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mined to cultivate their friendship. They soon undermined his religious principles. Unlike a number of so-called gentlemen, who met to burn the Bible-but who desisted because he who was to perform the shocking act, with fear and trembling said, "I think we had better not burn this book until we can get a better”—these young men actually burned the Bible. Well, George got more hardened by this impious act, and which stamped him as an unbeliever. When reasoned with on the danger to which he exposed himself by the company he kept, he invariably replied, "I don't care; nobody else has a right to interfere." He now fully occupied the seat of the scornful. Having been often reproved, he hardened his neck, and was now ripe to be destroyed and that without remedy. After a night of drunkenress, in which he debased himself as low as hell, he was suddenly seized with a dreadful sickness, and died in great agony, cursing and blaspheming both men and God!

O my young friends, never give way to Old I Don't Care;

for

"Old Don't Care is a murderer foul,

And a murderer foul is he;
He beareth a halter in his hand,
And his staff is the gallows' tree;
And slily he follows his victim on,
Through high degree and low,
And strangles him there when least aware,
And striketh the fatal blow-

Hanging his victims high in the air,
A villain strong is Old Don't Care.

He looks on the babe at its mother's breast,
And blighteth that blossom fair;
For its young buds wither, and fade and die
'Neath the gaze of Old Don't Care;
And in place of these there springeth up
Full many a poisonous weed,

And their tendrils coil round the victim's heart,
A lank and loathsome breed-

Blighting the spirit, young and fair,
A villain strong is Old Don't Care.

He meeteth bold manhood on his way,
And wrestleth with him there;
And he falls a sure and easy prey,

To the strength of Old Don't Care.
Then he plants his foot on the victim's breast,
And shouteth with demon joy,

And treadeth the life from his panting heart,
And exulteth to destroy,-

Crushing bold manhood everywhere,
A villain strong is Old Don't Care."

THE SILENT TOWER OF

BOTTREAUX.

BOTTREAUX CASTLE, of which there are some remains, is situated on the cliffs on the northern coast of Cornwallthis has since given its name to a village called Boscastle. In the parish of Forrabury, there is a church, with a tower, but no bells. This is the silent tower of Bottreaux. Tradition says, that one of the Lords of Bottreaux, ordered a set of bells, and that these were brought by sea, but wrecked on the coast-a punishment for the impiety of the captain. The bells, it is said, are heard to ring in the sea at the approach of the storm. The rest of the tradition is embodied in the following lines, written by a clergyman of Cornwall.

"Tintagel's bells ring o'er the tide,

The boy leans o'er the vessel's side;
He hears the sound, and dreams of home,
Sad, the wild orphan of the foam.

Come to thy God in time,

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Yet the strange chough* that home hath found, . The lamb lies sleeping on the ground.

Come to thy God in time,

Should be her answering chime;
Come to thy God at last,

Should echo on the blast.

The ship rode down with courses free,
The daughter of a distant sea;

Her sheet was loose, her anchor stor❜d,
The merry Bottreaux bells on board.
Come to thy God in time,
Sang out Tintagel's chime;
Youth, manhood, old age past,
Come to thy God at last.

The pilot heard his native bells

Hang on the breeze in fitful swells;

Thank God, with reverent brow, he cried,
We make the shore with evening tide.
Come to thy God in time.
It was his marriage chime;
Youth, manhood, old age past,
His bell must ring at last.

Thank God, thou whining knave on land,
But thank, at sea, the steersman's hand;
The captain's voice above the gale,
Thank the good ship and ready sail.
Come to thy God in time,

Sad grew the boding chime,
Come to thy God at last,
Boom'd heavily on the blast.

Up rose that sea, as if it heard
The mighty Master's signal word;
What thrills the captain's whit'ning lip,
The death groan of his sinking ship.
Come to thy God in time,

Swung deep his funeral chime;

* Chough is a Cornish word for a crow.-Ed.

Grace, mercy, kindness past,
Come to thy God at last.

Still when the storm of Bottreaux's waves,
Is wakening in his weedy caves;

These bells that sullen surges hide,

Peal their deep tones beneath the tide.
Come to thy God in time,

Thus saith the ocean chime;

Storm, billow, whirlwind past,
Come to thy God at last.

Long did the rescued pilot tell,

When grey hair's o'er his forehead fell;
While those around would hear and weep,
The fearful judgment of the deep.

Come to thy God in time,

He heard his native chime;
Youth, manhood, old age past,
His bell rang out at last.

MARTIN'S ROSE.

Ir was a warm autumnal evening; Mrs. Milton, seated on her garden chair, superintended the transplanting of some choice plants, and her little daughter Minna played beside her, and now and then tried, in her childish fashion, to help the gardener with his work.

"That will do for to-night, Martin," said Mrs. Milton, "it does not matter about finishing the roses this evening; you are too ill to remain any longer at work; to-morrow they can be planted."

"I wish, mamma," said Minna, "I had a rose of my

own."

Mrs. Milton made no reply; she was reckoning the roses of various kinds, and did not hear her little girl's wish.

"If you please, ma'am," said Martin, "I would rather finish them at once. It may be my last job for you."

"I hope not," replied Mrs. Milton, with whom the old man was a great favourite, for she had known him from the time when, like her own Minna, she played in the garden of her childhood's home. Martin had been an excellent gardener, and an honest and industrious man. He was more: Martin Dale was a humble and consistent Christian, and now his work on earth was well nigh ended, and he was looking forward for the welcome summons to come up higher.

The old gardener had no children now living; but his wife, many years younger than himself, had nursed the only daughter and infant son of Mrs. Milton, lately become a widow; and around these little ones the heart of the old servant clung with the freshness and vigour of youth. Minna in particular was his pet. Her daily airings were taken in the grounds where he usually worked, and her childlike prattle enlivened the labour, or rather the voluntary employment of the old gardener; for Martin Dale had long suffered from a painful and fatal disorder, and been repeatedly urged by his kind mistress to lay aside his labours, and live on the sum which she would continue as a pension to her faithful servant. But Martin said he had lived amongst these beautiful plants and flowers, and the care of them beguiled much of weariness and pain; so he occasionally planted and watered, with his young mistress by his side, often teaching the little girl in her early springtime to "look from these works of God up to himself."

"Do you feel worse this evening, Martin?" contiuned Mrs. Milton, after a pause. "If so, you must not work any longer."

"I do, ma'am, feel a great change coming over me," he replied. "I believe I cannot finish putting all these roses into the ground; but will you give me leave to plant one here for Miss Minna? It will be a sort of keepsake for her when I am gone."

"Do so, Martin," replied his mistress, whose eyes filled with tears as the old man alluded thus calmly to his departure.

“O, Martin, are you going to plant a rose for me-for

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