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place? Solomon has said that there is "nothing new under the sun;" and whether his words must be taken in their literal signification, or in some hidden and ambiguous sense, is left to the discretion of each to determine for himself.

AN AMERICAN ESTIMATE OF ENGLISH CHARACTER.

66

RALPH WALDO EMERSON lectured before the Boston Mercantile Library Association on Eugland," giving the results of his observations during his recent visit. He appears to have imbibed strongly favourable impressions of the English character. He spoke of the steady balance of the qualities of their nature as their great characteristic, and the secret of their success. Everything in England betokens life. The land and climate are favourable to the production of good men. Mr. Emerson facetiously remarked that it was against his theory to travel-he did not like it, and in most cases he believed it was disadvantageous to the literary man. Running up over hills and valleys he believed the office of a wheel and not of man. But he had profited by his trip to England. He referred to that power which the English hold and have held for centuries. After looking at her manufactories, scattered all over the land: her commerce, her agriculture, her arts, and witnessing the stupendous results which have been wrought out, one is convinced that if he would see the best development of common sense-the standard of sense-he must go to England to witness it. The land in every part, so like a garden, shows the triumph of labour; the fields look as if finished with a pencil, and not a plough. Every arable spot has been cultivated, and everything turned to the best possible

use.

England, indeed, is a huge mill, a grand hotel, where everything is provided to one's mind. On the railroads we ride twice as fast, and with one half the shaking we do on our roads. All England is a machineeverybody moves on a railway-no Englishman ever touches the ground. England has the best working climate in the world: it is never hot or cold; their winter days are like our November days in the early part of the month. The only drawback which Mr. Emerson named was the dark grey colour of the sky, which renders day and night too nearly alike, and makes it painful at times to read and write. To this must be added the dark dense smoke of many of the manufacturing towns,-this smoke pervading and completely enveloping at times every surrounding object. England has all the materials for a working country-iron, coal, &c.-excepting wood. The Englishman enjoys great health and vigour of body; they are larger than Americans. A hundred Englishmen, taken at random, would probably weigh one quarter more than the same number of Americans taken in the same manner, and yet the skeleton is said not to weigh more. The Englishman is plump, round, and full, and presents a stout, respectable, and grandfatherly figure. The women even have thickset forms. The figures of the days of chivalry, carved in stone, some of them 900 years old, which adorn the churches all over England, present the same types which characterise the present race. Enjoying vigorous health, they last well, and their animal powers are fully developed. They are great eaters, and claim that a good supply of food is essential to health. They have more constitutional energy and vigour than we have. Pluck is the national characteristic,-the cabman, the porter, the nobleman, the bishop, and even the women have it. The press runs over with it. An Englishman speaks with his whole body,-his clocution is stomachy,an American's is labial. He may growl at the petty annoyances of an hotel, but he has abundance of selfcommand. But the axes of his eyes" are united to his

backbone, and only move with his trunk. Whoever else may fail, the Englishman will not. He has existed for a thousand years, and will continue to exist, as his character possesses as much energy as ever. London and England are now in full growth. Birkenhead, opposite Liverpool, grows as fast as South Boston, or Liverpool, opposite New York. London is enlarging at an enormous rate, even to the swallowing up of Middlesex. The Britith Museum is not yet arranged; London University is growing rapidly as one of the western colleges. Everything in England betokens life. Be sure the Englishman does not build castles and abbeys,-but what the nineteenth century demands he builds-docks, wharfs, warehouses, &c. without number. In all that the Englishman does, even to the noise of clearing his throat, he gives evidence of strength. It is not the land for faint hearts. One thing is very noticeable among the people, and that is, their total neglect of each other. Each man shaves, dresses, cats, walks, and runs, just as he pleases, and his neighbour pays no attention to him so long as he is not interfered with: and this is not because Englishmen are trained to neglect, but because each man is trained to mind his own business; personal eccentricities are allowed here, and no one observes them. Each islander is an island himself, reposing in quiet and tranquil waters. It is very certain that the Englishman has so much confidence in the power of his nation that he cares very little about any other. Swedenborg, who visited England frequently during the last century, and an Italian author who wrote in 1500, were both quoted in this connection.

SOME ACCOUNT OF HENRY JENKINS, OF ELLERTON, IN YORKSHIRE, WHO LIVED TO THE SURPRISING AGE OF 169.

BY MRS. ANNE SAVILLE.

