rescue was the work of a moment, but ere I could reach the spot, he, panic-struck, had tried to gain the sand, and the rushing waters rising and guggling over a deep hole, formed by the recent wreck of a collier brig, engulphed the poor boy before assistance could be obtained.

From the beach, his father, mother, and sister had witnessed the sad catastrophe, finding that we had not returned to breakfast, they had come out to join us, little anticipating the harrowing sight that so soon presented itself. I was half distracted at the mournful event, and almost impiously wished that I had shared my companion's fate. One consolation alone remained—that of having risked my life for his safety; for it was with difficulty that I had been saved from a watery grave.

I will not dwell upon this painful subject. How often in the hour of sickness and solitude have I meditated upon the inscrutable ways of Providence, and with an overflowing heart have shed tears of gratitude over my miraculous

escape! The bereft parents were too much impressed with religious feelings to give way to inordinate grief; still they mourned over the untimely fate of their darling boy. Old Alexander Ramsay, having realized a handsome fortune, had retired from business, and had removed to Coventry, the place of his nativity, where he built the "Willows," and, by his precept, example, and unostentatious charity, made himself beloved by all who knew him. There was a sad remembrance attached to the name of the villa. Poor Alick had been buried at Felpham Church, under a drooping willow, and the disconsolate father, in the first paroxysm of his grief, had prevailed upon the incumbent to permit him to take shoots of that tree, and which had immediately been planted in the newly purchased land upon which the unassuming structure my tutor and myself were about to enter had been erected.

CHAPTER III.

‹ The actors are come hither, my lord.'

6

What players are they?'

'Even those you were wont to take such delight in, The tragedians of the city.'

SHAKSPEARE.

OUR last chapter brought my tutor and myself to the Willows; after the first greetings were over, the conversation turned upon the play, and nothing could exceed the delight of Ellen Ramsay, at the prospect of seeing her first play. The young girl was in her sixteenth year, and although not strictly pretty, had a merry good-humoured laughing countenance, long waving ringlets, and rosy cheeks. was no heroine of romance, but a warm-hearted,

Ellen

simple-minded, unsophisticated, girl; sentiment and coquetry she especially avoided, and her greatest pleasure in life was to show kindness to her parents and to their numerous circle of friends.

During the whole of dinner I could think of nothing but the play. I began to fear that the glass-coach that was to convey us to the theatre would be late; I raised up phantoms that the crowd would be so great that we should be unable to make our way through it. At length the conveyance was announced, and we entered it. The assemblage round the doors was numerous, but after a little pushing, aided by the civic authorities, which consisted of a superannuated beadle and a patriarchal constable, we reached the box entrance; there the first object that met my eyes was the man of authority I had seen in the morning, and who was now dressed in a court suit, with two of the "fours" in a pair of stage candlesticks, waiting to show the mayor and other distinguished personages to their seats.

As I had an honourable affixed to my name, I was included amongst the privileged few, and I followed the manager, who walked backwards, after the fashion of every court chamberlain from the days of Polonius to the present time. "Three front and two second row, No. 7the Earl of Courtenay's party," was announced in a stentorian voice, to the box-keeper, who lost no time in offering us a bill of the play, which I readily accepted, not being aware that by so doing I was taxing my host's pocket.

The house was crowded to the roof, and the discordant sounds that were being carried on in the gallery perfectly astounded me. The good old green curtain (deemed plebeian in our refined days) was down, and a man in a carpenter's dress was lighting the six tallow candles that were stuck into wet clay, and partly screened by dirty tin shades. The front of the boxes, the ceiling, and the proscenium, were unquestionably rather tarnished; and the figures of Thalia and Melpomene, with