distance you only took for, perhaps a stray sheep, which had wandered down from the surrounding mountainsassumes the form of an elegant little bridge. You cross it, and after tearing your way through thickets and brambles, beneath the shade of sundry dark woods, lo! you burst upon a beautiful panorama of smiling cornfields and soft green meadows, intersected by picturesque cottages, and backed by a range of bleak hills-hardly hills-broken and disjointed masses of solid rock, tumbled about on the green earth, as if there had been, Heaven knows when, some mighty conflict,—some unnatural upheaving revolution, even in the quiet bosom of nature.

And, now, you are descending into the village of Clifton, and before you stands the church,—a quaint, old gothic building, seemingly under the graceful patronage of its bushy yew-a tree, which having bid defiance to the storms of centuries, and thrown its friendly shade over the last resting-place of fathers, and forefathers, is now looked upon by the natives of Clifton with a sort of tender veneration, and associated with their religious feelings, until the Clifton yew has become to them, like state patronage to some of us, a sort of necessary appendage to the church that must not be meddled with -a something "good and useful," of which we say in our hearts, "destroy it not for a blessing is in it." Not far from the church stands the Rectory, the home of quiet and devoted hearts, and then, after passing several rural farms, and two or three villas, you reach the residence of Richard Fleetwood, Esq., which stands alone in its wide extent of park and pleasure grounds, as if in

all the far famed aristocracy of old England; and in distinction from several upstart halls, which have lately sprung up in the neighbourhood, is dignified with the appellation of the Old Hall.

Now, as we have much to say respecting the good people of Clifton, and especially of the inmates of the Rectory and the Old Hall, we will not enter into any further description either of the village or of these respective dwelling-places, but only request you, if you have read in story books of antique parsonages and old fashioned country houses, or seen them, in our beautiful English villages in your intercourse with real life, to bear them in mind when you think of the Rectory and the Old Hall.

Richard Fleetwood was the only son of the late learned, but eccentric, Richard Arthur Fleetwood, M.D., L.L.D., F.R.S.,—of unenviable notoriety, as a freethinker; and Agnes, who has already been unceremoniously introduced to you, as the bride of Wallace Arnold, was Dr. Fleetwood's only and fondly cherished daughter. Richard was twelve years his sister's senior, and from the death of his mother, which event took place at Clifton, he made choice of the Old Hall as his residence, married, and settled down as a quiet, country gentleman. Richard possessed a tolerably large share of what is termed common sense, this good thing being, in his case, united, as it sometimes is, with a very moderate proportion of other mental qualifications. The principles of his father were his soul's abomination. He had been educated at the Grammar School of

where

he early imbibed a profound respect for the theological opinions of his teachers, and learned to talk largely of our English constitution and our Protestant church. His religion, we fear, extended no further. Query, whether the noisy professor of Christianity, whose daily practise is a libel upon his principles, is not a more dangerous enemy to the truth than the avowed Atheist ?

As for Mrs. Fleetwood, she was a graceful and accomplished little woman, but withal, thoroughly selfish, and worldly-minded. Her mental constitution,—either naturally, or because moulded of soft and pliable material, it insensibly took its form from those with whom she was most brought in contact,—had become the very counterpart of the soul of her husband. In a word, Richard and his wife were alike common-place characters; but who shall say that they were not the happier for this assimilation of feeling.

Agnes had always resided with her father. We do not mean any disrespect to the paternal feelings of Dr. Fleetwood when we say that she was his favorite child. Perhaps this partiality arose from the circumstance that she inherited his own peculiarities of taste-his love of literature and aptness to study, or perhaps from Agnes' confiding disposition and personal attractions: for who has not observed that it is a very common thing for a beautiful girl to possess a peculiar ascendency over the hearts of her relatives of the other sex. Be this as it may, Dr. Fleetwood idolised his daughter, and Agnes doated upon her father; and happy, as the earth in spring, were the years of her early youth and child

hood, which passed when she was under the paternal roof, at

Square.

But Dr. Fleetwood died when Agnes was only nineteen years of age. The circumstances attending his death were somewhat singular. He had been confined to his room by a slight accident, from the effects of which his medical attendants looked for no serious consequences, when some unexpected relapse, brought him, at once, beyond all hope of recovery. Although a professed and determined unbeliever in the truths of revealed religion, Dr. Fleetwood heard the decision of the physicians upon his case with his characteristic fortitude. Almost immediately afterwards he desired to see Mr. Arnold. Wallace was instantly summoned to his room. "You see before you, Arnold," said the old man, raising himself upon his elbow as his protégé approached his bed-side, " a dead man-a moth-a mere butterfly, about to turn again into its state of torpid death, until spring shall bud and daisies blossom over the green grave !"

A shade of thoughtfulness passed across the brow of the young Barrister, as he gently removed a labelled bottle of medicine from a chair that stood by the bed, and sat down, in front of his friend. "What new mani.

festations of life I may have to pass through," persisted Dr. Fleetwood, in slow and measured tones, "who can tell! Ah, I think I feel the earth-worms feeding upon me-living upon me-drawing life from my life, until they, too, return to their mother earth, and she travail again with fresh and fresh forms of life, and again

feed them with her nightly dew or her morning sunshine. What am I now, with all my world of hopes and conjectures, more than yonder tiny fly that is trying to penetrate its wiry legs through the down of my bed-quilt, or the oysters that have been opened for my gratification, but an hour since when my heart was warm with visions of many years!"

"Poor thing!" exclaimed the attendant nurse, who had remained in the room, sighing as such persons do sigh habitually, and turning to Wallace, "He is getting quite light headed! Should I send and fetch a

minister do you think?"

"Hang the whole fraternity of them! and send that old doating fool out of the room," exclaimed the feeble patient. "Will you not let me die in peace, without either the superstitious mummery of priestly absolution, or the bewildering attentions of some inquisitorial methodist? Let me quietly return to that state of eternal sleep, from which no restless somnambulist has come back to tell his dreams."

Wallace motioned the nurse to withdraw, and she reluctantly obeyed.

"And, now, have you nothing to say to me, Arnold?” asked the old man.

It was a dull, heavy, November morning; but at this moment a ray of Heaven's own sunlight looked through the gloom and fell softly upon the bed of the dying man. Wallace turned away his head, for his eyes filled with

tears.

"You fool, you womanly fool!" said Dr. Fleetwood,