the master-mountebank keep back his share of praise; the whole circus rang with loud acclaim a proud night was that for Tumbling Tommy. The performance was at last finished, and next day the mountebank sought out the mother of the young scape-grace: he made very fair offers for her son, and held out hopes that if he went through a regular course of tuition, there would be no doubt of his one day becoming a great tumbler. "No, she couldn't think of letting her bairn live such a tramping life; if he tumbled a bit now and then to please himself, that was all well and good. But he was her own bairn, and as dear to her as if he was ever so steady; no, she couldn't think of letting him leave her." A day or two however elapsed, and Tumbling Tommy was missing; where he had gone we all had a shrewd guess; but years elapsed and his mother never saw him again, although he frequently sent her small sums of money, and, at last, more than she required to live on.

T

Time rolled away, and I had almost forgotten my old playmate; if I thought of him at all, it was among many others, a mingled mass in which few of the objects stood out distinctly. One day, however, a strange foreign-looking fellow knocked at the door, and looking very hard at me said, "Don't you know me ?" No, I had no remembrance of that mustachoed, be-whiskered, and sun-browned face I had not the honour to know the gentleman. He drew a card from his case and presented it. "Signior Capriccio, Padua." Worse and worse; I had no acquaintance with any such person, never remembered to have seen such a name before. What could he mean? There was a sly mockery in his countenance as he exclaimed, " I'll make you know me!" and throwing up his heels, he turned three or four somersets, nor ceased until he had poked one foot clean through a map of London, making a greater hole in the Thames than ever the tunnel had done, and demolishing both St. Paul's and the

Bank, and the whole neighbourhood of Cheapside. I knew him instantly, not by his face, but his feet; there was no mistaking those old familiar legs - they looked all the better for wear: had he but presented them instead of his face at first, I should at once have recognised my old friend Tumbling Tommy. Those very legs which were so despised, which every neighbour prophesied would be his ruin, had carried him safely through a great portion of the world. Dons, and grandees, and monsieurs, and mademoiselles had showered down their plaudits upon them; they had procured him a new name, had acquired a thousand foreign tricks, and won for their owner good store of gold. From the day he joined the mountebanks, his whole life had been one series of fortunate events he only tumbled to rise the higher, keeping no doubt in mind that line of old Bunyan's

"He that is down needs fear no fall."

THE story I am about to relate is one of almost every-day occurrence; a simple tale of one who was young and beautiful, and loved, and died. Every town, every village, nay, almost every street of any extent could furnish materials for such a story as I am about to tell. A thousand heads are now tossing on uneasy pillows, beset with painful thoughts that chase away all rest; a thousand hearts are aching and breaking in silent chambers, the story of whose griefs will never be uttered. The grave will close over all their sor

rows, the sun will rise and set, moonlight and darkness will chase each other over their "narrow homes," thousands will pause to peruse the "uncouth rhymes," on their rude headstones, but not a tongue can record their sufferings.

How many faces do we pass daily on which grief has imprinted her image! How many sighs are heaved hourly, fraught with love and pity, and painful remembrances, and hopes, and prospects blighted, that die on the weary air! How many beautiful homesteads do we pass standing in lovely spots, on hill, or valley, or flowery lawn, decorated by the master-hand of nature! spots so sweet that we might deem that death came not there—yet even while we are gazing, perchance there are hearts breaking within.

As

I had been absent several months from the village when I took the advantage of a fine day in June to revisit it, and to have a little gossip with a few of my old acquaintance. I wandered along over the fair meadows that stretch beside the river Trent, the slow solemn tones of a death-bell smote my ear, and came with a strange sound, amid all the beauty and sunshine of that sweet summer scene. I entered the first cottage in the village, and was not long before I had gathered some particulars of the story of the deceased, which to me was very interesting, through having seen her before. But I will attempt to give a portion of our conversation, for in a tale of the heart, the simplicity and earnestness of an old woman outdoes all author-craft.

"And how old might she be, Betty?" inquired I, tasting of the old woman's home-brewed beer, for no greater offence can you offer them, after a long absence, than to refuse taking refreshment.

"Nineteen next reaping time; - try a bit of that kissing crust," added she, taking as much interest in my wants as I did in her narrative; "I am afeard that loaf's rather too high baked; bon that Lucy, I left her to mind them on th'

hearth, while I went down to Sally Penny's to talk about poor Mary Gray. But everybody loved her; it would have done your heart good to see how the children used to run after her, and scream and cry to go to her. Ay, the very crossest used to be as still as mice if she only took them, and would snuzzle to her, or look up into her sweet face, and seem a deal more pleased with gazing on it than they would have been with all the playthings you could have brought 'em fra a fair."

"So you believe the young squire loved her?" continued I, occasionally swallowing a mouthful of bread and cheese just to keep the old woman in humour, and prevent her importuning me and interrupting the story.

"Loved her!" echoed the old woman, as if indignant at my daring to doubt it for a moment. "Loved her! an angel fra heaven would have loved her! she was such a sweet temper, and so gentle, and so pretty;-I often said she was too good for this sinful world. Yes, Henry did love her with all his heart; none of your fly-by-sky love was his, but such love as they loved with in those old-fashioned times when they used to die for one another if they couldn't be made happy. But his father was a rogue,—it will come home by him, though, for both their sakes; this year, they say, all his corn looks very sickly, and only the other day he had a cow and calf died ;-bless you, he'll never prosper. Do you know he threatened to turn Henry out-of-doors if he ever saw Mary again, and to disinherit him, and all for loving her. But his uncle said he shouldn't want, and he bought Henry a something in the army-I forget what they call it, it's something like missionary ;-however it made him a fine officer, and he went to join his regiment, but the thoughts of leaving Mary preyed so upon his heart, that together with thinking of her, and being in a low way, through what his father had said, why, poor dear young man, he died." And