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appointed day came, and the name again presented was that of Papineau. The Earl dismissed the House, prorogued Parliament for a year, and drove home in a perfect fury. The following year, when the House again assembled for the despatch of business, Sir James Kempt met them at the throne and welcomed M. Papineau as Speaker. Things went on smoothly until 1834, when the troubles which have been enumerated began, and the ninety-two resolutions were drawn up and submitted to the House.

When in 1837 the Insurrectionists found themselves beaten back, their ranks decimated, and their leaders either prisoners or fugitives, they laid down their arms and humbly sued for peace. Dr. Nelson was captured after a hard chase, in which he was badly wounded, and thrown into prison, while the fire-brand, Papineau, escaped by way of Yamaska into the United States. He remained there until 1839, keeping a watchful eye upon every movement of the Canadians. He saw no hope of the renewal of the conflict, though he must have seen the political changes of the country as they became developed. In 1839 he sailed for France, and resided in Paris until 1847, when, by virtue of the Queen's amnesty, he returned to his old home, to his beloved Canada, and was at once elected a member of Parliament.

But the old man's power among his countrymen was gone. They listened to his clear ringing voice, tarried to drink of his marvellous well of eloquence, and bathed in the streams of his impassioned rhetoric; but the vital spark had fled, and the magician of early days no longer stirred the tardy followers in his train. He had forgotten nothing, but he had also learned nothing. They had remoulded their opinions, and since Papineau's exile had taken up a new, though perhaps a less gifted teacher, and learned to love and appreciate the new order of things. It must be remembered, too, that greater liberty had been granted to the colonists, and they were indeed free and independent now. Old memories were fast being forgotten. The past recollections were undisturbed, and the bright future occupied their sole and undivided attention. Musty traditions were of no avail in the founding of a new empire; the blood of their countrymen, spilled in an unhappy cause, purified the land of wrong ideas, sectional jealousies, and rebellious tendencies. Papineau soon comprehended all these changes. Time had dealt kindly and gently with him. His commanding figure was still unbent; he walked with the firm, elastic step of

youth, and his intellect was still powerful and undimmed by age or trouble. His eye was as bright and sparkling as ever, and that rare eloquence of his which thrilled all hearts and swayed the minds of men, as mighty winds sweep tall grasses and rustle monarch pines, was as intense and brilliant a weapon as ever. His voice was as musical and mellifluous as in his younger days; but the cadences fell now upon unwilling and heedless ears.

M. Papineau was as trenchant a writer as he was a master orator. His literary efforts consist chiefly of political pamphlets, addresses and letters. None of them, however, are destined to live in history, and they may be regarded in the light of those evanescent flashes which ever and anon appear upon the political horizon of a country, exercising a little influence at the time, and then suddenly dying away. In 1854, seeing how utterly uninfluential he had become, and how little hope there was of his ever becoming a leader of men again, he retired from public life, and sought the congenial quiet of his peaceful Seigniory of La Petite Nation, on the pleasant banks of the Ottawa, the border line between the old Provinces of Upper and Lower Canada. Here, in the silent companionship of his books and papers, in the placid serenity of age, the old statesman lived, and beheld with awe and wonder the rising of his country into position and fame, until September, 1871, when, in his eighty-fourth year, he calmly closed his eyes in death. For a few days previous, he had been gradually sinking, when he was suddenly seized with syncope, and died within an hour after. His death created some excitement at the time, and all felt that one of Canada's greatest men had passed away to eternity.

BY Y. N. Y.


T was a great day in Jessie Gwynn's life-long-looked for, and now it was over, and she sat looking back at it with mingled feelings of regret, because many dear ties were sundered that had drawn round her heart very closely during the last ten years,-of joy for the near realization of many visions of gladness with which her glowing imagination had invested the future. She had com

pleted her studies, obtained her degree, and a flattering valedictory which had been unanimously voted by her fellow pupils. But of these she was not thinking. Her heart throbbed with ambitious hope that she would yet do some great thing worthy of remembrance. Her past life she knew was necessary, as preparatory to doing anything really grand; but now it would be hers to live nobly, not for self, nor ignoring the higher part of her nature. She was sitting by her window in the pure white dress in which she had appeared before the assembled audience, carrying her honours so gracefully and modestly. She gazed out on the river where waves sparkled in the moonlight. A little vessel only was in sight with its white sails: pretty enough, but nothing grand about it, she thought. Then came to her mind the simple words of the loving pastor: "So few," said he, "are needed to do the great things which startle the world, and which men call great. The lives of such people, viewed as a whole, will not be more acceptable to our Heavenly Father than that of the humblest individual who does the duty which lies next to him." Jessie's heart acknowledged the truth of these words, yet she longed to do the great things. The stillness of the night was broken by a rushing sound, and soon there glided into view a brilliantly lighted steamer, moving on its way with the grace and bearing of a Queen. "There," said Jessie, "is the picture of what I would like my life to be. The noble steamer casts into the shade the poor little fishing vessel-useful as it is. So would I have my life to be over others." And with such thoughts she laid her weary head on her pillow and slept.

