' who moronic! manta.

l

3'03 '1‘ R '2'.- (Front Frienddrip's‘ Ofering,for 1843.)

THE DREAMS OF OLD; BY I. A. Bkownx.

The dreams of old have faded, Their wond’rous power is o’er; We'cannot be persuaded _ To try their spells once more. Our wisdom now is scornin What our fathers deemeif a boon; The world’s bright clouds of morning Have melted in her noon. Yet. for the arted glory They she on mortal mould, Think gently of the hantasy That framed the reams of old.

Where are the fairy legions 'I‘hat peopled vale and grave, And overspread earth’s regions With strange ethereal love 5 The flowers their beauty haunted Are bloomin gail still; But time hath isenc nted The meadow and the rill. . There ’s not a child who listens When their magic tale is told, Who does not know they were but dream, Those radiant dreams of old.

Where '5 the high as iring That the sta r-watc r knew, Born of the pure desiring, For the. holy and the true 1" The faith that never halted, Heaven’s starry page to read, A ad framed a dreauevihed Unto a prophel’s creed. Who now would seek the phuets, The future to unfold ; Who, as the grave astrologer, Revive the dreams of old ’!

Where is the kindred spirit, With weary endless qpest, Still hoping toinheri! Earth’s riches, and he bllgst ’5 No more beside his furnace The alchymist may bend, No more in lonely sternness His secret labours tend. We have a holder wisdom To multiply our gold, An open craft to supersede That strangest dream of old.

So the dreams of ages, And leave but little true ;

Visions of bards and sages New wisdom canefi'aee. Dreams that have won the fearful * To hope Ibr better days; Dreams thalliave filled the aheesfial ~”W'ith 93.50! and :sze. A 55 otbmt'in' r “filth deathless tfigsgolled, That shall not erish and depart Amidst the reams of old.

Yes, what upheld the martyr Amidst the final strife,

"lien he refused to barter His holy faith for life ’!

What cheered the pilgrim strangers 'l‘o lofty thou-flit and deed,

To sow ’inidst eath and dangers The Gospel'ssacrcd seed 1 I

They hoped the world’s wide unions . Its fruit should yet behold,

And was then glorious faith a dream— A folding dream ofold 1’

No ; by the bald: devotion, Lisped at its mother’s knee,

And by her deep emotion, lis early trust to see;

And by the bond ofunion The faithful here may prove;

And by the blast communion Of ransomed ones above-—

We feel that here no vision Was with the past enrolled,

That the Christian faith may never be A baseless dream of old.

L I T E R A T U R E . (From the Christian Souvenir, for 1843.)

OLD GRAHAM THE BEGGAR. ‘BY JOHN INMAN. 1f therebe one moral truth more clearly established than another—4m. the proof of which, beyond all others, is con- Itantly Within and around us and before our eyes—it would seem to be that which proclaims the bollowncss and worth- lelsnels ofhumnn distinctions; the artificial and conven- tional distinctions, that is, of birth and station, which men

' custody. The

man of small authority wuss robust little fellow, with round red cheeks, a stomach of wellfeil iiinpll- tude, and ii pair of short stout lege, diverging Widely from each other at the knees so as to form each a small segment ofa circle. His prisoner was an aged man, whose for!" bird once been tall, but Was now bent with years ;—I-l'tlS thin hair struved in long but slender curls ofsnowy whiteness down his shoulders; his steps were feeble and uncertain, and his dress, threadbare and faded, gave token of poverty [but had been long eudured.—-Yet there was something in his ten-_ tures and in their expression which fastened the attention of the beholder—something which indicated that the old man, though poor and miserable, bud within him the workings of a proud spirit, and neither nge nor wretchedness hnd been able to efface from his aspect the trace of better days. There was even a haughty pride in the look and gesture with which lie repulsed, feeny indeed, but effectually, an attempt of the parish oflicer to take him by the collar; and fancy could imagine that his air, as he followed the official to the dwelling of the magistrate, was rather that of nn‘ac- cuser than of one who had made himself amenable to gun— tice by some infi'action of her laws.

