so, chatting and hammering at the same time upon his low stool, with his wife blowing the fire, or mending his stockings. They generally had porridge for supper, like old Scotia's mountaineers; milk and sops for breakfast, and potatoes for dinner. Complain they never did, though they fared hard, toiled hard, and slept hard. Moses was led to believe that he was the undeniable property of his master, and that he had just as much right to him bodily as he had to his oxen or his sheep; so he must thankfully take whatever was granted him. And that was small enough, Heaven knows! So small that there was no power whatever given him to rise above his crushed condition, making one year as misty and as moody as another. And the conscience of his prosperous employer never accused him; for he strangely believed that he was acting as a Christian master should. He gave the same weekly wages as others, and surely this was Christianity. Thus he cheated the angel of good, sat down to his roasted fowl and fish, his rich soups and ruddy wine, thanking God in his heart that he was not as his drudging servant Moses, who dined contentedly off his dough and turnips, and supped on gruel and a crust. O mighty man of the manor, sitting at ease in thine hypocritical chair, God shall judge thee, thou whited sepulchre, and the Great Ruler of the universe shall laugh at thy selfish folly.

Thus Moses went on in the harness of toil, bending his back to the yoke as patiently as the camel of the desert. Suddenly a sound was heard in the air, like the noise of mighty voices, or the distant rush of rapid rivers. Merchants lifted their heads from their ledgers to listen, and burly landowners reined in their steeds at the swell. The poor delver's wife wiped her eyes with her apron, in thankfulness to Him who had heard the cry of the oppressed, and was surely sending her and her hungry little ones relief. The waves of sound grew louder, swelling over the tops of the mountains, dropping into the valleys, surging through great cities, and smiting lonely hamlets with a heaven-born power. The mower heard it at his scythe, the mill-man in the mead, the hind at the rake handle, and the weary carter with his whip and his team; and it thrilled their souls with the hope of a coming brightness. On it went, increasing in magnitude and might, until Mercy's hand was outstretched to

what

the poor labourer with a freer, fuller cup. And O, prayers arose for the defenders of the weak, from glens where daisies gleam in the grasses, and corn-ears wave in the wind!

His wife died soon afterwards-died of exhaustion and scanty fare-died without a doctor, or the prayers of the Church-died in his arms, when nearly everything had been sold for bread-died with a Scripture passage upon her tongue, that the great and good Shepherd would gather her home to His fold; and old Moses Merle was a widower. She was buried by the parish, in a pauper's pall, and the black coffin was borne to the churchyard in a pauper's hearse. Old Moses was the only mourner, hobbling along on his stick. The wind was high, and it was sad to see his white locks so smitten with the storm, and his thin garments, which were so badly able to keep life within him. He returned brokenhearted to his dwelling, alone in the world. But the door was locked-the landlord's deputy had taken possession of the cottage, distrained the remaining trifles for rent, and poor old Merle had no longer a home! How dreary the earth appeared to him then! How very far off was the angel of charity! He sat down upon the old doorstep, wrung his hands, and cried great tears of torture. He had arrived at the verge of the wilderness, and the tangled thicket had become denser, and the wounding prickles more sharp. Unnumbered fierce eyes of weird, wild creatures glared at him in the thorns; and flinty steeps, arid and verdureless, stretched on and on farther than the eye could reach. No light was in the firmament, no flowers at his feet, no brook by the way, no smile upon the faces of any living thing; and the great round sun and silver moon had left their places. The fretful sea-waves bore battered wreckage to his feet, mingled with white corpses and nameless skeletons; and he was really alone on the strand. He smote his forehead with his shrunken palm, lifted his hand and smote it again, and cried to heaven for some tokens of day. But still it was night in his soul, and dark night all around him. Poor old Moses Merle ! There is a Providence which cannot err, and by-and-bye thou shalt know, humble and oppressed as thou art, even as also thou art known.

Moses Merle had only one relative—a well-to-do farmer,

many miles away. He resolved to go to him, ask his compassion, and see what he would do for him. This is a Christian country; and Martin Mound, which was the name of his kinsman, was undoubtedly a Christian, as he drove to church on Sundays, sat in one of the grandest pews, walked arm-inarm with the minister, and gave away alms at Christmas. His name, too, was always at the head of charity-lists, and he took the chair at Missionary meetings. Yes, yes! he was surely a Christian. So old Moses arose, took another look at the dear old cottage, heaved another sigh, louder and longer than the last, brushed away another tear with the sleeve of his long-worn, threadbare coat, and with trembling steps turned his face towards a distant part of the parish. The wind had now lulled a little, though it still moaned in the forest pines, and the sun was setting in all his golden grandeur; but his heart was too sad to be much in sympathy with nature. His pace was slow, and the road uneven. Byand-bye the moon arose; the welkin was now quiet, and the very rustle of the tree-tops was music. The holy halo of the scene gradually softened his spirit, his step became firmer, and his sighs less frequent. Nothing was heard but the river in the valley, and the night-bird among the growing corn. Suddenly the bells pealed forth from the belfry, and old Moses Merle walked on in the music.

