effect, for they had been the result of much anxious thought. All the way up to London he had pondered what he should say to Tom by way of parting advice,-something that the boy could keep in his head ready for use. To condense the Squire's meditation, it was somewhat as follows: "I won't tell him to read his Bible, and love and serve God; if he don't do that for his mother's sake and teaching, he won't for mine. Shall I go into the sort of temptations he'll meet with? No, I can't do that. Never do for an old fellow to go into such things with a boy. He won't understand me. Do him more harm than good, ten to one. Shall I tell him to mind his work, and say he's sent to school to make himself a good scholar? Well, but he isn't sent to school for that, at any rate, not for that mainly. I don't care a straw for Greek particles, or the digamma; no more does his mother. What is he sent to school for? Well, partly because he wanted to go. If he'll only turn out a brave, helpful, truth-telling man, and a gentleman, and a Christian, that's all I want," thought the Squire; and upon this view of the case framed his last words of advice to Tom, which were well enough suited to their purpose. For they were Tom's first thoughts as he tumbled out of bed at the summons of Boots, and proceeded rapidly to wash and dress himself.

At ten minutes of three he was down in the coffee room in his stockings, carrying his hat-box, coat, and comforter in his hand; and there he found his father nursing a bright fire, and a cup of hot coffee and a hard biscuit on the table. "Now, then, Tom, give us your things here, and drink that; there's nothing like starting warm, old fellow." Tom addressed himself to the coffee, and prattled away while he worked himself into his shoes and his great-coat, well warmed through. And just as he is swallowing his last mouthful, winding his comforter round his throat, and tucking the ends into the breast of his coat, the horn sounds, Boots looks in and says, "Tally-ho, sir;" and they hear the ring and rattle of the four fast trotters and the town-made drag, as it dashes up to the inn.

"Anything for us, Bob?" says the burly guard, dropping down from behind, and slapping himself across the chest. "Young genl'm'n, Rugby; three parcels, Leicester; hamper o' game, Rugby," answers Ostler.

"Tell young gent to look alive," says guard, opening the hind-boot, and shooting in the parcels after examining them by the lamps. "Here, shove the portmanteau up a-top, I'll fasten him presently. Now then, sir, jump up behind.”

"Good-bye, father, my love at home." A last shake of the hand. Up goes Tom, the guard catching his hat-box and holding on with one hand, while with the other he claps his horn to his mouth, Toot, toot, toot! the ostler lets go their heads, the four bays plunge at the collar, and away goes the Tally-ho, forty-five seconds from the time they pulled up.

School Days at Rugby.

265.-ODE TO AN INDIAN COIN.
JOHN LEYDen.

Slave of the dark and dirty mine!
What vanity has brought thee here?
How can I love to see thee shine

So bright, whom I have bought so dear?—
The tent-ropes flapping lone I hear,
For twilight converse, arm in arm;

The jackal's shriek bursts on mine ear
Whom mirth and music wont to charm.
By Cherical's dark wandering streams,
Where cane-tufts shadow all the wild,
Sweet visions haunt my waking dreams
Of Teviot loved while still a child,
Of castled rocks stupendous piled
By Esk or Eden's classic wave,

Where loves of youth and friendship smiled,
Uncursed by thee, vile yellow slave!

Fade, day-dreams sweet, from memory fade !-
The perished bliss of youth's first prime,
That once so bright on fancy played,

Revives no more in after time.

Far from my sacred natal clime,

I haste to an untimely grave;

The daring thoughts that soared sublime
Are sunk in ocean's southern wave.

Slave of the mine! thy yellow light
Gleams baleful as the tomb-fire drear.

A gentle vision comes by night

My lonely, widowed heart to cheer;
Her eyes are dim with many a tear,
That once were guiding stars to mine:
Her fond heart throbs with many a fear!

I cannot bear to see thee shine.

For thee, for thee, vile yellow slave,
I left a heart that loved me true!

I crossed the tedious ocean-wave,
To roam in climes unkind and new.
The cold wind of the stranger blew
Chill on my withered heart: the grave
Dark and untimely met my view,-
And all for thee, vile yellow slave!

Ha! comest thou now so late to mock
A wanderer's banished heart forlorn,
Now that his frame the lightning shock
Of sun-rays tipt with death has borne?
From love, from friendship, country, torn,
To memory's fond regrets the prey,

Vile slave, thy yellow dross I scorn!
Go, mix thee with thy kindred clay !

266.-OVER THE HILL.

GEO. MACDONALD.

"Traveler, what lies over the hill?
Traveler, tell to me:

I am only a child,-from the window-sill.
Over I cannot see.'

"Child, there's a valley over there,

Pretty and wooded and shy;

And a little brook that says, 'Take care,

Or I'll drown you by and by.'"

"And what comes next?"