WHEN I came first to live at Bolton, I was told several particulars of the great age of Henry Jenkins, but I believed little of the story for many years, till one day, he coming to beg an alms, I desired him to tell me truly how old he was. He paused a little, and then said, that to the best of his remembrance he was about 162 or 3; and I asked what kings he remembered? He said, Henry VIII. I asked what publie thing he could longest remember? He said, Flowden Field. I asked whether the king was there? He said, No; he was in France, and the Earl of Surrey was general. I asked him how old he might be then? He said, 'I believe I might be between ten and twelve; for,' said he, 'I was sent to Northallerton with a horse-load of arrows, but they sent a bigger boy from thence to the army with them.' All this agreed with the history of that time; for bows and arrows were then used, the earl he named was general, and King Henry VIII. was then at Tournay; and yet it is observable that this Jenkins could neither write nor read. There were also four or five in the same parish that were reputed all of them to be 100 years old, or within two or three years of it, and they all said he was an elderly man ever since they knew him; for he was born in another parish, and before any registers were in churches, as it is said. He told me then, too, that he was butler to the Lord Conyers, and remembered the abbot of Fountain Abbey very well, before the dissolution of the monasteries."

Henry Jenkins departed this life December 1670, at Ellerton-upon-Swale, in Yorkshire. The battle of Flowden Field was fought September 9, 1513, and he was about twelve years old when Flowden Field was fought. Sə that this Henry Jenkins lived 169 years, viz. sixteen years longer than old Parr, and was the oldest man born on the ruins of this postdiluvian world. In the last century of his life he was a fisherman, and used to trade in the streams; his diet was coarse and sour, but towards

the latter end of his days he begged up and down. He hath sworn in Chancery and other courts to above 140 years' memory, and was often at the assizes at York, where he generally went on foot; and I have heard some of the country gentlemen affirm, he frequently swam in the rivers after he was past the age of 100 years.

In the king's Remembrancer's Office, in the Exchequer, is a record of a deposition in a cause by English bill between Anthony Clark and Smithson, taken 1665, at Kettering, in Yorkshire, where Henry Jenkins, of Ellerton-upon-Swale, labourer, aged 157 years, was produced, and deposed as a witness.

Epitaph on a monument erected at Bolton, in Yorkshire, by the subscription of several, to the memory of Henry Jenkins:-"Blush not, marble, to rescue from oblivion the memory of Henry Jenkins, a person obscure in birth, but of a life truly memorable, for he was enriched with the goods of nature, if not of fortune, and happy in the duration if not variety of his enjoyments; and though the partial world despised and disregarded his low and humble state, the equal eye of Providence beheld and blessed him with a patriarch's health and length of days, to teach mistaken man these blessings are entailed on He temperance, a life of labour, and a mind at ease. lived to the amazing age of 169, was interred here December 6, 1670, and had this justice done to his memory 1743."

THE REVERIST.

Spirit Divine! with thee I'll trace

Imagination's boundless space. -HARRISON. How sadly to be pitied is the man who is so immersed in the cares of his daily business, that he is neither able nor willing to take a flight from time to time into the regions of imagination, to breathe there a purer and a fresher atmosphere! How sad to see his soul enslaved beneath the tyranny of Mammon, which hangs, and shall for ever hang hovering over him, like a mist upon a stagnant pool. Unhappy man! let us see what he has lost. He has lost that best privilege of mortals in their present state, the power of shaking off,

Like dewdrops from a lion's mine,

all remembrances of the countless ills that flesh is heir to. His ears are deaf to the soul-quickening strains of memory; his eyes are blind to those thousands and thousands of charms with which the face of Nature shines, as she reveals herself to her true worshippers. Like the miners of Peru, or Australia, he has but two objects for ever before his eyes-earth and gold: the rest is all dim darkness.

He

Still the

But it is not so with the Reverist. He needs no exciting drug to enable his interior eye to view those gorgeous visions which pass in succession through his inind, as the white clouds flit across the face of the palecold moon-" a moment seen, then gone for ever." is the happy possessor of the "philosopher's stone," and the true "elixir vitæ." What is it to him that he does not see those visions with his bodily eyes? idea in his mind is as real and as keen as the image to his sight. So vivid is his imagination, that the fairy splendours of eastern tales are to him no fables; he wanders with Sidney through the bright fields of his Arcadia, or with Raleigh in quest of El Dorado. He reviews one by one the aerial beings called into being by the magic touch of Shakspere; and realizes to himself the forms and features of those good genii whom Milton appointed to guard the unspotted "lady" in Comus.

