warrant to prevent the execution: and the good parson again prepared to set out on his long and weary journey homeward, having, through the intercession of the bishop, procured the sealed packet which contained the pardon of the poacher.

Light as a bird's was the heart of that happy old man, when, seated in the stage-coach, he heard the clatter of the horses' hoofs as they hurried him along with his glad tidings; and so wrapped up was he in the thoughts of his good cause, of the pleasure it would diffuse through the heart of the sorrowing wife, and the smile that it would call back to the lips of the eldest child, that he never thought it possible he could be upset, or a wheel might come off, while he was journeying in so holy a cause. tune did not forsake him; and never did lover long more anxiously for the countenance of her he loved, than the worthy clergyman did for the cold rugged front and ironstudded doors of that forbidding-looking jail.

For

When the old parson entered the condemned cell, in which Burrows awaited the fulfilment of his sentence, he was struck with the calm and dignified appearance of the prisoner. It recalled to his mind what he had read of the Romans of old. "I wished to see you once more," said the poacher, as he returned the friendly grasp of his hand. "This waiting is but tedious work after a man has made up his mind a hundred times how he will die. I saw my wife for the last time this morning, and she said her hours, like mine, were numbered; and her wan looks told that Death had already knocked at the door of the frail tenement. Thank God the worst is over; yet I should have nothing I cared to live for if she were to die; and never did a weary child covet sleep more than I do the death which these unjust laws doom me to suffer; for you know not, my friend, how great a comfort it is to

me to feel that my conscience acquits me from ever entertaining, even for a moment, the thought of murder. How a man guilty of such a deed might meet death, I know not; but were I before the bar of that Holy God, in whose awful presence I shall in a few more hours stand, I could, without fear, plead 'Not Guilty' to the charge for which I am about to suffer!"

"I know it-I know it!" answered the worthy clergyman, his countenance betraying the deep workings of his benevolent heart while he spoke; "and there are others, thanks be to His Holy Name! who also believe as I do. Let us kneel down together, and thank God for all His mercies." A child learning to lisp the prayers which a fond mother has taught it, is a scene which hovering and unseen angels may love to look upon; but the prayers of a venerable old man-one whose hairs Time has silvered over with the hoary winters of many years, whose whole blameless life has been spent in endeavouring to benefit his fellow-men, and who believes that his reward will only be found in heaven-presents to our minds a grander and holier picture. His language was the awed and holy utterance of the heart: had you but have heard him, you would have felt that he addressed God, and not man; even the iron-hearted jailors wept, although they were paid for keeping watch and ward over misery; and when the pious clergyman ceased, they knew that the law had revoked its stern sentence, and that its majesty was satisfied for once, without dooming its victim to die. What the feelings of the poacher were we know not; though the pale quivering lip, and the tear-dimmed eyes, proclaimed the deep emotions which his strong and brave heart laboured under.

After a few months' imprisonment, Burrows returned to his wife and family, "a sadder and a wiser man ;" and

though still on friendly terms with his old acquaintance, Heron, he is no longer a poacher. Not that his sufferings have altered his opinion of the Game Laws one jot or tittle; for he looks upon them as he ever did, and as thousands at this very hour still do, who, like ourselves, openly denounce them, as cruel, tyrannous, and unjust!

"Then to a lawn I came, all white and green,

I in so fair a one had never been:

The ground was green, with daisy powdered over;
Tall were the flowers, the grove a lofty cover,
All green and white; and nothing else was seen."

CHAUCER.

THE Country! What images are called up to an in-dweller in cities at the mention of the word country! especially if he has passed his earlier years among 66 Nature's green seclusions." It is summer time; "the leaves are green and long;" and you meet with a friend who is going into the country. Fain would you accompany him, but business

prevents you, and all you can do is to send the fancy thitherward, while you recal the old familiar scenes. The smell of the hawthorn, the waving of the tall grass, and the cool shadows of the high hedges, are with him—their remembrance alone lingers with you, and even in that there is some comfort. Many writers have wished that more of the country was left open in our large cities. We do not. Give us a few more squares, wider streets, not so many courts and alleys, and let the country be where it is. A city park is a pleasant place; but oh! how unlike the true green, open country! The very flowers in Finsbury Square have, to our eyes, an unnatural and waxy look: they smell of smoke, and in place of real bloom, we find them covered with "blacks," which seem ironed in, like the washed linen sent home from the airy drying grounds of a laundress in Fetter Lane. Not but what such places are highly beneficial to the health, and pleasing to the eye, and we wish London abounded in hundreds of similar squares, but they never can be the country. We would prefer picking our way through acres of pathless furze, as we did a few days ago at the foot of the Addington Hills, in Surrey; a prickly land, all golden with blossom, yet dearer to us than ten thousand of the "smoothly shaven greens" of cities.

The Great Builder of the country is God! you see His handiwork in every step you take, from the ground you tread upon, to the trees that rise tall and green above your head. Look whichever way you will, He is the grand Provider,―man but works up the material furnished by His mighty hand. But a country, that probably was never cultivated by the hand of man since the first morning dawned upon the world, is of all places the most beautiful for a real lover of nature to wander in-a world of old oaks and hoary hawthorns, with ragged gorse bushes overtopped by ancient crab-trees, where the sloe and the bullace run riot