The old man was a beggar. For years he had been known in the rural districts about London as an habitual, though never obstructive, applicant for charity. He had no relatives, So far as any one knew or could discover—for lie was reserved in speaking ofbiinself or his past history—and it was generally supposed that he was a native of Scotland, where, if anywhere, his family connexions were to be sought and found. There was in his language and conduct notliing ofthat genial and companionable spirit which character-tees the licensed mendicant of Scotland, as we find him describ- ed by Scott; on the contrary, this old man was taciturn, shrinking from observation, fond ofbeing alone, and little disposed to make himself welcome at the rustic fireside by ministering to the almost universal passion of the rural housewives for the gossip ofthe country side—VVheie was his home, if home he had, no one pretended to know. He passed from house to house, and from village to village, asking no alms save food and shelter, and often taking up his rest at night in barns and out-houses, or, in fine weutlier, under the shelter ofsomc hay rick, iii the opett field. Willi othermendicauts he was never seen to associate, but, on the contrary, when they crossed his path, be avoided them with every appearance of dislike, and even of contempt; carrying this so far that be had been known, on more than one oc- casion, to depart hastily and in anger, his wants unrelieved, from houses at which be wasiiivited to eat in company with another beggar who happened to make his call at the same time. His age wus not known, but fi‘om his appearance was judged to be somewhat beyond seventy. His name was Graham, “Old Graham the beggar” lie was culled among the country people. But We must accompany the old man to the seat ofriiral justice.

’Squire Abel-Shaw, the lord ofthe manor, justice ofthe peace, and custos rotulorum, was a country gentleman of the old school, such as most country gentlemen were in England sixty years ugo,aiid such as may be found, even now, although their number has greatly diminished, in some ofthe remoter districts ofthe 'westcrn and northern coun- ties. Wealthy by paternalacres, ofmiddle age, a hearty good liver, and greatly addicted to what are called the man- ly sports ofthe field, he know little and thought less of mental cultivation, holding a good seat in the hunt, and a sure aim with the fowling piece, in much higher estimation than knowledge of musty books, or brilliant powers of con- versation. He was proud of his fine estate, of his well stock- ed preserves, his portly wife and blooming daughters; but prouder than of all these was ’Squire Aberslinw of his long iin ancient pedigree, in which he could trace his descent, iti one unbroken line of landed proprietors, to the barbarous days of the Norman conquest, his ancestor having come in, a knight of valor and renown, with the stalwart overthrower ofthe Saxon dynasty.

OldGruham the beggar stands before ’Squire Abersbnw, in theJustice room of Abersliaw Hall. He is charged by the important bendle with vagi‘nncy, with habitual begging, and with no ostensible means of gaining a livelihood. There is no accusation of poaching against the old man, and the ’Sqiure, who loves his preserves with more than the tender- ness ofa father, is disposed to be lenient. “Give thefpoor old fellow asliillirig,” benevolence whispers in his cars,— uiid the some good spirit suggests a rebuke to the beadle for l‘llS officiousness. But a proud gliince limit the old man’s eye stirs up the spirit of pride in the breast of the Wealthy Squire, and the shilling must be accompanied by an admo- riition.

his neck, she required to know who the old man 6 just been taken to tlgr lock-up, and what infrac- ' ' lows he hail committe . _ _ noggivii‘gemm, my darling,” unaware-ti the ’Squire ; “an im- pudent old rascal, who- goes _ rambling about the-cpiiiitryl, doing nothing for his own. livelihoodnaml lipOl’lnga upo those who are more industrioiisthan hiii'iself. M d is But, father,” pleaded bmily, “ he is very ?o S un| poor. Is there nothing against him but begging. .iirey you would not send a hoary headed man like hint ti} prison only for asking it rnorsel of_ broad and 3 cup 0 water from those who are able and willing to give. I Now, here wns u dileminn for Sqiure Alieislinw. l 3 his own secret soul he knew I} was not for begging he is sent the old man to prison. 'llie affront to his own Cllgltl‘ll}; and ancestral pride was the real offence tor which heh iii awarded punishment; but how could be nyow this trutd Ito liis gentle and tender hearted daughter. How cool lie endure the pain and inortification which he knew that are would feel, and which, iii their reflection from her bosom to his own, would be increased tenfold? His conscience smote him, and he knew not what to say. I ' f Yet theloving, pleading, earnestly-interrogating eyes.o this fair child were fixed upon his own, and the last rernmnl- ing trace ol'niiger against the beggar melted away beneat i their gaze. The rich man was troubled, and at the moment would almost have consented to change places Willi the sub- ' of his authority and power. _ Jec‘EEmily, darling,” he Sltltl, at length, in a low and beqztn— ting tone, which bespenk a consciousness of wi‘ong— go to the lock-up, my child, and set the old man free. I was hasty—too hasty. I did not think of you, dearest, or would not have sent him there. Go :mdrelense him; brmg him up to the hall, give biin something to eat, and a hall crown, and then come back and kiss your father in token offorgive- ness.” I

“ Nay, dear father, not ofmy forgiveneest—fur what right have I to pronounce judgment on your actions. Kiss you I will indeed, as a_ kind good father, who does every thing to please his Emily; and I will gladly go and set the old man free; but his liberation shall he owmg, not. to your love to me, but to your generosity and kindness of heart. I knew that my father would not be harsh with one upon whom old age and poverty have already borne so lienyily.” . _

“ Be it as you will, dearest,” answered the kind father, im- printing a kiss on the fair open brow ofhis lovely cliilil ; and Emily hastened away upon her errand of goodness and of mercv.