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But the Reverist has a further source of joy. know that everything material fades around us; that a constant change is passing on the face of things; that nothing here "continueth in one stay." The beauty that pleases our eyes to-day is wrinkled and withered tomorrow. The fair gardens which we gazed on by the river side but yesterday, are carried off to-day by an overwhelming flood-tide. The fairest village among the mountains of Switzerland, lies buried in a moment beneath the descending avalanche or landship. The merchant-prince of yesterday is to-day a beggar. Even the bright blue sea and sunny sky become overcast in an hour, and exchange the calm peace of a summer noon for the dark tempest and the gloomy whirlwind. Nor is the change less perceptible in the region of the moral world. friendship of last year becomes cool indifference, or bitter hostility, in this. The ties of mutual interest which a few days since leagued men together under a common political leader, are snapped, like the withes which bound the arms of Sampson, by the most trifling event: an adverse vote in the Commons or a continental revolution. But while matter of all kinds, like Proteus, is changing into every possible shape, and so baffling men's hopes and eluding their grasp, the dreams of the Reverist-if, indeed, they are dreams and not realities-are for ever the same; they are for ever unchanged. What matters it whether they are true in fact, and have been realized by the outward eyes of sense? They are true to him; and that is all that he cares for. And if he live a hundred years, they will still be as true to him then as when first they were hatched in his brain. What more, then, can he desire? If they are permanent, and bear witness to the realities of another world, and at the same time elevate his soul by raising him out of himself,

To regions mild of calm and serene air,
Above the smoke and stir of this dim spot
Which men call earth,

who would not wish to be able at times to throw himself out of the "feverish being" and "low-thoughted cares'' of daily life, and to wander fancy free" through the realms of imaginative thought?

WASTE LANDS IN ENGLAND.

By an examination of the waste lands in Great Britain, made just sixty years ago, it was found that they amounted to 22,351,000 acres, which, if cultivated and enclosed, reckoning upon an average their annual value at 9s. per acre, would immediately produce an annual rental of £10,057,950. Supposing that in the course of fifty years the value of the land, taking one part with another, should be trebled, the yearly produce would have risen long before this time to 27s. per acre, and the rental would be now worth £30,173,850 per annum to the nation. It is supposed that now, after an interval of sixty years, not much more than one-third of the abovementioned waste land has been enclosed and reclaimed, so as to be made productive.

As for the men who speak the greatest evil of women, they may be divisible into three classes: those who do not love them-those who love them too well-and those who are no longer beloved by them.

"MUST I LEAVE THEE, PARADISE?” FAREWELL to the hedge-row, the brooklet, and sedge-row, Farewell to the nightingale, cuckoo, and thrush, Farewell to the daisies and dark woodland mazes, Farewell to the roses beginning to blush.

"Tis true 'tis a pity to hie to the city,

When Nature has put on her ball-dress of flowers, When sap-veins have quickened, and branches have thickened,

Till south winds can hardly creep into their bowers.

Oh, sweet is the clover, and gay is the rover,

That feasts on its red lip, in golden-trimmed robe, And that whir of the pheasant! ah, nothing so pleasant Will sound in the Charing-cross part of the globe.

I shall not hear yon runnel gush through its moss tunnel,
With the old bridge above and loose pebbles below,
I must mix with Eve's daughters, by Regent's Park waters,
Where swans pick up biscuit and bun as they go.

I shall not watch the "sundown" while ruby sands run down,

Just touching with flame-light the dark cottage roofs; I must leave the red poppy, and take to black " copy," And sigh in the twilight o'er bundles of "proofs."

It will grieve me, believe me, to see Flora weave me
Her richest of garlands about the porch door,
Just when trunks will be packing in canvas and sacking,
To go with me up to a London first floor.

Oh, that beautiful screen-bloom of myrtle and bean-bloom, Which shuts out the wicket that leads to the pond;

I shall mourn for your clusters, 'mid housemaids and dusters,

And windows that look on black railings beyond.

Oh! I love to sit gazing, and see the kine grazing;
I love to pet Dapple with apples and bread;
But a cab-horse with nose-bag-that breath-stopping
close bag,

Is not half so happy a thing to see fed.

The bright garden laurel, the brown meadow sorrel, The pines in the lane, and the ferns in the copse, The ivy arms trailing across the grey paling,

The distant green hills and the home-field of hops.

The babbling and bleating of sheep and lambs meeting;
The baying of beagles-the music of birds;
The peasant child trying to mock the owls crying-
The whistle of Giles as he fodders the herds.

