bor, and all
nature breathing peace, and happiness, and love, our attention was
attracted to an old oak tree. It was indeed very old. It had seen all
its brethren of the park rise and fall, seasons had come and gone,
generations had reposed beneath its branches, and now they were reposing
under the shadow of the old church, the clock of which had just struck
the hour of six. On examining the tree closely, we were astonished to
find carved in immense letters, and in quaint language, the following
words:--

"This tree witnesse beare,
That two lovers did walke heare."

Under the influence of the feelings which the sights we had just seen
had excited, and enraptured as we were with the beautiful evening, this
simple inscription seemed more touching than the noblest verses. Knowing
something of botany, it was not difficult to form some idea of the
period when the inscription was written. It was not merely the external
bark, but the deep woody layer also that had been cut by the carver's
knife. It must have been cut while the tree was very young, for the bark
had very much expanded, and the letters were now more than a foot in
length. We stood contemplating the rude verse. In the distance the sun
was placidly reflecting the last golden rays, every thing was fresh and
green, not a sound was heard. It must have been on such another lovely
eve that the two lovers had plighted their faith together, and
commemorated it on the young oak tree; and this was all we knew of them,
all that we would ever know. This was their biography; this was their
ten volumes. Were they rich and noble, or poor and obscure? Did their
lives pass in peace and content, or were their hearts pierced by the
poisoned arrows of the world? Did they also feel how little real
happiness there was here, and did they also look forward to the time
when they should rest from their labors in a place where there was no
suffering and no sorrow? Were they really happy in each other's love, or
were their young and pure affections chilled by the winds of adversity?
In vain we question the old oak tree. They are gone; the tree is silent;
all that we know is that they walked here. And the world with its noise
and folly is still going on, and publishing its biographies of ten
volumes.

From the Quarterly Review.

PHENOMENA OF DEATH.

To be shot dead is one of the easiest modes of terminating life; yet,
rapid as it is, the body has leisure to feel and tim