lord of the shepherd raged still more, and
caused that shepherd to be put to death. "O
Heaven," said the hermit, "seest thou this?
The innocent suffer for the guilty. If you permit
this, why do I stay here? I will go out into
the world, and do as others do." He went out,
therefore, and there was sent an angel from
heaven, in the form of a man, who crossed his
path, and said, "My friend, whither are you
going?" He answered, "To the city before
us?" "I am a messenger from heaven," said
the angel, "come to walk with you. Let us
proceed upon our way." They proceeded, therefore,
together; and when they had entered the city
asked a night's shelter at the house of a soldier,
who received them cheerfully, and entertained
them nobly. After supper, their bedchamber was
richly prepared, and the angel and the hermit
went to rest. But in the night the angel rose
and strangled the sleeping infant of their host.
"Is this," thought the hermit, "an angel who
makes such return to a man who gave us freely
the best that he had?" Yet the hermit was
afraid to speak.

In the morning both arose and went forward
to another city, where they were honourably
entertained by an inhabitant, who had a golden
cup that he prized greatly. This, the angel stole.
The hermit doubted, but he dared not speak.

On the morrow they went on, and as they
walked came to a river, over which a bridge
was thrown. Midway on the bridge, a poor
pilgrim was met, who, being asked by the angel,
courteously pointed out the way to the next city.
Then the angel seized him by the shoulders and
threw him over into the stream.

"It is an angel of darkness!" said the hermit
to himself. "What evil had this poor man
done that he is drowned?"

In the evening they reached another city, and
sought shelter where it was refused. "For the
love of Heaven," said the angel, "give us shelter,
lest we fall a prey to the wild beasts." "You
may sleep with the pigs, if you will," said the
man. "If better may not be, we will sleep
there," and in the morning the angel, calling the
churlish man, gave him the gold cup for his
recompense. "This," said the hermit to himself,
"can be none other than Satan." Then turning
to his fellow-traveller, he said to him, "I will
walk with you no more. I commend you to
God." "Be it so," said the angel. "Hear me,
and then we will part. The innocent shepherd
died in innocence, and went to bliss. Had he
lived, he would have been guilty of crime. The
robber will die in his sin; the owner of the
flock, by alms and good works, will atone his
error. As for the child of the hospitable
soldier that you saw me strangle, the soldier, before
the child was born, lived for Heaven, and did
works of charity. His child being born, he lived
for that only, and denied himself and his goods
to the poor. The child is now with the angels,
and the father is again a devout Christian. The
cup I stole, tempted one who had been an
abstemious man to excess. Now that the cup is
gone, he is again temperate. The pilgrim whom
I cast into the river, had he proceeded further,
would have fallen into mortal sin. I gave him
death while yet he could pass into the heavenly
glory. As to the man who gave us the sty for
a lodging, he had his reward In the gold of this
world. There is no other reward but sorrow
for him in the life to come. Put a guard, then,
hermit, on thy tongue, and judge no more the
ways of Him who knoweth all."

The hermit then fell at the angel's feet,
entreating pardon, and went back to his cell:
assured that justice rules, though men are blind.

DAY-DREAMS.

I, OFTEN lying lonely, over seas,
At ope of day, soft-couch'd in foreign land,
Dream a green dream of England; where young
trees
Make murmur, and the amber-striped bees
To search the woodbine through, a busy band,
Come floating at the casement, while new tann'd
And tedded hay sends fresh on morning breeze
Incense of sunny fields, through curtains fann'd
With invitations faint to Far-away.
So dreaming, half awake, at ope of day,
Dream I of daisy greens, and village pales,
And the white winking of the warmed may
In blossomy hedge, and brown oak-leaved dales,
And little children dear, at dewy play,
Till all my heart grows young and glad as they;
And sweet thoughts come and go, like scented gales
Through an open window when the month is gay.

But often, wandering lonely, over seas,
At shut of day, in unfamiliar land,
What time the serious light is on the leas,
To me there comes a sighing after ease
Much wanted, and an aching wish to stand
Knee-deep in English grass, and have at hand
A little churchyard cool, with native trees,
And grassy mounds thick laced with ozier band,
Wherein to rest at last, nor farther stray.
So, sad of heart, muse I, at shut of day,
On safe and quiet England; till thought ails
To an inward groaning deep, for fields fed grey
With twilight, copses throng'd with nightingales,
Home-gardens, full of rest, where never may
Come loud intrusion; and, what chiefly fails
My sick desire, old friendships fled away.
I am much vext with loss. Kind Memory lay
My head upon thy lap, and tell me tales
Of the good old time, when all was pure and gay!

MY YOUNG REMEMBRANCE.

I AM barely a middle-aged man; yet I have
a distinct recollection of Thirty Years Ago.
Looking back to that period say to the years
1830-31—I find so many and such strange
alterations in this native London of mine, that I
am tempted to recal a few of the old characteristics
of those old times, for the edification of
young ladies and gentlemen who, having been
born ten or fifteen years later than the era I
speak of, know little else than the London of
the present moment. Strange to say, my
reveries on the metropolis as it was in the last
days of George the Fourth, and the early days
of William Ditto, have been prompted by a
neighbourhood which appears to me to have