The dew on the May leaves, the scent of the bay leaves;
The upland, the lowland, the valley, the dell;
Ah! I love ye all dearly, and Feeling sincerely
Weeps under a laugh as I bid ye farewell.

But stern Fate is unrolling beyond my controlling,
The scroll of Life's destiny-shadowed and sad;

I must seem what I should be, ah! would that I could be,
The creature of joyousness-healthfully glad.

I must leave all this beauty for trace-chains of Duty;
I must go, but my spirit unwillingly yields;
Talk of Oxford-street shopping-I'd rather be stopping
To see the young wheat turning brown in the fields.

It bringeth no slight gloom to part from that white broom,

And all the blue larkspurs and luscious sweet peas; And then, too, the strawberries, with many more berries, How I shall miss the sweet freshness of these.

I must leave off my rambling, and "mooning" and scrambling,

Propriety's rules in the city must reign;

But I can't write a sonnet in lace cloak and bonnet,
They seem to encumber and shackle my brain.

I shall often be craving to hear the boughs waving,
To lie on the green grass, and stare at the sky;
To watch the clouds going, like angels' skirts flowing,
And mock the young rooks as they chatter and fly.
"You must go" is told me-yet Nature will hold me,
In yearning and faith to her own honest breast;
And the love of my childhood for hill top and wildwood,
Will live on in the city and leave me unblest.
ELIZA COOK.

MODERN TURKS.

I have lived much among Turks of every nation and class-more, I am happy to say, among the uncivilised than the civilised; and here is the comparative description I should give of them :- Uncivilised Turk-Middle sized; of powerful frame; blunt, but sincere character; brave, religious, sometimes even to fanaticism; cleanly, temperate, addicted to coffee and pipes; fond of a good blade, and generally well skilled in its use; too proud to be mean, cowardly, or false; generous to prodigality; and in dress, fond of bright colours and rich clothing, of which he often wears three or four suits at one time -one over the other. Civilised Turk-Under sized; of delicate frame; polite, but insincere; not over brave; often boasting of atheism; neglecting the ablutions of his religion, partly because the Franks are dirty, and partly because his new costume won't admit of them; given to Cognac and cigarettes; fond of a showy sheath, if a militaire; or of a pretty cane, if a civilian; no pride whatever, but lots of vanity; possesses no Oriental generosity; and for dress, wears a frock coat; stays, to give a small waist; a gay-coloured "gent's vest;" ditto ditto inexpressibles, often of a rather "loud railway pattern," and strapped down very tight, so as to show to advantage the only distinguishing Oriental features which remain to him-a very crooked pair of legs; his chassure consists of a pair of French gay merino brodequins with patent leather toes; his head-dress is a particularly small red skull-cap, worn at the back of the head, and often containing a small piece of looking-glass, whereby on all occasions to arrange the rather unruly coarse hair it frequently covers. Straw colour Naples imitation gloves, at two dollars a dozen, and an eye glass, are generally considered as indispensable parts of the "getting up à la Franca." In point of manners, the lowest real Turk is a nobleman; the best of the Europeanised lot is barely a gentleman.-Parkins's Life in Abyssinia.

Printed by Cox (Brothers) & WYMAN, 74-75, Great Queen Street, London; and published by CHARLES COOK, at the Office of the Journal, 3, Raquet Court, Fleet Street.

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ADVENTURE IN A TUNNEL.

A FRIGHTFUL accident, which occurred a few weeks since to some of the workmen employed in the Halshaw Moor Tunnel, on the Lancashire and Yorkshire Railway, reminds us of an adventure in a tunnel, as related to us not long ago by a person in the employment of the Telegraph Company. He had been engaged in the inspection and repair of the telegraph wires, and their fixings, which are subject to many accidents, and require constant looking after to ensure their integrity and efficiency. Even when carried through tunnels, in gutta percha casings, embedded in leaden tubes, they are liable to accidents-from passing waggons, or, in winter, from lumps of ice falling down the sides of the shafts, and damaging the tubes. It appears that one day, the door of a coal-waggon had got loose in the long tunnel of the railway, and dashing

The

back against the sides of the tunnel, had torn the tubes, and even cut across the wires in many places. telegraph was, therefore, broken; it could not be worked, and several workmen were sent into the tunnel to execute the necessary repairs. The person who related the following adventure, acted in the capacity of inspector, and it was necessary for him to visit the workmen, ascertain the nature of the damage that had been done, and give directions on the spot, as to the repairs, the necessity for completing which was of the greatest urgency.