Jessie had been an orphan from eight years of age; and now, after ten years at school, she was about to proceed on the morrow to the home of her only relative, who lived in Kingston, some three hundred miles from Viewton. She had never seen this relative, Mrs. Barker; the only communication which had passed between them being a letter from Jessie, giving an account of her studies, and a reply from Mrs. B., assuring her of the interest she felt in her welfare, and how glad she should be to have her with her, as an aid in her multifarious duties, as soon as she had finished her studies.

So next morning she was to bid farewell to her dear friends, and proceed to her new home.

At the railway station she heard hurried, excited talking, the

only words she could catch being, "The river-last night—man overboard-saved." She gathered from the conversation that a man had fallen overboard, and had, in the excitement, been almost lost-would have been lost had he not been rescued by one of the crew of the little fishing boat which she had the night previously despised.

Two days travelling brought her to the end of her journey. Her heart beat gladly as she drove up the long avenue of elms that led to Mrs. Barker's residence. Bathed in the moonlight, it looked beautiful and imposing, and she rejoiced that she was to have such a lovely home.

When she arrived, Mrs. Barker was not at home. A servant showed her into a little back room. A homesick feeling came over her as she sat in the dingy apartment waiting for Mrs. Barker. The hours passed slowly by, but that lady did not come. "You told me Mrs. Barker expected me to-night," she said to the servant. "Oh, yes; she told me to wait on you, and see that you had everything you needed; she had a meeting to attend that could not be put off." Jessie felt hurt. What meeting should have kept her from waiting to welcome a visitor? "But Tom," she said, "where is he?" "Oh! Tom," said the girl, "no one knows when he will come home. It won't be till late, any way. If you feel tired, perhaps you would like to go to bed."

Jessie was glad to avail herself of the offer. She was shown to her room, but did not sleep for a long time. The rosy hue of her thoughts had faded; her spirit was chilled; inauspicious omens brooded over the future.

Mrs. Barker came into her room before she was dressed next morning, and greeted her with a warm motherly kiss, bade her welcome, and excused herself for being absent the previous night. "You see it was the quarterly business meeting of the Orphan's Asylum," she explained; "and as I am president, it was impossible for me to stay away; and I thought you and Tom would get along well enough without me."

Jessie said she had not seen Tom.

"Not seen Tom! But then he is so bashful. There is the bell. Come down as soon as possible."

-nor was he

Tom did not make his appearance at breakfastasked for; but as the reader may think him a myth, I may explain that he was Mrs. Barker's son- a lad of sixteen, of whom we

shall know more immediately. After breakfast, Mrs. Barker had reports to make out, while Jessie was left to unpack her trunks, and amuse herself as she could. It was a grand old house, with stately halls and broad staircases, wide verandas and a sloping grassy lawn in front; but the garden looked neglected, and many of the great rooms were closed. She peeped into the great drawing room, and would have loved to throw open the windows to the pure light of heaven. Wandering out into the garden, the warmth of the summer day penetrated her heart, and she forgot for a time the gloom of the house. While musing, she heard voices from beyond the hedge, and peeping through, she saw two boys lying en the grass, and overheard the following conversation:

"I don't know what to do, Ned. I've a good mind to run away. I might as well do it first as last."

"Can't you borrow the money, Tom?" asked the other.

"Who would lend me two hundred dollars?" asked Tom, in a despairing tone; "and if I asked mother for it, there would be a grand row. No, I have almost made up my mind to run away."

Jessie was shocked. "This, then, is Tom Barker," she said to herself; "and he has got into some trouble his mother does not know of."

She was afraid to listen any more, and stole back to the house, where she was met by Mrs. Barker, smiling and placid, who gave her a long, detailed account of the many benevolent enterprizes in which she was engaged, and hoped that Jessie would become a co-worker with her. "You cannot tell the pleasure I take, my dear child," she said, " in being able to do so much good for others. There is the Orphan Asylum, the Industrial School, the Young Women's Club, the Sewing Society," and she named several other organizations, while Jessie thought of poor Tom and the conversation she had overheard, and wondered if, in the multitude of these projects, the mother would let her own son go to ruin unknowingly before her very eyes. There was, indeed, danger of this, for Mr. Barker had died when Tom was only ten years old, and since then he had been left to do exactly as he liked, and grew up wild and neglected. His mother, though a most kind-hearted woman, took absolutely no interest in him or in what he did, and it was no wonder he had become the careless, idle boy he was. A short time before this he had left school, and though Mrs. Barker often said, "Tom must soon be doing something for himself," still

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