master has laid in a good stock of coals and departed. Fawkes went and acquainted Percy of what had occurred, then returned to the cellar, probably intending to wait there until the time for lighting the slow match. About two o'clock in the morning of the 5th of November, he undid the cellar door and came out to look about him; some officers on the watch seized him, and carried him to the palace; where he was examined; first in the king's bedchamber. The cellar was searched and the gunpowder discovered. A Scotch courtier asked why so many barrels of powder had been collected. Fawkes replied—“ One of my objects was to blow Scotchmen back into Scotland." To make Fawkes confess all about the plot he was subjected to torture; but he confessed only that which it was useless to attempt to conceal.

The arrest of Guy Fawke's being known, the other conspirators fled. They last met in a house at Holbeach, on the border of Staffordshire. Here an attempt was made to arrest them. Catesby, the two Wrights, and Percy, were mortally wounded in the conflict with the officers who came to arrest them-the two Winters, Rookwood, Digby, Grant, Keyes, Bates, and sir Everard Digby were taken prisoners, and were executed as traitors, as was also Guy Fawkes. Two Romish priests also were arrested, and convicted of having encouraged the conspiracy and were executed.

The conspirators pleaded in excuse for their crime, the sufferings they had undergone on account of their religion -their despair of legal relief-their dread of harsher punishment, and their desire to re-establish popery, which they regarded as the only true religion.

To the present time the Gunpowder Plot is kept in remembrance by a form of prayer and thanksgiving, appointed to be read in Churches on the 5th of November; by making bonfires in London, by making figures to represent Guy Fawkes, which are carried about, in the streets, by boys who beg money, crying,

"Please to remember the Fifth of November,

Gunpowder, treason, and plot, should never be forgot."

By letting off fire-works, and other sports.

KINDNESS AND HAPPINESS.

BY MRS. S. W. JEWETT.

"WELCOME little Ellen to our home and hearts," said I. "See how confidently she looks up to us! She expects to find affection. O never let her look for it in vain! There is nothing which appeals to my heart like the confiding affection of a little child. How many and bitter must have been the lessons which make the child distrustful of others! I cannot bear to think of it. If there is one thing more than another that I covet, it is faith in goodness, in kindness, in affection,-precisely that faith which a little child has. If there is one thing more bitter than another in the experience of years, it is to have had this trust shaken, this faith destroyed. I remember

"What do you remember?" exclaimed the girls.

Many things, dear children," I replied; "but let us turn over the leaves of this great book of past experience, and see what is written there, which has a bearing upon this matter. Who will hold little Ellen on her knee?"

"I will," said one; "and I;" "O let me," was echoed throughout the group of happy children. So many arms were outstretched-so many faces were lit up with smilesso many eyes looked a welcome invitation-that the little one was bewildered; and, turning from one to another, with uncertainty, fled at last to me, the mother, and nestled in my bosom.

Then followed silence; for my children, ever greedy for stories, presumed upon my garrulous humour, and ominous "remember;" and although at first I had not really any intention of telling a story, I felt that it was expected of me, and determined to do my best to gratify them.

"I remember, then, my children," said I, a large, oldfashioned, sombre-looking house, in the country. It stood quite alone, in the midst of a pine-wood; I remember

the low wail that for ever floated through the hoary boughs of those tall trees. I used to fancy that enchained spirits were sighing for freedom, and singing mournfully the delights of past times. Hour after hour through the long summer days, amidst the dark shadow of that old wood, I used to sit and listen to that mournful sighing. There was nobody to say to me, come out into the glad sunshine, where the leaves dance to the music of the summer winds, and the cloud-shadows skim over the grassy meadows, and the merry brooks glide lightly over the smooth pebbles. You wonder, perhaps, why I preferred the old pine-wood to the gay and glad places that were around me. I will tell you. It was because it suited my own sad feelings better-and yet I was but a child.

"I remember a little white cottage, on a sunny hill side. Sloping down to the river edge was a young forest of birches, whose glossy leaves, for ever in motion, dappled with dancing shadows the lap of the green earth, into which loving summer and autumn scattered their flowergifts perpetually. And, O the music of that happy place! Who can describe it? Winds and water sent forth a merry peal, that gladdened me wherever I went; and I loved it, for it called up pleasant images within my heart; and it seemed to speak the very language of my own delight.

