reply to his first question about his child, when the surgeon came from the bed room, and said, "Margaret seems lifted up by God's hand above death and the grave; I think she will recover. She has fallen asleep; and when she wakes, I hope -I believe that the danger will be past, and that your child will live."

They were all prepared for death; but now they were found unprepared for life. One wept that had till then locked up all her tears within her heart; another gave a short, palpitating shriek; and the tender-hearted Isabel, who had nursed the child when it was a baby, fainted away. The youngest brother gave way to gladsome smiles; and calling out his dog Hector, who used to sport with him and little sister on the moor, he told the tidings to the dumb, irrational creature, whose eyes, it is certain, sparkled with a sort of joy.

The clock, for some days, had been prevented from striking the hours; but the silent fingers pointed to the hour of nine; and that, in the cottage of Gilbert Ainslie, was the stated hour of family worship. His own honored minister took the book:

"He waled a portion with judicious care:

And 'Let us worship God,' he said, with solemn air."

a prayer said

A chapter was read and so, too, was sung a psalm; but it was sung low, and with suppressed voices, lest the child's saving sleep might be broken; and now and then the female voices trembled, or some one of them ceased altogether; for there had been tribulation and anguish, and now hope and faith were tried, in the joy of thanksgiving.

The child still slept; and its sleep seemed more sound and deep. It appeared almost certain that the crisis was over, and that the flower was not to fade. 66 Children," said Gilbert, "our happiness is in the love we bear to one another ; and our duty is in submitting to and serving God. Gracious,

* Chose.

indeed, has he been unto us. Is not the recovery of our little darling, dancing, singing Margaret, worth all the gold that ever was mined? If we had had thousands of thousands, would we not have filled up her grave with the worthless dross of gold, rather than that she should have gone down there with her sweet face and all her rosy smiles?" There was no reply, but a joyful sobbing all over the room.

a

"Never mind the letter, nor the debt, father," said the eldest daughter. "We have all some little things of our own, few pounds, and we shall be able to raise as much as will keep arrest and prison at a distance. Or if they do take our furniture out of the house, all except Margaret's bed, who cares? We will sleep on the floor; and there are potatoes in the field, and clear water in the spring. We need fear nothing, want nothing; blessed be God for all his mercies."

Gilbert went into the sick room, and got the letter from his wife, who was sitting at the head of the bed, watching, with a heart blessed beyond all bliss, the calm and regular breathings of her child. "This letter," said he, mildly, "is not from a hard creditor. Come with me while I read it aloud to our children." The letter was read aloud, and it was well fitted to diffuse pleasure and satisfaction through the dwelling of poverty. It was from an executor to the will of a distant relative, who had left Gilbert Ainslie fifteen hundred pounds. "The sum," said Gilbert, "is a large one to folks like us, but not, I hope, large enough to turn our heads, or make us think ourselves all lords and ladies. It will do more, far more, than put me fairly above the world at last. I believe that with it I may buy this very farm, on which my forefathers have toiled. But God, whose providence has sent this temporal blessing, may he send wisdom and prudence how to use it, and humble and grateful hearts to us all."

"You will be able to send me to school all the year round now, father," said the youngest boy. "And you may leave the flail to your sons now, father," said the eldest. "You

may hold the plough still, for you draw a straighter furrow than any of us; but hard work for young sinews; and you may sit now oftener in your arm chair by the ingle.* You will not need to rise now in the dark, cold, and snowy winter mornings, and keep threshing corn in the barn for hours by candle-light, before the late dawning."

There were silence, gladness, and sorrow, and but little sleep in Moss-side, between the rising and setting of the stars, that were now out in thousands, clear, bright, and sparkling over the unclouded sky. Those who had lain down for an hour or two in bed, could scarcely be said to have slept; and when, about morning, little Margaret awoke, an altered creature, pale, languid, and unable to turn herself on her lowly bed, but with meaning in her eyes, memory in her mind, affection in her heart, and coolness in all her veins, a happy group were watching the first faint smile that broke over her features; and never did one who stood there forget that Sabbath morning, on which she seemed to look round upon them all with a gaze of fair and sweet bewilderment, like one half conscious of having been rescued from the power of the grave.

CLXII. THE ALDERMAN'S FUNERAL.

SOUTHEY.

Stranger. WHOM are they ushering from the world, with all This pageantry and long parade of death?

Townsman. A long parade, indeed, sir, and yet here

You see but half; round yonder bend it reaches

A furlong farther, carriage behind carriage.

Stran. 'Tis but a mournful sight, and yet the pomp

Tempts me to stand a gazer.

Towns.

Yonder schoolboy,

Who plays the truant, says the proclamation

Corner.

Of peace
* was nothing to the show, and even
The chairing of the members at election †
Would not have been a finer sight than this;
Only that red and green are prettier colors
Than all this mourning. There, sir, you behold
One of the red-gowned worthies of the city,
The envy and the boast of our exchange,

Ay, what was worth, last week, a good half million,
Screwed down in yonder hearse.

Stran.

Under a lucky planet, who to-day

Then he was born

Puts mourning on for his inheritance.

Towns. When first I heard his death, that very wish
Leapt to my lips; but now the closing scene
Of the comedy hath wakened wiser thoughts;
And I bless God, that when I go to the grave,
There will not be the weight of wealth like his
To sink me down.

Is gospel wisdom. I would ride the camel,
Yea, leap him flying, through the needle's eye,

As easily as such a pampered soul

Could pass the narrow gate.

Stran.

Your pardon, sir,

But sure this lack of Christian charity

Looks not like Christian truth.

* This poem was written in 1803. The allusion in the text is to the peace of Amiens, between England, France, Spain, and Holland, which was concluded in May, 1802.

In England, after a contested parliamentary election, the successful members are sometimes carried about in a chair on the shoulders of their partisans. In such elections, also, the voters on different sides are some. times designated by ribbons and badges of a peculiar color.

In England, a red gown is a common official dress of mayors and alder. men of cities, worn on important occasions.

Towns.

Your pardon too, sir,

If, with this text before me, I should feel

In the preaching mood. But for those barren fig trees,
With all their flourish and their leafiness,

We have been told their destiny and use,

When the axe is laid unto the root, and they
Cumber the earth no longer.

Stran.

Was his wealth

Stored fraudfully, the spoil of orphans wronged,
And widows who had none to plead their right?

Towns. All honest, open, honorable gains,
Fair legal interest, bonds and mortgages,

Ships to the east and west.

Stran.

So hardly of the dead?

Why judge you then

For what he left

Towns.
Undone ;
for sins, not one of which is mentioned
In the Ten Commandments. He, I warrant him,
Believed no other gods than those of the Creed;

To honor his dead father; did no murder;

Never picked pockets; never bore false witness;
And never, with that all-commanding wealth,
Coveted his neighbor's house, nor ox, nor ass.
Stran. You knew him, then, it seems?
Towns.

As all men know

The virtues of your hundred-thousanders:
They never hide their lights beneath a bushel.
Stran. Nay, nay, uncharitable sir! for often
Doth bounty, like a streamlet, flow unseen,
Freshening and giving life along its course.

Towns. We track the streamlet by the brighter green
And livelier growth it gives :—but as for this