from the room. Stanton, who was not ungenerous, immediately caused search to be made for him, with the intention of restoring some portion of his winnings; but the Frenchman could not be found; and, after waiting a short time, I left the rooms in company with my friend, joyously congratulating him upon his success.

"Now, Harry!' said he, 'now, my dear fellow, we are above the peddling stinginess of crusty governors-so, hurrah! for a ramble. Our purses are, of course, common; the day following to-morrow, we'll set out for the lively skies, and still livelier lasses, of Italy-for the present, good night! I shall not see you till midday-good night, Harry.' 'Success and welcome attend you,' I added, laughing merrily—and thus at the entrance of the gaming-house we parted.

"Soon after I had retired to bed, I was roused from a short sleep by a great bustle and confusion in the house; and in a few minutes, my landlord knocked at the door, and begged I would immediately arise.

“In great haste I slipped on my clothes; and, having left my chamber, was conducted in silence by my landlord to my friend Stanton's apartment; and there I found him—the buoyant-the gay-lying motionless upon a bloody couch, with the dark film of death already dimming the lustre of his eagle eye! Oh! the appalling horror of that moment! The light shone dimly upon his distorted, but vacant countenance, and scarce a sound but the oozing life-blood, as it dropped upon the floor, broke the awful stillness of the last hour of the prodigal.

"I was stunned. For some minutes I could not comprehend the reality of the scene; but gradually the fearful truth dawned upon my mind, and I listened with eager horror, as it was whispered, that he had been plundered, and stabbed, in the open street-that his murderer was in custody, and had confessed the fact. It was no other than the baffled gamester! No hopes were entertained of my poor friend's recovery-nor was he sensible; and even while I yet endeavoured to recall him to consciousness-the spirit departed."

The Wanderer's head sunk heavily upon his breast, and the big tears rolled down his sunken cheek, as he recalled the fearful scene to his memory; and, seeing him so strongly affected, I insisted upon his postponing the remainder of his sad story until a future occasion.

(To be continued.)

KNOWLEDGE and change have swept over the face of England, during three centuries of years, with consequences strangely contrasted, -consequences attended by civilisation and prosperity in certain instances,-by desolation and ruin in others. Formerly, our national character must have been collected from an inspective tour through our happy isle; hospitality, and wealth, and power, were witnessed in and around the feudal castle : dependence but abundance amongst the vassals; and, at least, the semblance

of piety in the ancient temples of our faith. How great the change that followed first! The baronial hall became ruined and forsaken: the vassal threw off his allegiance, and claimed the fullest and the freest rights of man; but religion did not acquire additional veneration from the change. Another revolution follows. The emancipated serf abandons the rustic life, and seeks the exercise of social feelings within the busy city's walls. The lord returns not to his embattled castle, but to his modern manse, while the cause of religion does not progress in the political revolutions; for now the mansion is occupied during the seasons of field-sports and fire-side festivities, but the hamlets, and villages, and minor towns, are abandoned, and the temples where their fathers have prayed, and where their bones are laid at rest for ever, are no longer remembered. The country is now forsaken for the city; the traveller who would analyse English national character need only visit the vast cities at the extreme termini of the chief railway tracks, for thither the population have of necessity flocked together; the green surface of our island has been despoiled by those magic lines, as if their noxious heated breath had poisoned the glad husband-fields in their flight across them.

Nowhere-in nothing is the solitude to which scientific improvements have consigned the land, so conspicuous as in the now cold aisles of our country churches. There we may read who once "lived and who died," also, in the place of their birth; but none of their posterity are present to signify attachment to the home of their fathers- -no new tombs testify the pride which was once felt in a long line of ancestors; no new churches or restorations of the sacred edifices mark the still abiding piety, and zeal, and veneration, which associations of the tenderest yet strongest kind had prompted. The baron's pew has lapsed to the agent's family; the gentry have left for the city, closed their family seats, and let off the landlord's own; a few hinds only occupy the seats of the humble, just under the old rood-loft; and the solitude that characterises the present highroads, and the churchyard walk, is precisely in keeping with the fading hue that covers the ornaments of the altar, and pulpit, and tombs, and every object that ever lent grace, beauty, or dignity, to the interior of the building. Nor has the change been checked by this infliction,—the very grave-yard is denied its legitimate tenants: they have travelled to the crowded city streets, and amidst the fascinations to which they have yielded, is that of desiring to be laid in the cemetery of a more civilised community. Elsewhere in these pages, and by another hand, the outrage upon delicacy, which speculation in our miserable mortal remains commits, is treated with truth and freedom; it is unnecessary, therefore, to pursue the analysis of its demoralising effects here.

Birchington Church has shared in the general exchange of a country for a city life, to which we have alluded, although the passing traveller may not at first detect the truth, from the circumstance of its being surrounded by a little village. Within four miles is the once fashionable watering-place of Margate, the Baiæ of the citizens of London; but now, owing to the progress of science, deserted for Ramsgate, for Dover, for

Folkestone, for Brighton, and even for Boulogne, in France. The brief interval devoted by hebdomadal visitors to this sunny sea-port, allows little opportunity of visiting the retired but interesting old church of Birchington; taste tends another way; such sights are deficient in greatness; they exhibit no striking efforts of genius, no memorable result of inventive power; they contribute in no way to that description of knowledge by which productions of the field, or the factory, may be so improved and augmented, that national enrichment might possibly follow: no, they only illustrate the simplicity of our forefathers' ways of life, the piety which they exercised towards Heaven,—the charity towards their fellowcreatures, but certainly present no useful rules, beyond the moral which reflection may deduce from the annals of the virtuous, for a successful voyage on the ocean of worldly enterprise.

