dier any practical redress-he could look for no retaliation by acts. Words only were at his command, and, in a tumult of indignation, as he turned away, the soldier said to his of ficer that he would "make him repent it." This, wearing the shape of a menace, naturally rekindled the officer's anger, and intercepted any disposition which might be rising within him toward a sentiment of remorse; and thus the irritation between the two young men grew hotter than before.

Some weeks after this a partial action took place with the enemy. Suppose yourself a spectator, and looking down into a valley occupied by the two armies. They are facing each other, you see, in martial array. But it is no more than a skirmish which is going on; in the course of which, however, an occasion suddenly arises for a desperate service. A redoubt, which has fallen into the enemy's hands, must be recaptured at any price, and under circumstances of all but hopeless difficulty.

A strong party has volunteered for the service; there is a cry for somebody to head them; you see a soldier step out from the ranks to assume this dangerous leadership; the party moves rapidly forward; in a few minutes it is swal lowed up from your eyes in clouds of smoke; for one half hour, from behind these clouds you receive hieroglyphic reports of bloody strife-fierce repeating signals, flashes from the guns, rolling musketry, and exulting hurrahs advancing or receding, slackening or redoubling.

At length all is over; the redoubt has been recovered; that which was lost is found again; the jewel which had been made captive is ransomed with blood. Crimsoned with glorious gore, the wreck of the conquering party is relieved, and at liberty to return. From the river you see it ascending. The plume-crested officer in command rushes forward, with his left hand raising his hat in homage to the blackened fragments of what was once a flag, whilst with his right he seizes that of the leader, though no more than a private from the ranks. That perplexes you not; mystery you see none in that. For distinctions of order perish, ranks are confounded; "high and low" are words without a meaning, and to wreck goes every notion or feeling that divides the noble from the noble, or the brave man from the brave.

But wherefore is it that now, when suddenly they wheel into mutual recognition, suddenly they pause? This soldier, this officer-who are they? O reader! once before they had stood face to face--the soldier that was struck, the officer that struck him. Once again they are meeting; and the gaze of armies is upon them. If for a moment a doubt divides them, in a moment the doubt has perished. One glance exchanged between them publishes the forgiveness that is sealed forever.

As one who recovers a brother whom he has accounted dead, the officer sprang forward, threw his arms around the neck of the soldier, and kissed him, as if he were some martyr glorified by that shadow of death from which he was returning; whilst, on his part, the soldier, stepping back, and carrying his open hand through the beautiful motions of the military salute to a superior, makes this immortal answer-that answer which shut up forever the memory of the indignity offered to him, even while for the last time alluding to it: "Sir," he said, “I told you before, that I would make you repent it."

FRIAR PHILIP.

Poor friar Philip lost his wife,
The charm and comfort of his life,
He mourned her,-not like modern men,
For ladies were worth having then.
The world was altered in his view,
All things put on a yellow hue;
Even ladies, once his chief delight,
Were now offensive to his sight;
In short, he pined and looked so ill,
The doctor hoped to make a bill.

At last he made a vow to fly,
And hide himself from every eye;
Take up his lodgings in a wood,
To turn a hermit, and grow good.
He had a son, now you must know,
About a twelvemonth old or so;

Him, Philip took up in his arms,

To snatch him from all female charms,-
Intending he should never know
There were such things as girls below,
But lead an honest hermit's life,
Lest he, likewise, might lose his wife.

The place he chose for his retreat,
Was once a lion's country seat;
Far in a wild, romantic wood,
The hermit's little cottage stood,

Hid, by the trees, from human view,—
The sun himself could scarce get through;
A little garden, tilled with care,
Supplied them with their daily fare;
Fresh water-cresses from the spring,-
Turnips, or greens, or some such thing;-
Hermits don't care much what they eat,
And appetite can make it sweet!

"Twas here our little hermit grew,-
His father taught him all he knew,
Adapting, like a cheerful sage,
His lessons to the pupil's age.

At five years old, he showed him flowers,
Taught him their various names and powers,

Taught him to blow upon a reed,

To say his prayers, and get the creed.
At ten, he lectured him on herbs,
(Better than learning nouns and verbs,)
The names and qualities of trees,
Manners and customs of the bees;
Then talked of oysters full of pearls,
But not one word about the girls.
At fifteen years, he turned his eyes
To view the wonders of the skies;
Called all the stars by their right names,
As you would call on John or James;
And showed him all the signs above,
But not a whisper about love.

And now his sixteenth year was nigh,
And yet he had not learned to sigh;
Had sleep and appetite to spare;
He could not tell the name of care;
And all because he did not know
There were such things as girls below.
But now a tempest raged around,-
The hermit's little nest was drowned;

Good bye then, too, poor Philip's crop,
It did not leave a turnip-top.

Poor Philip grieved, and his son too,-
They prayed-they knew not what to do;
If they were hermits, they must live,
And wolves have not much alms to give.

Now, in his native town, he knew
He had disciples-rich ones too,
Who would not let him beg in vain,
But set the hermit up again.

But what to do with his young son

Pray tell me, what would you have done?
Take him to town he was afraid,

For what if he should see a maid!

In love, as sure as he had eyes,

Then any quantity of sighs!

Leave him at home? the wolves, the bears,

Poor Philip had a father's fears!

In short, he knew not what to do,

But thought at last he'd take him too;
And so, with truly pious care,

He counts his beads in anxious prayer,-
Intended as a sort of charm,

To keep his darling lad from harm;
That is, from pretty ladies' wiles,
Especially their eyes and smiles;-
Then brushed his coat of silver gray,
And now you see them on their way.

It was a town, they all agree,
Where there was everything to see,
As paintings, statues, and so on,
All that men love to look upon.
Our little lad, you may suppose,
Had never seen so many shows;

He stands with open mouth and eyes,

Like one just fallen from the skies;

Pointing at everything he sees

What's this? what's that? Oh, here, what's these?

At last he spies a charming thing,

That men call angel when they sing

Young lady, when they speak in prose;
Sweet thing! as everybody knows.

Transported, ravished, at the sight;
He feels a strange, but sweet delight.

What's this? what's this? Oh, heavens!" he cries, "That looks so sweetly with its eyes:

Oh, shall I catch it! is it tame?
What is it, father? what's its name?"
Poor Philip knew not what to say,
But tried to turn his eyes away;
He crossed himself and made a vow,
""Tis as I feared, all's over now;
Then, prithee, have thy wits let loose?
It is a bird men call a goose."
"A goose! O pretty, pretty thing!
And will it sing, too, will it sing?
Oh, come, come quickly, let us run,
That's a good father, catch me one!
We'll take it with us to our cell,
Indeed, indeed, I'll treat it well!"

THE TWO VILLAGES.-ROSE TERRY.

Over the river on the hill,

Lieth a village white and still;

All around it the forest trees
Shiver and whisper in the breeze;
Over it sailing shadows go

Of soaring hawk and screaming crow,
And mountain grasses, low and sweet,
Grow in the middle of every street.

Over the river under the hill,
Another village lieth still;
There I see in the cloudy night
Twinkling stars of household light,

Fires that gleam from the smithy's door,

Mists that curl on the river shore;

And in the roads no grasses grow,

For the wheels that hasten to and fro.

In that village on the hill

Never is sound of smithy or mill;

The houses are thatched with grass and flowers;

Never a clock to toll the hours:

The marble doors are always shut;

You can not enter in hall or hut;
All the villagers lie asleep;
Never a grain to sow or reap,
Never in dreams to moan or sigh,
Silent, and idle, and low they lie.