We seldom find persons born and bred near the sea, seeking after rural enjoyments. Nor have we, on the other hand, often witnessed an individual brought up in some tranquil village in the country, that would willingly change his quiet vocation for the more romantic employment of the mariner.

To consider this rule, however, as of universal application, would be to put man on a level with the brute. The person whom I am now about to introduce to the reader, forms a striking contrast to an individual of so pliable a nature. Mr. Ambrose Maclandreth was of an ancient and respectable family in Gloucestershire. Some have intimated that his greatgrandfather was a Scotch gentleman, highly respected for his virtuous life and generous disposition. The mere name is, however, all that appears to me to justify such a report.

His father and brother were already in the field, defending their country's liberties; and his birth had cost his mother her life. While yet an infant, he was placed under the care of his grandfather, who was then in the decline of life; reposing on the laurels that his youth

and manhood, devoted to the service of his country, had nobly won for him. To train his grandson for military life constituted the sole object of his existence. This one idea engrossed all his thoughts. He beguiled his early days with tales of valour and heroism. He exerted himself to the utmost to model his young mind after his own.

Despite all these efforts, young Maclandreth had marked out for himself a very different course. Being naturally of a peaceable disposition, he could not see the lawfulness of taking up arms against those made of the same blood with himself. He became heartily tired of the importunity of his friends, and thoroughly disgusted with the various arts by which they endeavoured to force him to enter the army: he regarded every one of them as an enemy to his peace, and determined to seek some quiet retreat, where he might find that tranquillity, for which nature and grace had so adapted him. He, therefore, resolved to quit his grandfather's roof as soon as possible, and trust to Providence for the issue of his undertaking. It was his grandfather's custom to spend a

few weeks every year with an old comrade, who lived in a romantic spot near Rydal Mount. The following day, he was to set out on his journey. This was an opportunity too precious to be lost, and young Ambrose determined to make most of his way immediately after his grandfather's departure.

Under the pretence of visiting a friend in the country, he told the servant not to be uneasy about him, as he intended to remain with him for a short time. About noon he commenced his pilgrimage, not knowing whither he went. The day was remarkably fine, and, at intervals, so hot that he was obliged to take shelter in a small ale-house by the roadside, till the cool of the evening. Being shown into a small parlour by himself, he took out his Bible, and read the history of Abraham, the trials of Isaac, and the adventures of Jacob, and marked such passages as he thought peculiarly applicable to his own case.

So absorbed had he become in this pleasing and profitable work, that when he closed his treasure, the shades of evening were rapidly gathering round him. The stars were already

visible. As he gazed upon them, he beguiled the tedium of his lonely journey by thinking that they were the very stars that lighted Abraham during his pilgrimage-watched over the dreaming Jacob, while, like himself, he spent the first night from his kindred. Then, he thought of the inspiration they seemed to have imparted to the poetic David, when with rapture he exclaimed-"The heavens declare the glory of God, and the firmament showeth his handiwork." He next wondered what kind of complexion they assumed, while witnessing the agonies of the Redeemer in the Garden. Probably they turned away from the sight, as the sun did when He died. Nature, though mute, was eloquent in her vindication of her Maker's character. His enthusiasm knew no bound. He fancied himself a second Abraham. Everything seemed pregnant with promises of future greatness, and rife with the glories that were to illumine his bright career. Thus the repose of nature exerted the most friendly influence on his mind. He thought the moon looked kindly upon him. He imagined the whole universe as a vast theatre,—

earth, the stage-the sun and moon, the chandeliers that lighted it-the stars, the innumerable galleries teeming with spectators anxiously watching the proceedings-the actors, all the fallen race of man—the subject, Redemption— the hero, the Messiah-the plot, the overthrow of vice and the final triumph of virtue.

While youth and hope were equally busy in counting his future exploits in the cause of virtue, a ruffian rushed out of a large bush near the side of the road, and furiously attacked him, demanding his money or his life. Our young adventurer's enthusiasm getting the better of his judgment, he checked his first impulse-which was to strike the fellow-and said to himself, "The weapons of our warfare are not carnal, but mighty through God;" and unbuttoning his coat, he took out his Bible. His assailant, mistaking it for a case of pistols, gave a horrible yell, took to his heels, and was no more seen. Seeing the result, he cried out with rapture and amazement-"Thy word is a sun and a shield;-when a man's ways please the Lord, he maketh even his enemies to be at peace with him." The effect produced on his