CHAPTER V.

race-is dragging him down, down into an abyss of misery, shame, and despair. A hand, the hand of his own begotten, is raised to spoil him

is raised against his life; the watchfulness of a dog, the faithfulness of a slave, ward off the danger. One more scene, and he is rising up against the sin which is crushing him, is turning his back on the scene where shame had blotted his life and degraded his soul-where a brother had lived and died foully. Onwards it moves, and he is in the land of his birth

and loved years ago-one whose heart had stood faithful through the trials of absence and neglect one who consents to soothe and com

not as yet divided. Prosperity has increased their possessions and swelled their power, and we see their simplicity and trustfulness degenerating into arrogance, luxury, worldliness. In the division of the picture, a series of tableaus represent the drama of John's life. There is a man, in the lustihood of strength and spirits, overcast by the shadows of vices which are gathering around him; then we see him falling, coarse, sensual, mated with one below him-surrounded, borne down, by vicious influences and vicious agencies; then fallen, besot--has met one whom he had known ted, brutal, tyrannical, reckless. And then we look on the last scene of all: we see a man lying on his face in balcony, with glasses and bottles around him; we see him raised up; we hear the verdict-" Dead died by the visitation of God;" and none see there the hand of man. None know then how that his slaves, goaded to madness by cruelty and brutal wrong, had found him in his drunkenness, had bound a fatal cord round his throat, outside his cravat, and thus pressed out his life, leaving no mark or sign of violence; leaving him there on his own floor, "dead dead by the visitation of God." Then the curtain drops, then rises, and we see the other division of the picture, the action of the other life.

a

The

first scene rises and shows us Roger the younger brother alone-alone in strength and trial, standing aloof as ve from the temptations which be, as yet faithful and unyielding. Asher scene, and a woman's dark is moving across and beside his foot has slipped; the dark You has come upon him, and his

fort him. Onwards it moves again, and he is in the home of his youth, bearing on his heart the gloom of past folly and past trials-bearing in his heart scars of old wounds-expiating error in contrition and selfreproach-praying that in mercy the light of young life may gleam on his being which shall bring on him no shame, which shall pass on his name in honour, which shall save his inheritance from degraded heirship : the prayer is heard, and a light shines on his hearth.

Such was Trevenna when our story opens a man on whom folly and death had shed a gloom-whose early life and early hopes had been blighted by error-who had sinned and sorrowed, and hoped that penitence might avert retribution, and that he might rejoice and be glad in the fair promise before him.

And the light shone on his hearth. Shall it brighten there, and grow ya strives to escape from more radiant and radiating, or shall es in which his passion it grow pale, and set darkly and sorYanagal him. Again the scene rowfully, leaving darkness behind?

na woman, profligate and
dle so his son, base-born,
*', de stamp of a degraded

This the future of our vision, as it speeds onwards, will reveal.

A PAROCHIAL EPIC,

IN EASY VERSE.

By Mr J-NES.

"An Epic should have a beginning, a middle, and an end."

PART FIRST.

What a happy Parish we were, and how we loved each other.

My cottage many a year has stood

Thick wall'd, and roof'd with reddest tile,
With outs and ins, and gables rude,
And chimneys of fantastic style,
Twisted and ribb'd ; and up the wall
With frequent nails all dotted o'er,
A dozen creepers spread and crawl,
And half block up the very door.
The garden to the south displays

Its fruits and flow'rs, its gravell'd walks ;
And there in springtime's hopeful days
My friends and I have walks and talks.
And a wide scene the house commands,
For o'er the little stream we look ;
And past my patrimonial lands

We see the pastures of the Duke;
The pastures stretching far and wide,
And where th' horizon meets the sky,
We see by distance magnified

His Grace's turrets soaring high.
And left and right on wooded spots
Snug villas face the mid-day sun-
Villas pretending to be cots,

But spacious mansions every one.
From Sparker's (colonel on half-pay),
To Wilding's (nabob from Bengal),
You'd loiter on a summer day

In half an hour, and pass them all;
From Spike's (our doctor) on the height,
To Whilk's upon the stream you'd come-
Sir Smiffle Whilk, a London knight,
They say he's worth at least a plum.
Sir Smiffle Whilk-ambitious he—
Who thinks the name of shop a sin,
Nor tells us if the plum were tea,
Or oats, or indigo, or gin.
A genial host, a jolly face

(I'll bet the gin was pure and strong),
Who keeps his heart in the right place,
And puts his aitches in the wrong,
In youth at Mother Church he rail'd;
At parsons he was quick to sneer,
But wealth and argument prevail'd,
And he's churchwarden year by year.
There never was a spot so blest,

In friendly thoughts and actions kind;
And all the villas were at rest,
United in one heart and mind.

