L. I. THE POST. THERE is, perhaps, no possible event that would cause so great a revolution in the state of modern society as the cessation of the post. A comet coming in collision with the earth could alone cause a greater shock to its inhabitants; it would shake nations to their centre. It would be a sort of imprisonment of the universal mind,—a severing of the affections, and a congelation of thought. It would be building up a wall of partition between the hearts of mother and child, and husband and wife, and brother and sister. It would raise Alps between the breasts of friend and friend; and quench, as with an ocean, the love that is now breathed out in all its glowing fervour, despite of time or place. What would be all the treasures of the world, or all its praise, to a feeling heart, if it could no longer pour out its fulness to its chosen friend, whom circumstances had removed afar off? What could solace the husband or the father, during his indispensible absence from the wife of his affections, or the child of his love, if he had no means of assuring them of his welfare and his unalterable love; and what could console him could he not be informed of theirs? Life, in such circumstances, would be worse than a blank; it would be death to the soul, but death without its forgetfulness. Write soon, -pray do write soon and often,-are among the last words we breathe into the ear of those we love, while we grasp the hand, and look into the eye that will soon be far from us. What other consolation or hope is left us, when the rumbling wheel, or the swelling sail, is bearing that beloved being far from us, while we stand fixed to the spot where that object uttered its last adieu. And how impatiently do we wait the arrival of the welcome letter, that will assure us of its well-being and safety. The object of our solicitude may have to cross inhospitable deserts, or stormy seas; dangerous mountains, or forests infested by beasts of prey, or the sons of plunder; and, were there no channel by which we could be informed of its subsequent safety, our suspense |