She found old Graham sitting at the grated window ofthe lock-up, his head resting upon his band, and his eyes appri- reiitly fixed upon the green fields and the Wavmg trees, whose Vet‘dtll‘e it was so pleasant to look upon, but from the enjoyment of which be was deburi'ed. He did not seem to be aware of her entrance, for be neither moved nor spoke; and when she approached so near as to be able to see his face, she perceived that his thoughts were not upon the scene before him. Tenrs were slowly trickling down his wither- ed cheeks, and the expression that rested upon his countej mince was that ol deeply wounded feeling. So absorbed was be in his painful nieilitiition, that until she laid her band gently upon his arm he seemed unconscious of the maiden’s presence. Then he started, atid gazing intently upon her face, while his look ofpride returned, awaited in silence the oblect ofher coming.

Emily was embarrassed for a few moments, and knew not what to soy. Regret, not wholly unmingled with shame, for her father’s barsliuess,in condemning the old man to the disgrace of H commitment, made her hesitate iii addressing liei'companiou; and there was something, too, in the haughty expression ofhis eyes that added to her hesitation. But it was on an errand of mercy that she had come; and from her, mercy could have no feeble or unimpi‘essive utterance. Gently, kindly, with soothing words and a voice that was all melody, she announced the purpose of her cOming, adding many it cordial wish for the old man’s welfare, and assurance of'lier desire to increase it; for )mily’s was a gentle soul, and she felt and knew that even in the bosom ofa n‘ienilicant there niigiit be feelings that claimed the tenderest respect, and that to such as he a kind word often would be more grateful than more substantial charity.

The sensibility ofthe mendicaiit bail been deeply wound- erl,and it was long before his excited feelings gave way to the persuading eloquence ofthe fnir pleader. He refused at first to accept the proffered liberation, passionately exclaim- iiig that he had been imprisoned without cause, and that from his prison he would never go; he would die there, and leave his malcdiction on the bend of his oppressor. But no

arms about was that ha

“.Hark ye, sirrab,” qiioth the ’Squire ; “the law must be- mairitained,and if] let you go unpimisheil, you must betake yourself to.your own parish. Vagi‘nucy is forbidden by sta- tute; begging from door to door is a disreputable method of gaining a living, and cannot be allowed. lsliall discharge

fins! create among themselves, and then fall down and wor- lhtp. Every epoch of human life—every incident of human fortune—every phase of human existence, proclaims, in language which stupidity itself cannot fail to understand, that the human race is u brotherhood, of common origin and common liabilities ; and that no height of genius, no extent of power, no acquisition of knowledge, can do away with the

_ community ofsubjection to infirmity, misfortune, disease

and deatlr, which is the characteristic of mortiil bell)". “ There is no.royal road to mathematics,” said the pedd- gogue, when his royiil pupil complained ofgeometricnl liard- ships; the prince, alike with the peasant, must gather tip the riches of science by the toil of his own brains, or not at all. The queen must bring forth her children in great pain and peril, as Well its the liumblest of her subjects. The king or emperor, though he be aiitocrat of a hundred Russins'or like Napoleon, lord paramount of sovereign vassals witlioui number, must eat, or he will die of hunger; must drink as often as the beggar to whom a cup of sour wine is an Itll- frequent luxury; is fatigued with even less exertion than the beggar; writhes in agony, like the simplest mortal, under the infliction ofa raging toothache; if tickled, must needs laugh, at whatever cost ol'digiiity; when attacked by illness is firm to swallow the same nauseous drugs that bring back health to lesser men; and finds at last no escape from death arid corruption, not even in n royal tomb, or a coffin of the richest and most costly wood, covered with purple velvet an’il enriched With ornaments of burnished gold. ’

Thousands are now living, not yet so for advanced in awe auto have lost the meriiorv of what they saw and heard in former years, who have nown examples ofuncertain for- tune ainong what are called the great ones of the earth more iiiimeroul and more striking in their bold contrasts than history of any other time affords—Within the passing century, thrones and the occupants of thrones have been seen tossed about on an ocean ofcliange as reckless and un- certinn its. riuy that over shipwrecked the fortunes ofa pri- vate ind_iVIduul. The right divine ol'kings has yielded time and again, to the more potent right of revolution or of, con- qpeut; the sons of blacksmiths and tavern keepers have "gen to be rulers of_nations; the loftiest ranks of nobility )flfiy‘o become the sporl of brave and fortunate soldiers' and croWned kings, ou the other hand, and queens descdiided from long lines of royalty, have been exhibited for spectacles of inlmltlllty; some as waiiderers and vagrnnts in foreinrn lands, some as dependants on national charity, and sumac—- 0, fearful portent to royal eyes l—cl subjects of the execu- tioner and victims of the axe.