A little sameness might be found
In our calm life's unvaried train;
We dined in a three-weekly round,

And then began the round again.
We knew the stories Sparker told,
Bradley's white soup and Harling's fish,
Bell's tawney port, Hogg's sherry old,
And Bingley's everlasting dish.
We knew the tunes Matilda play'd,
The songs Jane sang with art sublime,
The "Bee Sucks," the "Bewildered Maid,”
And liked them better every time.
On Monday Hogg's, on Tuesday Gray's,
On Wednesday Whilk's, and all alike;
Thursday with Bell, on Friday Hay's,
And Saturday to tea with Spike.
A pleasant place, a happy band,
In mutual confidence secure,
Pouring their bounty o'er the land,

And soups and shillings on the poor.

PART SECOND.

What a good Rector we had, and what a delightful Curate.

Our Rector wore a shovel hat

A stately man, erect and tall ;

Who always at the left hand sat,

And said the grace, and damp'd us all.

For though a simple rector here,

And vicar of a Shropshire town

(The two not quite a thousand clear),
York saw him Mr Canon Brown.
Upon his face a sleek repose,

A well-brush'd coat, a snowy tie;
With buckled tights, and silken hose,
And gracious manners kind yet high.
He smiled serenely when we spoke,
And told of bishop, lord, or dean;
Sparker himself forebore his joke

(His "points" could never have been seen)— For dull was Mr Canon Brown,

And kind in all his words and works,

Save when he'd keep dissenters down,

And Papists, who were worse than Turks.

We only saw him twice a-year,

For only twice his tithes were due;

He preach'd-and we were pleased to hear;
He went-and we were happy too.

For Dignity is sweet to see,

But yet it keeps one on the strain;
And we return'd with schoolboy glee
To pleasant Mr Banks again.
A Christian meek, a scholar fine,
Our curate, enemy of strife;
Who told us of the love divine,
And showed it in his daily life.

Our curate-teacher in the school,
Friend of the poor, the rich man's guide;
Gentle in talk, yet firm in rule-

And a good cricketer beside ;-
A man whom all the parish loved,

So winning in his words and ways
A romp-whom every child approved;
A saint-whom Scandal's self might praise.
His sermon-many years ago-

Was publish'd, and the critics frown'd,-
Guardian, "wide," "liberal," and "low"
Record," Arminian," and "unsound".
Churchman, "It smells of Wesley's tub"-
Banner, "High churchman to the core."
'Twas preach'd before our Friendly Club,
And clear'd the debt, and something more.
The "Members" met, and pass'd a vote
Of humble gratitude and thanks;
And Oxford's, Alford's, Kingsley's note,
Were poor, compared to Mr Banks'.
Two sisters gave his cot its grace,
And kept it like a fairy's bower

For never was so gay a place

:

With sketch, and needlework, and flower.

Bright carpets clothed the tiny rooms,

Stain'd windows dimm'd the oppressive glare,

Or open, caught the summer blooms,

That dallied with the evening air.

He never call'd us to his board

(He couldn't half contain us all), But when the autumn gave its hoard,

And plumbs hung on the garden wall,
His lawn was fill'd with young and old,
And strawberries and cream went round,
And joyous goblets, hot or cold,

Were under the old pear-tree found.
And somehow, when the sun declined,
'Twas still remark'd, our village band
Of voices, brass and strings combined,
By merest chance, were close at hand,
Either in boats that ran aground,

Or in the punt that wouldn't move;
And somehow it was always found
They had some airs, just come, to prove ;
And clear and high the loud bassoon
Responded to the fiddle's squeal
And both united in a tune

Sounding immensely like a reel.
And Banks himself and sisters twain

Took out the children, laughing gay,
And danced, and set, and led the train,
Till breathless and opprest were they.
Then Sophy Sparker led the brawl,

And grown-up couples joined the line;
And Wilding said 'twas like Bengal,
And all the girls said 'twas divine.
And home we went our several ways-
The merriest day of all the year :
Such charm a loving heart conveys

To humblest home and modest cheer.