It was nine o'clock when he arrived at the residence of his kinsman, Martin Mound. He was tired by this time, and very lame; for his boots were broken ones, and his toes out upon the carth. There was a light in the kitchen-window, and so he hobbled up to the door. A few timid knocks with his stick soon brought the servant to open it, who fell back a step or two when the gleam of the lamp fell upon the coarse dress, furrowed features, and grey locks of old Moses. In sooth he was ready to fall, and was obliged to take hold of some woodwork for support. It was difficult for him to speak, but at last he faltered forth his errand, and asked to see the master. All this time he was left standing in the outer air. After considerable delay, Martin Mound came. He was a round, fat man, with a comical leer in his eyes; and nearly all the left side of his nose was gone to the ridge. He turned his squinting orbs upon the old man, scanning him from head to foot with a glance that actually stung him.

At last, with his hands thrust into his red waistcoat pockets, his head thrown back, and his corpulency showing to the utmost, he roared out, "Who are you, old fellow? and what do you want?"

Moses Merle told him in plain English that they were related on his father's side-that his old master was dead, and he was dismissed from the farm, and shut out of his dwelling-that his faithful and good wife for forty years was dead also, and that she had just been buried under the elmtree in the churchyard-that his furniture was taken for rent, and he had no home now but the wide wilderness-that his day of toil was over, health was failing, old age had overtaken him, and it was hard to starve-that a little would do for him now, only a little, just a crust of bread and bacon and a sup of milk; and he had made bold to come to ask if his kinsman could afford him this small measure out of his abundance. Having said this, faintness overcame him, and he fell upon the stones in the courtyard.

When consciousness returned, he was lying on some straw in the barn, whither he was commanded to be conveyed by Martin Mound. He sent word to say that he did not know him, nor had he the faintest recollection of his pedigree. His conclusion was that the old man was a tramp, secretly stealing from place to place-an impostor, and should be dealt with accordingly. It was his idea that the sooner the country was rid of such base vermin the better. They were to give old Moses a little milk-and-water and a piece of bread, let him sleep on the straw that night, and if he did not leave by seven o'clock in the morning, the police would take him to prison. He must make no more appeals to him, or show himself at his door; if he did so, the consequences would be disastrous. He could not afford to keep cows and pigs, and pay rent and rates for milksops like him; so let him call at the relieving officer's for an order to go into the Union, which was a condition good enough for a worn-out labourer, no matter how honest, or thrifty, or useful he might have been. After preaching this long charity-sermon to his obedient servants, he went back to his well-spread board, his liquors, and his ribs of roast, leaving his famishing unowned kinsman, old Moses Merle, with his crust and sky-blue upon the barn

straw!

The morning was misty, as we have before intimated, and poor old Moses Merle, worn-out and wronged, was travelling with a sad heart to the Union. Slowly he dragged himself along-very slowly! What his thoughts were it is impossible to divine; the cup of misery was almost quaffed, and he was now drinking the very dregs. Still, the mist hissed in his ears, sputtered in his eyes, and fastened on his threadbare garments. A dizziness creeps over him, like that which seizes the weary traveller when rest is come; and thoughts of the grave, and the quiet sleepers in their shrouds, where silence and the worm perpetually dwell, congregate around him; and the poor, cast-off labourer longs to be there. Still the compassionless mist drives thicker and thicker, and old Moses bends lower and lower, till his chin almost touches his knees, and there is a sound in his ears like the voice of his dead wife. Still the sound increases, and old Moses bends lower and lower. And another voice whispered in his soul, "Fear not; I am the First and the Last; I am He that liveth and was dead; and, behold, I am alive for evermore."

Reader, dear old Moses Merle did not die in the Union. He was found by the wayside, lying under a tree, with his Psalm-book open in his hand, and his dead finger resting upon these loving words, "My flesh and my heart faileth: but God is the strength of my heart, and my portion for ever."

UNCLE WILL AND THE EXTINGUISHED CANDLE.

U

UNCLE Will and the writer of this sketch were working together underground, digging in a singularly narrow place after copper ore. It was in a very unfrequented part of the mine, where the sound of another miner's hammer was not heard on the rock. Uncle Will was an old man, and so I let him sit upon a board a very little way behind the working, charging him to take care and keep his light burning, whilst I used the pick and iron wedges in cutting through the lode. Nearly half-an-hour, perhaps, had thus passed, and not a word had been spoken between us, when, by some mischance, I happened to strike the candle which gave us light