thizing friends, lay extended a youth, in a state of perfect unconsciousness; an elderly man, whose white locks waved in the breeze, was on his knees, fanning with his velvet cap the apparently lifeless countenance; the first whipper-in, with lancet in hand, was waiting anxiously, but with patience, while his fellow-servant ripped open the sleeve of the prostrate object. The rest of the field, with the exception of those who had galloped off to Rugby, Coventry, and Warwick, for surgical assistance, were congregated in small parties, looking dismayed, and were evidently devoid of a hope. A horse, with stiffened limbs, was being removed by some labourers; while two men, with a gate for a stretcher, were waiting to carry the lifeless corpse to a neighbouring cottage.

O'Donnell seeing at one glance that poor young Sewell had breathed his last, urged me to quit the melancholy scene, and accompany him to the Manor-house, there to break the sad tidings to his bereaved mother and sister.

As we were proceeding slowly and silently home, Farmer Dale overtook us, and described the accident as it occurred.

The unfortunate youth, finding "Black Bess" a little distressed, had ridden her with such judgment, that she had quite recovered herself, and gathering her well together before he charged the park paling, would have got over it in perfect safety, had not a loose horse, who had thrown its rider at the last fence, galloped across the mare's track, causing her to swerve as she rose at the leap; the gallant animal thus put out of her stride touched the fence with her knees, fell over it, and coming in contact with a huge elm tree that had been lately felled within the park, broke her own back, and rolling over her rider, deprived him of life. Such was the lamentable account given me of my early companion's unfortunate and premature death.

Tears, hot burning tears rolled down my cheek, as I listened to the tale of misery and woe. The painful task of informing a kind and warm-hearted mother of the sudden demise of an affectionate son, now devolved upon me; and upon presenting myself before her, my heart palpitated so violently that I was unable to utter a single word.

Why, what has happened, Master Ernest?" inquired the matro "you have over-fatigued yourself with the run-a glass of orange wine and a cake will do you good.

"Thank you, no, no," I hastily replied, with bloodshot watery eyes. "I hope you have got into no trouble?" continued the childless mother. 66 I hear from Joe Starks that you had a burning scent; I trust you killed your fox, for the sake of sport as well as for my ownmy hen-roost has suffered a good deal lately from these marauders.' "Oh! Mrs. Sewell," I exclaimed, with an agonizing burst of grief; "poor, poor Frank!"

"Frank! you alarm me-has he had a fall?-is he hurt!"

Alas, alas!" I replied, "and the consequences may be-are, I mourn to say-fatal."

Not a word escaped the mother, a deep sigh was alone heard-she remained mute and motionless. At this moment our heart-breaking conference was interrupted by the entrance of the wretched father: his look at once corroborated my statement. "Mary," sobbed the afflicted. parent, we have lost our son, the delight of our days, the hope of our declining hours, the boy who never gave us a moment's uneasiness"

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here poor Sewell was so overcome with sorrow that he could not utter another word.

"The brave, brave boy!-the Lord gave, and the Lord hath taken away," proceeded Mrs. Sewell, in a voice scarcely audible; then burying her face in her hands, uttered an indistinct prayer. After a time the wretched mother for the first time found relief to her overcharged feelings in a flood of tears; then taking that volume from the shelf which can alone comfort the mourner in the hour of distress, she turned to the severe trial of Abraham-she cried over the grief of the royal sufferer on the death of his beloved but rebellious Absalom-she dwelt on the temptations of the patient and holy Job. Religion now shed its influence over her mind-"a still small voice" whispered, "Weep not!" "Yet, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil for thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff, they comfort me. "To die is gain."

Leaving the disconsolate parents to indulge in their holy meditations, I took my leave, and retired to the privacy of my own room, where I soon found myself in a raging fever. Excitement and over-fatigue had mastered a weak frame, and for the next week I remained in a dangerous state; youth, however, came to my aid, and in less than a fortnight I was pronounced to be in a state of convalescence; during this brief period the remains of poor Frank Sewell had been consigned to the grave, amidst the lamentations of his friends.

Upon the morning of the funeral all labour was suspended, and the whole of the rural population of Atherley and the adjoining parish attended the body to the place of interment; the gentry, too, came forward to pay their tribute of respect to humble yet departed worth; and to judge of the feeling that was evinced by all classes upon the mournful occasion, a casual bystander would have imagined that some great national calamity had taken place, and not merely the death of a simple kind-hearted country youth.

The small village of Atherley is by no means devoid of interest: its rural appearance, its neatly white-washed houses, its comfortable inn, its festive maypole, its ivy-mantled towers, the gothic ornaments, the antique font, the curiously carved seat, and door-way still remaining, indicate that its foundation belongs to a very distant period. The churchyard too, where

"The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep,"

has a very striking appearance, the dark foliage of the pine trees by which it is surrounded forms a fine contrast with the gayer verdure around; while the venerable yews spread a still more solemn shade over the turf that "heaves in many a mouldering heap."

Here the remains of poor Frank Sewell had been deposited; and as I paid a pilgrimage to the spot which contained the mortal remains, my grief revived. Beside the grave knelt a venerable figure, her head hoary with age, and the falling tears glistened on her sunk and furrowed cheeks; her hands were clasped with pious energy, while her broken voice emitted inarticulate lamentations. As I approached she turned her hollow eyes upon me; they sent forth a look of sadness that quite appalled my heart, and again they were bent miserably upon the ground. It were a painful and thriftless task to follow the broken-hearted mother

to her silent resting place. There are two graves in the churchyard, lying together and alike; Mary Sewell and Francis her son are sido by side the green turf grows equally on both-the village children sport over them--the careless passer-by heeds them not.

The daily events of the world have left memory little trace of the departed; but the tale of their sorrows is deeply engrafted in the hearts of all who knew them.

"THE COUNT-OUT.”

ENGRAVED BY J. H. ENGLEHEART, FROM A PAINTING BY A. COOPER, R.A.

Brother electors! worthy friends!

I'm sure it does'nt rest with me
To say how much on you depends,
Or how you'll exercise that free
And independent "-hold, enough!
And more, of all this rabble rout,
Who vainly roar for blue and buff,
The Sheriff says we're counted "out."

Odi profanum-clear the way
And only get us off from here,

Far from these patriots-that's to say
From all this horrid smell of beer.

Vale, oh, vale! one and all,

To sharp-set cit and country lout

A long farewell, for go we shall

Because, you see, you've turned us out.

And where to fly, and where to lose
Of such a scene the every care?
Apt August prompts you how to choose,
And breathe again the mountain air.
"Look on this picture!" study well
The tempting tribute spread about,
And as you read it, need we tell

66

How sure the twelfth "shall find you “out ?”

Health, spirits, crown the welcome hale,

That waits your step upon the moor;

McSawney's smile, old Presto's tail,

Tell tales of your being here before.

Heart whole, hand firm, you meet the morn
That leads to packs both strong and stout,

How many, alas! shall feel forlorn,

Ere yet your bag is counted out.