Yet, in the very face of all these warnings—in utter con- tempt and defiance, as it were, of the lessons so sharply taught—man still covets the shining bauble of dis- tinctions. Human beings are still absurd enorrgh to believe

I and claimvthat birth and title are realities—thing! whereof

to be proud, and on account of which to challenge worship —-and .other human beings are so besotted as to recognize the claim and to yield the worship, even at the cost of their own rights _as men, and the voluntary surrender of their Mpker, looking only up to Him, and asserting their equalin with all whom He has made—and for that very reason, he- aiug ' a , thomrawll, and made them all nllke. new, V ,_ toreateii ‘ true in all that boarsupon its monil. m alwgemel true, hm Sixty years ago, in a small village in En land the '

beudle might be seen. one bright May motg'nitig,’ taklll’lagrl’fl: way to the mansion of the ’Squirc, witha prisoner in his

youin consideration ol'your age, but ifyou Celtic before me again, Islmll commit you as a vugabcnd and a trauiper.”

Fierce and bright was the. flash ofthe old man’s eye; red was the flush of his wrinkled cheeks, and proud, though feeble, was the drawing up of his aged form at the rude speech ofthe well fed magistrate.

“ Commit me as a vugubond l” he exclaimed, in a voice

more tremulous from piission than from nge.—“Aiid who are you, that dare to talk ofsucb an insult to one old enough to be your father? Ay, and one in whose veins runs better blood Illt'tll you can boast of. Who are you ? A paltry couri- t_ry 'bquire, lord ofii few dirty acres, in which lies all your title to respect or consideration, as was the case with your uncetors before yoiI—” The torrent ofthe old man’s indignant eloquence was check- ed in tnid career by the astonished beadle, who at first had been struck dumb with terror and amazement at the bold- ness _ofa pauper in daringr to lift his voice against the wor- slitplul,' and who now, recovering in Some degree his self- possessmn, grasped the i'ecusant by the collar, and hurried him out of tire Justice room with no gentle hand.

The ’Squire lllld been little less astounded ; but his amaze- ment soon gave place to anger at the old man’s presump- tion. The clerk was ordered to make out a commitment in all haste, and in the course ofa few minutes poor old Gr. - ham was deposited in the “lock up” of the village—u small but secure building constructed for the special accommoda- tion of poachers, thieving gipsys, and such other reprobates as tell Within the cognizance of rural justice. There We must leave him for the present.

We have said this ’Squire Abershaw was proud of his blooming daughters. He was not only proud of tbein, but loved them too; for, with all his faults, be was a kind heart- ed man, and though ofquick temper and somewhat despotic habits, _0fan affectionate disposition. One in particular, arid, as is usual, the youngest, was most especially dear to him. In truth, she was a sweet girl, the fair Emily, and her father was by no means singular iti loving her very dearly. She .wasjust entering her seventeenth year—[lie “ biidding’ age in England, when the Sportive graces ofgirl-hood are Just beginning to expand and ripen into the elegance and charm of woman—when the lovely immaturity of the child is not yet wholly lost, nor the completeness of adolescence acquired—when the slender and agile beauty of the fuwn is still blended with the rounding fullness ofthe graceful limbs of figure, There was all the wiicbery of innocence, and perfect isnicerity, and a purity that knew not even of the ex- istence or possibility of evil, in her calm yet bright blue eyes ;'the perfect beauty of goodness shone tranqiiilly aiiu clear in every feature; and happiness dwelt around her like a robe oflight. Well might the ’Squire doat upon her a: the treasure of his life. A being so innocent, so lovely riclili pnnoplied in all that makes a daughter dear must iideds bi precious to the heart ofa father; and if hi; cherished hCl more fondly than her sisters, there was no injustice done it them, for they too loved her above all, nor ever entertainer even a passmg emotion of discontent at the preference 0 which she was the object.

Emily had seen the old man conducted as a prisoner ti tlieJustice room, and was struck with his venerable appear ance.—Her curiosity was stimulated to know of what (Jfl-ellci one so aged could have been guilty, and a kiiidlier emotion prompted her to ititcrpoe for his relief: She hastened t: the justice room, at the door ofwhich she met her father re tiring from his magisterial duties, and coaxingly twining liei

man could resist the gentle words and soothing tones ofnn intercessor like Emily. The old man’s anger melted away lbefore them, and when she left the lock-up, his feeble steps ‘werc supported by her arm—bis trembling hand had been laid with a blessing upon berliend—nn ample donation from her purse had been added to his slender store, and he hiitl promised that whenever he found bimselfnear Abershaw Hall, in his wanderings through the country, its door should be the first nt which he would apply for such relief as his slender wants required.