was looking after his father. But the group with the sergeant were too much engaged to notice anything or anybody about them, and so stolid did the lads appear so fearful of leaving their village to penetrate into the depths of the world beyond it— that it seemed rather doubtful whether all the sergeant's fine talking hadn't been thrown away, when Joe suddenly jumped from his form and said,"Well, lads, I'll go." The corporal was down like a shot upon him, the sergeant applauded most vociferously, and his friends were gazing, half in admiration and half in surprise, at the daring of the deed. "There's the king's shilling for you, my fine fellow," said the corporal, "and now give us your hat, and we'll stick the ribbons of glory in it." The ribbons were pinning, the sergeant was laughing,-" Bravo! bravo! you're the bravest fellow in the place. The bravest man in the village, by Jove!" said he, lifting his hand, "there's an example for you, lads-there's an example." The ribbons were pinning on the hat, Joe with one hand was pocketing the shilling, with the other raising the pot to drink success to his new career, when his son, who had espied him, came running up, and caught hold of his dress, to be sure of his lost father, whilst he looked round for his protectors. Nat Willet, who was at this moment crossing their path, observed with great satisfaction that the smile of drunken Joe at this slight touch of his little son changed sick and ghastly, and he went on well pleased. But Joe daren't quail thus soon. That

thump of remorse upon his heart at the touch of his son was deadened by the liquor, and at present he dared not get sober lest it should be renewed. Incautious drinking had made him a soldier; and now he must drink on to forget what he had done; and he did. But while consciousness lasted, it was with a hollow heart that he sung and laughed, that he talked and joked with his fellows. His example was not lost. He was not the only victim. The sergeant slept that night satisfied with his success. Nat Willet was as pleased as though he had won the donkeyrace. The holiday people dispersed, and the wake

was over.

But that day's happiness was not universal. Homes were made dreary, and hearts were made sad by the visit of the red-coats. The fife and the drum, and the widow's scalding tears-the bright bayonet and the mother's sigh of desolation-the sharp-edged sword and the sister's wail of sorrow-these are the harmonies of glory and of war!

Such harmonies as these were the fruits of the village wake!

LEAVING HOME.

WHAT a stern task-master is society! Obedience to its laws is the work of a life, their infringement the impulse of a moment! What a hard exchange it seems to have a life's misery for a moment's folly! Yet this alone will work regeneration in the world. Virtue or vice, reward or punishment, wisdom or folly, God or the world !-man is free to choose his path, and though that path is darkened in the clouds of futurity, Destiny knows the way, and Destiny is his guide! The path itself is easy enough to travel, be the will but strong enough to follow our blind guide through good report and evil report, through perils and through watchings. The difficulties are in our inclination to wander from the road so constantly. The traveller must walk alone, and if he talk it must be but to give or to gain encouragement on his journey. He must listen to no voice of seduction from the tempting bowers of folly on his right hand or his left. The path of right and duty chosen, he must not waver in his determination to follow it to the end. Does he sigh for change, for rest, for a shorter road? The still small voice of conscience and of Destiny whispers peril and danger in the ear of his heart! The path chosen, Destiny will surely guide the traveller to the right goal, and the journey

will be easy or difficult, short or long, according to the heartiness with which the guide is followed to her inevitable end.

Poor Joe! how should we weep thy bitter fate! Thy heart was virtuous, but thy virtue was simplicity, and the simplicity of ignorance; weak before the battery of educated sophistry! Thou wert happy in thy toil and in thy hardships-thou wert blessed in thy poverty and struggles; for the still small voice would often whisper in thy heart, "All right!" Thou wert tempted and untaught, but thou didst hear a still alarm beaten at thy heart, and thou didst slight the warning whisper! Thy destiny did counsel thee, Joe, but thou wouldst not listen, and thou art fallen, -step by step, quickly, irretrievably fallen in the toils that were laid for thee! It is thy better informed and more cunning fellow-men who have ensnared thee to sin against the morality of society, and who now hasten to heap the chains of punishment upon thy sad self! They shall have their reward! Thou shalt face them Joe at a tribunal of heart-justice, and it will be for thee to accuse and punish in thy turn! The sands of time fall quickly, but the young plant of truth begins to grow apace, and as the mustard seed, ere long it shall fill the earth like a mighty tree!

Poor Joe was a soldier, and a miserable man for life. No sooner was the mad rashness committed than he repented in his soul. The conscience whisper in his heart grew loud and terrible enough to make him feel

his folly even in his drunkenness; but the rashness was committed now-his fate irrevocable-and Joe had nothing left but to meet that fate with firmness, and stifle the hitherto protector of his heart. Some good friend took charge of his son, and saw him safely lodged at home. Joe drank,-drank on, but could not lose himself. The more he drank, the more horrible became his vague terror, yet he only knew what he was leaving, he could not know what awaited him; but Destiny still kept sounding the tocsin in his heart, and would not let him rest. He wandered from the village into the fields, and he laid down under a hedge and slept. But his sleep was no rest, and his dreams haunted him for ever after. He dreamt that for a moment he was happier than ever in his home-the faces of his family were brighter and the laugh of innocence was ringing from his glad hearth, when, in a moment, the light was blackness, and with a horrible and overwhelming crash, his house fell them all in death. One shriek of agony upon and despair passed like a sharp sword through his heart on its way to heaven, and he was struggling from the dead-house of his children. He gasped in agony as he saw beside him a misery-stricken phantom like his wife, who, with a ghastly smile borrowed from the grave, looked tearfully upon him; and when in an earnest, sigh-broken voice, she seemed to say, "Dear Joe live in hope of better times," he fairly started at once into a sitting posture, wide awake and sober. He tried to think of what he ought to