"I knew very well," said he, "that the tunnel was of great length-rather more than two miles long,-and that the workmen, who had set out in the morning from the station nearest to the tunnel, had entered it by its south end; so I determined to follow them, and overtake them, which I would doubtless be able to do somewhere in the tunnel, where they would be at work. I was accompanied by a little dog, which trotted behind at my feet. After walking about a mile, I reached the tunnel entrance, over which frowned the effigy of a grim lion's head, cut in stone.

"There were, as usual, two lines of rails-the up line and the down line, and I determined to walk along the former, that I might see before the approaching lights on any advancing train, which I would take care to avoid by stepping on to the opposite line of rails, at the same time that I should thus avoid being run over by any train coming up behind from the opposite direction, and which I might not see in time to avoid. I had, however, taken the precaution to ascertain that no train was expected to

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pass along the up line over which I was proceeding, for about two hours; but I was aware that that could not be depended upon, and therefore I resolved to keep a good look out ahead. Along the opposite down line, I knew that a passenger-train was shortly to pass,; indeed, it was even now due, but by keeping the opposite line of rails, I felt I was safe so far as that was concerned.

"I had never been in a tunnel of such length as this before, and confess I felt somewhat dismayed when the light which accompanied me so far into the tunnel entrance, began to grow fainter and fainter. After walking for a short distance, I proceeded on in almost total darkness, Behind me there was the distant light streaming in at the tunnel mouth; before me almost impene. trable darkness. But, by walking on in a straight line, I knew that I could not miss my way, and the rails between which I walked, and which I occasionally touched with my feet, served to keep me in the road. In a short time, I was able to discern a seeming spot of light, which gradually swelled into a broader gleam, though still at a great distance before me; and I knew it to be the opening of the nearest shaft-it was a mere glimmer amid the thick and almost palpable darkness which enveloped me. As I walked on, I heard my little dog panting at my heels, and the sound of my tread re-echoed from the vaulted roof of the tunnel. Save these sounds, perfect silence reigned. When I stood still to listen, I heard distinctly the loud beating of my heart.

"A startling thought suddenly occurred to me! What if a goods train should suddenly shoot through the tunnel, along the line on which I was proceeding, while the passenger train, now due, came on in the opposite direction. I had not thought of this before. And yet I was aware that the number of casual trains on a well-frequented railway, is very considerable at particular seasons. Should I turn back? reach the mouth of the tunnel again, and wait until the passenger train had passed, when I could then follow along the down line of rails,-knowing that no other train was likely to follow it for at least a full quarter of an hour?

"But the shaft, down which the light now faintly streamed, was nearer to me than the mouth of the tunnel, and I resolved, therefore, to make for that point, where there was, I knew, ample room outside of both lines of rail, to enable me to stand in safety until the down-train had passed. So I strode on. But a low hollow murmur, as if of remote thunder, and then a dis

tant scream, which seemed to reverberate along the tunnel, fell upon my ears,-doubtless, the passenger train which I had been expecting, entering the tunnel mouth. But looking ahead at the same time, I discerned through the gleam of daylight, at the bottom of the shaft toward which I was approaching, what seemed a spark of fire. It moved-could it be one of the labourers of whom I was in search? - it increased! For an instant I lost it. Again! This time it looked brighter. A moaning, tinkling noise crept along the floor of the vault. I stood still with fear, for the noise of the train behind me was rapidly increasing and turning for an instant in that direction, I observed that it was full in sight. I could no longer disguise from myself that I stood full in the way of another train, advancing from the opposite direction. The light before me was the engine lamp; it was now brilliant as a glowing star,--and the roar of the wheels of the train was now fully heard amidst the gloom it came on with a velocity which seemed to me terrific.

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"A thousand thoughts coursed through my brain on the instant. I was in the way of the monster, and the next moment might be crushed into bleeding fragments. The engine was almost upon me! I saw the gleaming face of the driver, and the glow of the furnace flashing its lurid light far along the lower edge of the dense volumes of steam blown from the engine-chimney. In an instant I prostrated myself on my face, and lay there without the power of breathing, as I felt the engine and train thundring over me. The low-hung ash-box swept across my back; I felt the heat of the furnace as it flashed over me, and a glowing cinder was dropped near my hand. But I durst not move. I felt as if the train was crushing over me. The earth vibrated and shook, and the roar of the waggon-wheels smote into my ears with a thunder which made me fear their drums would crack. I clutched the earth, and would have cowered and shrunk into it if I could. There was not a fibre of my body that did not feel the horrors of the moment, and the dreadfulness of the situation. But it passed. With a swoop and a roar the break-van, the last in the train, flew over me. The noise of the train was still in my ears, and the awful terror of the situation lay still heavy on me. When I raised my head and looked behind, the red light at the tail of the train was already far in the distance. As for the meeting passenger-train, it had also passed, but I had not heeded it, though it had doubtless added to the terrific noise which for some time stunned me.