The Church rises in the centre of the village, its venerable tower and spire serving as a useful land-mark; and, from its elevated position, the view from the belfry-window is most commanding. On one side, the green and glorious sea carries the ken to the coast of France; on another, the tower of Canterbury Cathedral, just twelve miles distant, suggests a multitude of reflections upon old England and its worthies. The surface here is table-land, falling gently towards the sea, above which it is elevated about three hundred feet; but paths or passages have been cleft in the cliffs, as legends hint, by smugglers, affording an easy descent to the beach at the base of the chalky precipice that overhangs it. There is no port here, although the place itself is a member of the Cinque Port Liberty of Dover. The Church, dedicated to All Saints, was anciently one of several chapels belonging to the neighbouring monastery of Monkton, which was founded on a grant of land from Queen Edith in the year 960; and it continued under that religious house until the Dissolution; but, in the present day, the curate is nominated by the vicar of Monkton.

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The exterior, which the accompanying view faithfully represents, is picturesque and rather imposing the tower is lofty and contains five sweet-toned bells, and the spire is cased with shingle. The body of the building is spacious, consisting of a nave, two aisles, and three chancels; a small chapel, founded by some pious benefactor, is now used as a vestry. Five pointed arches, in the early English manner, springing from light octagonal columns, separate the nave from the principal aisle, and a noble window, separated by stone mullions into five compartments, occupies the east end of the great chancel. At the north side of the church is the Quex Chapel, founded about the time of our Sixth Henry, by the family whose name it bears. Several brass plates with engraved figures, to the memory of members of this ancient house, still remain, the oldest of which is that to Johannes Quesh, who died in October 1449.

A noble piece of sculpture stands against the north wall, to the memory of Sir Henry Crispe, Knt., and his lady, who was a daughter of Mr. Scott, of Scott's Hall, in the county of Kent. The Knight, who died in 1575, is represented in armour, and his lady in the quaint costume of the

age. Above this costly sculpture is a singular sepulchral design, to the honour of John Crispe, the son of Sir Henry. It consists of six oval compartments, occupied by busts in white marble, and all very ably executed. They represent John Crispe, with his two wives, Margaret Harlackenden and Elizabeth Roper: also Sir Henry Crispe, and his two wives, Mary Monings and Ann Nevinson. The excellence of the sculptures, the costliness of the monuments, and the feeling that these sepulchres are deserted, lend an interest to the interior of this fine church that is seldom exceeded by similar scenes; and there are also, amongst these mouldering monuments, some records of true charity, which the biographer of our country churches must ever seek to save from the oblivion which change of social life has induced.

Mrs. Ann Gertrude Crispe, who died in March 1706, bequeathed fortyeight acres of land in the parishes of Birchington and Monkton, in trust for various charitable uses. What those uses were, is set forth satisfactorily on the handsome marble monument, adorned with an admirable bust of the benevolent lady herself, which is erected in the family chapel. Such testimonials are not useful merely as retribution to the memory of a charitable individual, or as exemplary in influencing after-ages, but as preventives against the spoliation of charitable bequests by dishonest trustees; and every parish should preserve such records with a miser's care. A brass plate in the chancel is inscribed in Gothic characters, with these words "Hic requiescat Magister Johannes Haynes, Clericus, nuper vicarius de Monkton, qui obiit nono die Octobris, anno. dom. MDXXIII.” The reverend vicar is represented in pontificals, holding the chalice in one hand, and the consecrated wafer in the other. Tablets and tombs have been placed here by the sorrowing friends of other families, but too little celebrated for admission into a history so much contracted as ours. About half a mile from the village, and at an equal distance from the sea, stood Quex Hall, the seat of an ancient and respectable family, to whom the manor once belonged. The Lady Agnes, sole heiress of the estate, having married John Crispe, Esq., the name was obliterated, and the lands passed to another race. This fortunate gentleman dying in the sixteenth year of Henry the Seventh's reign, left a son, John, who became sheriff of Kent, and from him was descended Henry Crispe, also sheriff, of whom the following anecdote is related.

Mr. Henry Crispe, an aged and infirm gentleman, during his shrievalty, in the August of 1657, was forcibly seized in his own mansion, in the night time, and carried away prisoner to Bruges, in Flanders (Belgium), where he was detained eight months, till the sum of 3000l. was paid for his ransom. This stratagem was planned and executed by Captain Golding, of Ramsgate, a sanguine royalist, who had taken refuge in France with Charles II. The party landed at Gore-end, near Birchington, and took Mr. Crispe out of his bed, without meeting with any resistance, although he had been apprehensive of some such attack, and had caused his house to be loop-holed in various places; this precaution, however, proved fruitless; and, being conveyed quietly in his own coach