By this time the stranger had reached the bottom of the hill, and in a few minutes he was seated before a foaming tankard of ginger-beer, and a generous plate of captain's biscuits, in the parlour of the little hostelry of Somerton. The host of the "Blighted Ash"—such was the name of the hostelry—was a man a little above the middle stature, with firmly-knit knees, a pair of shoulders slightly rounded, a forehead bronzed by repeated exposure to an autumn sun, a capacious chest, and an upper lip with that peculiar curl which is the sure sign of native aristocracy. The traveller eyed him with searching interest, and the landlord returned glance for glance, as he replenished the invigorating pot, at the desire of his customer. At length the latter invited the former to partake of his cheer, and the stranger having pushed the captain's biscuits towards the host of the "Blighted Ash," both of them fell into a profound silence, which was only disturbed by the ticking of the clock, or the loud laugh of revelry in another room in the hostelry. Nearly an hour had elapsed, when the stranger, drawing his chair close to that of his companion, looked steadily in his face, and throwing off a flaxen wig, discovered a natural head of hair, in which Rowland seemed to have combined with Oldridge, for the hair displayed all the gloss of the Macassar, added to all the vigour of the Balm of Columbia. It was but the work of an instant; and in another moment the stranger was locked in the arms of the innkeeper, while the latter murmured out "My son!" and the former shrieked—"My father!" * * * * * Both of them, a few days afterwards, left the "Blighted Ash," never to return; and many a legend did the village gossips relate, of how the landlord of the "Blighted Ash" at last found a balm for his seared bosom. [Illustration: GOING TO S^t. PAUL'S. ] GOING TO ST. PAUL'S. Oh! 'tis a glorious sight to see Those rosy little chaps, Decked by the hand of charity, In graceful muffin caps. Yet wherefore place their calves so small In unbecoming leathers, Exposing their slight legs to all Varieties of weathers? When looking at those slender legs, We feel a thousand pangs, To think how fragile are the pegs On which existence hangs. Sure one must have a heart of stone Those urchins to abandon! How little—were they left alone— They'd have, alas! to stand on. The very cap they're doomed to wear, Has cruel mockery in it; Type of a luxury so rare They ne'er can hope to win it.