"I rose up, and walked on, calling upon my dog. But no answer-not so much as a whine. I remembered its sudden howl. It must have been crushed under the wheels of some part of the train. It was no use searching for my little companion, so I proceeded,-anxious to escape from the perils of my situation. I shortly reached the shaft, which I had before observed. There was ample room, at either side of the rails, to enable me to rest there in safety. But the place was cold and damp, and streams of water trickled down the sides of the shaft. I resolved, therefore, to go on, upon the down line, but the tunnel being now almost filled with the smoke and steam of the two engines which had just passed, I deemed it prudent to wait for a short time, until the road had become more cleared, in case of any other train encountering me in my further progress. The smoke slowly eddied up the shaft, and the steam gradually condensed, until I considered the road sufficiently clear to enable me to proceed in comparative safety. I once more, therefore, plunged into the darkness.

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"I walked on for nearly half an hour, groping my way my head had become confused, and my limbs trembled under me. I passed two other shafts, but the light which they admitted was so slight, that they scarcely seemed to do more than make the darkness visible.' I

now supposed that I must have walked nearly the whole length of the tunnel; and yet it appeared afterwards that I was only about half-way through it. It looked like a long day since I had entered. But by and by a faint glimmer of lights danced before my eyes; and as I advanced I saw it was the torches of the workmen, and soon I heard their voices. Never were sight and sound more welcome. In a few minutes more I had joined the party. But I felt quite unmanned for the moment; and I believe that, sitting down on one of the workmen's tool-boxes, I put my hands over my eyes, and I really could not help it— burst into tears.

"I never ventured into a tunnel again without an ininvoluntary thrill of terror coming over me."

The accident which occurred to the workman in the Halshaw Moor Tunnel, was of a similar nature to that above recited. The men employed were platelayers, engaged in the repair of the permanent way. In long tunnels, there are men belonging to some

gangs" who are almost constantly employed there, and who see little of daylight except from what passes down the shafts. Sometimes, when busy at their work, and their ears are deafened by the noise made by the hammers, picks, and spades of the " gang," engaged in driving in a spike, or tightening a key, or packing the ballast under a sleeper, a train suddenly comes upon them; and if close at hand, the men sometimes are only able to escape by throwing themselves flat upon their face, and letting the train pass over them. The two men in the Halshaw tunnel were engaged at their work when two trains entered at the same time, one from each direction. One of the men threw himself down by the side of the tunnel, and called upon his fellow workman to do the same. But it had been too late. The trains had come upon the unfortunate workman with such velocity, that he had not even time to prostrate himself: or perhaps his self-possession was for the moment suspended by the sight of the two trains shooting towards him from opposite directions; and when search was made, after the trains had passed through the tunnel, it was found that one of the trains had run over the poor workman, and cut him into pieces.

CHRONICLES OF MY OLD HALL.
(Continued from our last.)

ON the following morning we started, in company with the agent, to view our unknown home. We got but little information from our companion, who, in addition to the strong provincial accent with which he spoke, had a peculiarity of adding terminations arbitrarily to certain words; till plain if and but assumed the more imposing sound of ifher and butter; for the rest all with him was charmingher, baronialher, springher, and fincher. The day was fine, and the air had all the spring feel-so keen, young, and bracing. What with admiring, looking, and speculating, the eight miles of good road were soon accomplished; and the carriage pulled up at a most dilapidated old gate, which guarded the entrance to a noble avenue of stately oaks; on one side were the remains of some antique iron rails, on the other an ivy-covered, ruinous lodge, whence clamoured a gay colony of garrulous jackdaws, indignant, apparently, at our approach. The gate, of the Modo Rotto order, hung, or had hung, on carved posts, which had outlived many generations of such affairs; a heavy iron bar ran across, on which was cut, "No road but to the hall." As our terminal friend was heavy her and slowher, I got down to carry the gate away, for open as gate it would not; and certainly the noble sweep of avenue, reaching beyond sight straight as a line, and forming a long vista of patriarchal trees, made me exclaim, "Blessed be all lots!" Again we trotted briskly

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