LESSON CXIV. The same, concluded. A quarter of a century "TIME rolls its ceaseless course." had passed away, and during its progress our recentlyformed colony in New South Wales had grown rapidly in extent and importance. An outpost, some thirty miles from Sydney, was under the command of Major Gardiner, of His Majesty's regiment of infantry. Returning from his morning's ride, he perceived a mass of people congregated in an open space, in the centre of the town then in progress, and soon ascertained that the crowd had collected to witness a fellow-being, convict though he was, undergo the punishment of whipping. The delinquent was an old man, feeble, thin, and emaciated, his scanty locks, silvered by sixty winters, hung round a countenance convulsed with terror, whilst his withered hands made unavailing efforts to disengage himself from the grasp of the provost's assistants; as Gardiner approached, the wretched being, in piteous accents, exclaimed, O, sir, for the love of Heaven save me! I have suffered much; chains and exile I have borne; but O, spare me from the lash, and I will bless you with my latest breath." The major inquired of the jail-keeper what offence the suppliant had committed, and learned that a Spanish dollar, belonging to a fellow-prisoner, had been traced to his possession, and as petty thefts were constantly occurring, amongst the convicts, he had received instructions to check the evil by summary punishment of the offenders. "The old fellow," continued the jailer, "has behaved very well of late years; he was a troublesome customer when he first came out, but that's a long while ago. I haven't had a black mark against Matson since this place was first built upon." "Enough,' said the major, "his past good conduct shall avail him now. Unhappy man," he continued, addressing Matson, "let me hope that the pardon, now granted you, may not be abused." Saying this, the gallant officer rode off, and had not proceeded many paces when a tall tree, to which both axe and saw had been applied, suddenly fell across his path, and caused his horse to rear and plunge so violently, that the rider was thrown off, and in the fall his head was dashed with considerable violence against a large stone by the wayside. The crowd, he had just left, rushed to the spot; many pronounced. him killed, but Matson, forcing his way to the prostrate body of his preserver, implored his companions not to screen the air from the stunned and senseless frame; desired, in almost a tone of authority, that water should be brought as quickly as possible, and proceeded to loosen the tightly-buttoned regimental coat, take off the stock, chafe the temples, and feeling in vain for pulsation in the region of the heart or at the wrists, he drew forth a lancet-case and opened a vein. This prompt conduct soon restored the major to consciousness; after a brief delay, he was conveyed to his residence; Matson still supporting him, and earnestly beseeching permission to remain in the house till other assistance could be procured. His request was granted, and speedily the grateful old man administered a cooling draught, to allay any feverous symptoms, and, anxiously watching every change, succeeded, in a few days, in restoring him to comparative health. He now only suffered from the effects of contusion, but his reason resumed her power, and as soon as he was permitted to converse, he hinted his belief that the efficacy of Matson's prescriptions must have resulted from study and practice of the healing art. "Your surmise is well founded, sir," replied the old man. "I once moved in the world as a physician in extensive practice. A madness, a disease, I can call it nothing else, tempted me to forget that we are expressly commanded not to steal. Trusted and unsuspected, I had constant opportunities of gratifying this devilish propensity. Detected, I fled the scene of my disgrace, and was ultimately banished forever from my native land. What I have endured during my exile, I will not pain you by describing. Your timely interference saved me from unmerited degradation. I was not guilty of the crime they charged me with." "Your story," said the major, "has brought back to my memory an event which happened in my childhood. A medical man in my native city, disgraced his honorable profession. I was the instrument of his detection, and I even now writhe as I remember the castigation I received for my discovery of the offender." "Where did this happen?" eagerly inquired Matson. "In Bath," was the reply. "But the poor child who suffered for me was named Vowles." "So was I called in the days of my youth; but on the death of my patron and friend, Sir Walter Gardiner, I was bequeathed his property on the stipulation that I should assume his name." "Just Heaven! the punishment you suffered for accusing me, led to your good fortune. The wretched Mitchell still feels, however, that he was the cause of unmerited chastisement. Can you forgive me?" "I do most freely. To you I owe my life, and I will use my best influence to soften the rigors of your lot." Mitchell withdrew, and Major Gardiner immediately wrote to the governor, for permission to retain the supposed Matson in his establishment, and to free him from his manacles. Before the seal was applied to the letter, the hand of Heaven had rendered unavailing all human intervention. The old man's body was found in a kneeling position by his bed-side. His spirit had departed to the Being who gave it, the All wise, and All-merciful. LESSON CXV. The Child who swept the Crossing.-PASCHAL DONALDSON. "PLEASE, sir, a penny for sweeping the crossing." Such is the request of a little girl, toiling amid the mud and filth to make the crossway passable. She is beautiful, that poor child. Hers is a face that you may gaze on with interest. The eye is bright and intelligent; the mouth and teeth such as many a more fortunate maiden might envy; the hair, parted carelessly over the fair forehead, dark and silk-like; the countenance full of sweetness and expression. As she speaks, she looks up, and extends her brown hand; but they (the look and hand) are suddenly withdrawn. Yet that look so flashlike goes to the heart, and starts the unbidden tear. So pitiful, so modest, and yet so unavoidable, is it? You may see the shame the crushed spirit through that face, struggling against the circumstance, the necessity, that compels her to make this simple yet eloquent appeal. As I pause before her, the warm blood rushes into her pale cheek, and tears, which she vainly strives to repress, glisten in her eyes. God help thee, poor child!- thou art expecting the harsh word and fierce look, such as have so often greeted thee to-day; and they will rend thy young heart again, as they have before rent it - who knows how terribly? But why shouldst thou not be thus coldly treated and repulsed? Thy garments are tattered; they hang in shreds about thee; thy feet have no covering to protect them from the cold. Thou art poor and wretched, hapless child! and therefore defenceless; why shouldst thou not be repulsed? The hundreds who hurry past thee might readily spare thee the penny thou askest: but thou art a beggar — a friendless helpless, neglected beggar - and there are so many such as thou! Such, fair girl, is the reasoning of the crowds who pass thee by; crowds who would feel for thee, who would cheer thee, who would aid thee, too, if they should pause, one mo ment, to gaze on thee and reflect. Do not think they are all they are only heedless. Nay, fear not; I shall not I have paused to reflect. Thou hast worked Thou hast done well, though; for whoever does her best, does well. The child starts at my words. She turns towards meshe seems amazed. Alas! so rarely does she hear the voice of kindness! Now the tears, which she has struggled hard to repress, gush forth; she cannot restrain them; that single word of sympathy has sent them hurrying up from their source, and she may not conceal them, even though she try. Come, come, dry thy tears, poor child, and speak to me. Hast a father a mother? May be, if they need help, it might be afforded them. Let us walk home; you are weary; it is near night; you would soon go homeward." 66 The little girl speaks not a word, but obeys me, with a stare, as though she felt that some unaccountable presence were near her, and that something most unusual had happened. She leads me through several streets, until at last we come to a tall, cheerless house, inhabited, evidently, by more than a score of families. We ascend the stairs; we go up far up to the very top of the huge building, and enter a small - a very small- apartment, where the daylight struggles through a solitary window set in the roof. The child walks into the room, and hands the piece of money, I have given her, to a woman, who sits near a chimney-place, where a solitary brand is dully consuming. She is very pale and thin, that woman; her eyes are large and lustrous; there is a wildness in their stare that startles you. I follow closely on the child's footsteps. The woman hears, ere she sees me. "I have accompanied the little girl to ask if I may serve you.” Mother, he gave me the only money I got all day." Such the words that are spoken - and O, how sweet and melodious -- |