"In this white cottage lived my mother and my sister, and a little baby brother-the pet and darling of us all; and with us dwelt, unseen, but for ever felt, the spirit of father. His hand had planted the grove which was our play place-had made the path, over which, back and forth, hither and thither, with a light step and a lighter heart, we dragged the little wicker waggon that held our paragon of perfection--the blue-eyed boy, that mother said was so like his father, and in whose tiny features we used to strive to trace lineaments which had faded from our memories. We were too young, even to know the nature of grief, or the bitterness of those, heart-wrung tears which we saw upon the cheek of our mother—and she

never spoke to us of her sorrow, but always of his joy, who was with his Heavenly Father; and we thus learned to associate everything bright and joyous with death, and to look forward to it, not as the end of life, but the beginning. She talked to us always of our father; she removed nothing from its accustomed place which had belonged to him. His hat and cane still stood in the hall. Everything spoke to us of him, and we never lost the feeling of his presence with us.

"I remember a bright dawn in summer. My mother came to the bed where my sister and I were lying awake, and beckoned us to get up quickly, and come to her room, for our brother was dying. He had been slightly ill the night before, but none of us had dreamed of danger. In the night his symptoms were more alarming, and before morning he was past hope. We entered the room just in time to see him die.

"We saw his blue eyes turn towards us, but the mists of death gathered thickly upon them, and quenched their light for ever. My mother stooped down and kissed his last breath away, and her tears fell fast upon his pale cheek. We wept, too, but it was to see her weep. But day by day we missed the dear child more and more. was our first sorrow. It did not remain with us long; for by degrees we became accustomed to his absence, and pleased our fancy by picturing the delights of his new existence.

This

"I remember another morning, when after a night of anguish, my sister and myself stood beside our dying mother. In this remembrance there is a pang even now— for we had none to share our sorrow, and we were not old enough to comprehend our loss.

On

"In the old house of which I have spoken-so large and dreary-lived an uncle, whom I had never seen. hearing of the death of my mother, he offered to take one of her children to bring up as his own. I was the one selected; and my sister, from whom I had never been separated, was sent to another relative at a distance from I cannot think, even now, of that bitter hour when

me.

I parted from her, without a feeling of sadness. It was cruel to have separated us.

"Just such a trusting, loving child as this little creature nestled here, only not quite so young, was I when I first went to my uncle's. He was a tall, solemn, stately man, who seldom smiled, and when he did, it made his features more repulsive. My aunt was a pale, sad-looking woman, who, young as she was, had outlived all traces of youth, and all memory of the joy that belongs to it. What she might once have been, I know not, for the brightest flowers will droop and wither, if deprived of the blessed sunshine, and the warmest affections be blighted in the ungenial atmosphere of a loveless home. Happily for me, I remained there but a short time. No eye looked kindly on me-no voice spoke tenderly. There were no children in the house-everything was prim, formal, and precise. My aunt was so nervous she could not bear the least noise. If I sat in the room with her, I was not allowed to speak, and scarcely to move. My uncle seemed hardly conscious of my existence. I have sat for hours, during the long winter evenings, watching and hoping that he would speak to me, and yet, if he turned towards me, so fearful that he would speak and say something harsh and grating, that my eyes involuntarily turned away, and my heart veiled itself closely, lest he should be able to read my thoughts.

"O, what a new revelation of life it was to me-a home without happiness-hearts without love and how I yearned for some one to love, and to be kind to.

"At length, in my solitary rambles, I chanced to pass an Irish shanty, around which some little children, ragged and dirty, were sunning themselves; and on a stone near the house sat a rosy-faced woman, nursing a little child. Oh! what a thrill of joy ran through me! I felt the stream of affection gush forth from my heart, and tears fell from my eyes that were sweeter than smiles. '0, that I could live here, and love these dear children:' I exclaimed; 'I would rather be one of these to feel a mother's arm around me-to hear her kind voice calling me-to look up into her face, and see it turned kindly to