"A little town,

And a towering hill again;

More hills and valleys, up and down,

And a river now and then."

"And what comes next?" "A lonely moor

Without a beaten way;

And gray clouds sailing slow before

A wind that will not stay."

"And then?" "Dark rocks and yellow sand,

And a moaning sea beside."

"And then?" "More sea, more sea, more land,

And rivers deep and wide."

"And then?" "O, rock and mountain and vale, Rivers and fields and men,

Over and over-a weary tale

And round to your home again."

"And is that all? Have you told the best?" "No, neither the best nor the end.

On summer eves, away in the west,
You will see a stair ascend,

"Built of all colors of lovely stones,

A stair up into the sky,

Where no one is weary and no one moans,
Or wants to be laid by."

"I will go." "But the steps are very steep;
If you would climb up there,

You must lie at the foot, as still as sleep,
A very step of the stair."

267.-THE SOLDIER'S REPRIEVE.

INCIDENT OF THE WAR.

"I thought, Mr. Allan, when I gave my Bennie to his cruntry, that not a father in all this broad land made so precious a gift-no, not one. The dear boy slept only a minute-just one little minute, at his post; I know that was all, for Bennie never dozed over a duty. How prompt and reliable he was! I know he fell asleep only one little second-he was so young, and not strong, that boy of mine! Why, he was as tall as I, and only eighteen! and now they shoot him because he was found asleep when doing sentinel duty! Twenty-four hours, the telegram said-only twenty-four hours! Where is Bennie now?"

"We will hope with his heavenly Father," said Mr. Allan, soothingly. "Yes, yes, let us hope; God is very merciful!" "I should be ashamed, father!' Bennie said, 'when I am a man, to think I never used this great right arm'— and he held it out so proudly before me-'for my country when it needed it! Palsy it rather than keep it at the plow!' 'Go, then -go, my boy,' I said, 'and God keep you!' God has kept him, I think, Mr. Allan!" and the farmer repeated these last words slowly, as if, in spite of his reason, his heart doubted them. "Like the apple of His eye, Mr. Owen; doubt it not." Blossom sat near them, listening with blanched cheek. She had not shed a tear. Her anxiety had been so concealed that no one noticed it. She had occupied herself mechanically in the household cares. Now she answered a gentle tap at the kitchen door, opening it to receive from a neighbor's hand a letter. "It is from him," was all she said. It was like a message from the dead. Mr. Owen took the letter, but could not break the envelope on account of his trembling fingers,

and held it toward Mr. Allan with the helplessness of a child. The minister opened it and read as follows:

"Dear Father-When this reaches you I shall be in eternity. At first it seemed awful to me; but I have thought about it so much now that it has no terror. They say they will not bind me, nor blind me, but that I may meet my death like a man. I thought, father, it might have been on the field of battle for my country, and that, when I fell, it would be fighting gloriously; but to be shot down like a dog for nearly betraying it-to die for neglect of duty! Oh, father, I wonder the very thought does not kill me! But I shall not disgrace you. I am going to write you all about it, and when I am gone you may tell my comrades. I

cannot now.

"You know I promised Jemmie Carr's mother I would look after her boy, and when he fell sick I did all I could for him. He was not strong when he was ordered back into the ranks, and the day before that night I carried all his luggage, besides my own, on our march. Toward night we went on double-quick, and though the luggage began to feel very heavy, everybody else was tired too; and as for Jemmie, if I had not lent him an arm now and then, he would have dropped by the way. I was all tired when we came into camp, and then it was Jemmie's turn to be sentry, and I would take his place; but I was too tired, father. I could not have kept awake if a gun had been pointed at my head; but I did not know it until-well, until it was too late."

"God be thanked!" interrupted Mr. Owen, reverently. "I knew Bennie was not the boy to sleep carelessly at his post.'

66

"They tell me to-day that I have a short reprieve-given to me by circumstances-'time to write to you,' our good Colonel says. Forgive him, father, he only does his duty; he would gladly save me if he could; and do not lay my death up against Jemmie. The poor boy is broken-hearted, and does nothing but beg and entreat them to let him die in my stead.

"I can't bear to think of mother and Blossom. Comfort them, father! Tell them that I die as a brave boy should, and that, when the war is over, they will not be ashamed of me, as they must be now. God help me; it is very hard to bear! Good-bye, father! God seems near and dear to me; not at all as if He wished me to perish forever, but as if He felt sorry for His poor, sinful, broken-hearted child, and would take me to be with Him and my Saviour in a better-better life."

A deep sigh burst from Mr. Owen's heart. "Amen!" he said, solemnly; "Amen!"

"To-night, in the early twilight, I shall see the cows all coming home from pasture, and precious little Blossom standing on the back stoop, waiting for me: but I shall never, never come! God bless you all! Forgive your poor Bennie."