afforded no information to the traveller; for age had rendered it useless.

The boys were gazing upon him with much curiosity, when he beckoned them towards him, and inquired the way to the village of Eldenby.

The eldest, a fine intelligent lad of about twelve years of age, pointed to the path, and asked if he were going to any particular place in the village.

" No, my little lad," said the soldier ; " but it is on the high-road to Frome, and I have friends there ; but, in truth, I am very wearied, and perhaps may find in yon village some person who will befriend a poor fellow, and look to God for a reward."

" Sir," said the boy, " My father was a soldier many years ago, and he dearly loves to look upon a red coat—if you come with me, you may be sure of a welcome."

" And you can tell us stories about foreign parts," said the younger lad, a fine chubbycheeked fellow, who, with his watch-coat thrown carelessly over his shoulder, and his crook in his right hand, had been minutely examining every portion of the soldier's dress.

The boys gave instructions to their intelligent dog, who, they said, would take good care of the sheep during their absence; and in a few minutes the soldier and his young companions reached the gate of a flourishing farm-house, which had all the external tokens of prosperity and happiness. The younger boy trotted on a few paces before, to give his parents notice that they had invited a stranger to rest beneath their hospitable roof; and the soldier had just crossed the threshold of the door when he was received by a joyful cry of recognition from his old friends, Henry Jenkins and his wife ; and he was welcomed as a brother to the dwelling of those, who, in all human probability, were indebted to him for their present enviable station.

It is unnecessary to pursue this story further than to add, that John Carty spent his furlough at Eldenby farm ; and that at the expiration of it, his discharge was purchased by his grateful friends. He is now living in their happy dwelling ; and his care and exertions have contributed greatly to increase their prosperity. Nothing has been wrong with them since John Carty was their steward.

" Cast thy bread upon the waters," said the wise man, " and it shall be returned to thee after many days."

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INNOCENCE.

BY AGNES STRICKLAND.
Autlwrest of the " Seven Ago of Women, fro.

The radiant glances of thy heavenward eye
Are raised above the clouds of mortal care ;
Oh, holy and divinest Purity,
To thee, all things are lovely, all are fair.
The Proteus shapes of Sin still pass thee by,
And leave on thee no shadow ; and the snare
Of strong Temptation, though it oft assail
Thy stedfast spirit, can in nought prevail.

Thou hast in festal halls and lordly towers Preserved thy charms amidst the flattering train. Who scattered in thy path enchanted flowers And wooed thee with a thousand spells in vain. Thou, with firm step through Pleasure's syren

bowers, Like angel guest whom earth could ne'er enchain, Hast still serenely thy bright course maintained, And onward passed unfettered and unstained.

On thee, in deepest solitudes, has smiled
That perfect peace the world could ne'er bestow;
Oh! holy, beautiful, and undefiled,
Relic of heaven still lingering here below,
The lily blooms beside thee in the wild,
Yet cannot match her coronal of snow
With thy unsullied vesture's spotless white,
Washed in the dews that usher in the light.

From the vain throng retired, thou sitt'st alone,
Listening the wood-dove's note, or murmur sweet
Of waving leaves by mountain breezes blown,
Where Jessamines canopy thy calm retreat,
And thymy hillock forms thy sylvan throne,
And the lamb finds a refuge at thy feet;
And crystal fountain, sparkling in thy sight,
Reflects thy image, and becomes more bright.

What though the tender paleness of thy face
Doth wear at times the pensive shade of sadness 1
'Tis only when thou dost around thee trace
The evil traits of folly, guilt, and madness,
Whose canker spots have marr'd the human race;
For thou art in thyself celestial gladness,
And still art found 'midst all the storms of earth,
Bright as when Eden's bowers beheld thy birth.
Affliction, with her sternly chastening rod,
Indeed hath tried thee, but could ne'er destroy
That glorious emanation from thy God,
The deep serenity of holy joy ;
And though thy pilgrim feet full oft have trod
A rugged way, yet bliss without alloy
Is to thy raptured glance divinely given,
Which sees through thorny paths the road to
heaven.

THE ORIGIN OF " DARBY AND JOAN."

AUTHOR OF " DAME REBECCA BERRY."

Within three miles of Tadcaster, in the West Riding of Yorkshire, there is a beautiful village called Healaugh, remotely situated, but celebrated from being the place where lived, more than a century ago, a couple called "Darby and Joan," and whose humble dwelling is still to be seen there.

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