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that every person present, even the very jailer himself, was affected by it. “I have carried him many score miles on my knapsack, your honor," repeated the poor fellow, whilst he brushed away the tears from his cheek with his rough, unwashed hand; “but it's all over now! — He has done — and so have I !"

The magistrate asked him something of his story. He said he had formerly driven a stage-coach, in the north of Ireland, and had a small share in the proprietorship of the coach. In this time of his prosperity, he married a young woman with a little property, but failed in business, and, after enduring many troubles, enlisted as a private soldier in the Royal Irish Regiment of Foot, and went on foreign service, taking with him his wife and four children. At the end of nine years, he was discharged, in this country, without a pension, or a friend in the world; and coming to London, he, with some trouble, got employed as a pavier, by "the gentlemen who manage the streets." Henry, the prisoner, was his second son, and his “ darling pride."

Two years ago, your honor," he continued, “my poor wife was wearied out with the world, and she deceased from me, and I was left alone with the children ; and every night, after I had done work, I washed their faces and put them to bed, and washed their little bits o' things, and hanged them o' the line to dry, myself; for I'd no money, your honor, and so I could not have a housekeeper to do for them, you know. But, your honor, I was as happy as I well could be, considering my wife was deceased from me, till some bad people came to live at the back of us; and they were always striving to get Henry amongst them; and I was terribly afraid something bad would come of it, as it was but poorly I could do for him; and so I'd made up my mind to take all my children to Ireland If he had only held up another week, your honor, we should have gone, and he would have been saved. But now - "

Here the poor man looked at his boy again, and wept ; and when the magistrate endeavored to console him by observing

konsidering my live at the back hem; and

that his son would sail for Botany Bay, and probably do well there, he replied, somewhat impatiently, “Ay, it's fine talking, your worship. I pray to the great God he may never sail any where, unless he sails with me to Ireland !” And then, after a moment's thought, he asked, in the humblest tone imaginable, “ Doesn't your honor think a little bit of a petition might help him?"

The magistrate replied, it possibly might, and added, "If you attend his trial at the Old Bailey, and plead for him as eloquently in word and action as you have done here, I think it would help him still more."

“Ay, but then you won't be there, I suppose, will you ?” asked the poor fellow, with that familiarity which is in some degree sanctioned by extreme distress; and when his worship replied that he certainly should not be present, he immediately rejoined, “ Then — what's the use of it? There will be nobody there who knows me; and what stranger will listen to a poor old broken-hearted fellow, who can't speak for crying?"

The prisoners were now removed from the bar, to be conducted to prison; and his son, who had wept incessantly all the time, called wildly to him, “Father, father!” as if he expected that his father could snatch him out of the iron grasp of the law; but the old man remained rivetted, as it were, to the spot on which he stood, with his eyes fixed on the lad; and, when the door had closed upon him, he put on his hat, unconscious where he was; and, crushing it down over his brows, he began wandering round the room in a state of stupor. The officers in waiting reminded him that he should not wear his hat in the preser ce of the magistrate, and he instantly removed it; but he still seemed lost to every thing around him; and, though one or two gentlemen present put money into his hands, he heeded it not, but slowly sauntered out of the office, apparently reckless of every thing.

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108. Summer Hymn.

God of my sires! yon arch of blue,

The balmy breeze, that verdant hue,
And this warm glow of summer's prime,
Transport me o'er the bounds of time;
To Fancy's gaze new worlds arise,
And people yonder orient skies ;
The boundless realms of aerial space
Have many a bright and beauteous place
That earth-born eye may never see,
That earth-born thought, however free,
Can image not, nor shadow out,
Even with the misty trace of doubt;
Yet there, O God, like ocean's sand
Strewed on the shelving, surf-beat strand,
Innumerous hosts — a countless throng —
Spontaneous swell the choral song
Of endless praise ; for there, as here,
All that ask worship, love, or fear, —
*All, above, around, below, —
To thee, First Cause, their being owe.
Thy fiat gave them instant birth;
Thou didst from chaos call them forth.
Vast, awful, measureless, immense
Thy power and thine omnipotence!

But, O, thy gentle love,
Softly streaming from above,
Warm as the solar beam of day,

Yet calm and sweet as Hesper's ray, -
Thy love, to space's utmost ends,
Through one glad reign of bliss, extends ;
Before thy strength, before thy power,
This love is felt in childhood's hour,
Or e'er the mind hath garnered thought,
To worship this hath instinct taught.

'Tis this which gave yon gushing stream;
'Tis this which gave the gladdening beam ;
The flowery mead; yon spreading lawn ;
The healthful breeze of early dawn;
The yellow broom ; yon heather-bell ;
The primrose blushing in yon dell;
The pearly dew, that crowns each stem,
Each flower, each leaf, with many a gem,
Fairer than decks a diadem.

"Tis love of thee which tunes our praise,
And swells the heart in artless lays,
Whene'er we bend before thy throne
Here, in this temple of thine own
Its roof, yon arch of azure hue,
A clear, calm, holy, cloudless blue ;
Its altar, yon steep hills that rise
In misty grandeur to the skies;
Its incense, that one fleecy cloud,
Stainless as infant beauty's shroud ;
Its matin hymn, that swelling note
That warbles through the lark's clear throat;
An humble love, yet strong, sincere ;
This pensive joy, this happy tear,
Its worship all; its priest, the thought
With prostrate adoration fraught,
That Thou art all! that man is nought!

109. Harley's Death.

“There are some remembrances," said Harley," which rise involuntarily on my heart, and make me almost wish to live. I have been blessed with a few friends, who redeem my opinion of mankind. I recollect, with the tenderest emotion, the scenes of pleasure I have enjoyed with them; but we shall meet again, my friend, never to be separated. There are some feelings which perhaps are too tender to be suffered by the world. The world, in general, is selfish, interested, and unthinking; and throws the imputation of romance, or melancholy, on every temper more susceptible than its own. I cannot but think, in those regions which I contemplate, if there is any thing of mortality left about us, that these feelings will subsist; they are called — perhaps they are — weaknesses, here; but there may be some better modifications of them in heaven, which may deserve the name of virtues."

He sighed as he spoke these last words. He had scarcely finished them, when the door opened, and his aunt appeared, leading in Miss Walton. “My dear," said she, “here is Miss Walton, who has been so kind as to come and inquire for you herself.” I could perceive a transient glow upon his face. He rose from his seat. “If to know Miss Walton's goodness," said he, “be a title to deserve it, I have some claim.” She begged him to resume his seat, and placed herself on the sofa beside him. I took my leave. His aunt accompanied me to the door. He was left with Miss Walton alone. She inquired anxiously after his health. “I believe,' said he," from the accounts which my physicians unwillingl / give me, that they have no great hopes of my recovery.”

She started as he spoke; but, recollecting herself immediately, endeavored to flatter him into a belief that his apprehensions were groundless. “I know," said he," that it is usual with persons at my time of life to have these hopes which your kindness suggests; but I would not wish to be deceived. To meet death as becomes a man, is a privilege bestowed on few : I would endeavor to make it mine; nor do I think, that I can ever be better prepared for it than now ; 'tis that chiefly which determines the fitness of its approach.” “Those sentiments," answered Miss Walton, “ are just; but your good sense, Mr. Harley, will own that life has its proper value. As the province of virtue, life is

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