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with a piece of slate he had by him for the purpose, scraping off, in the process, the essence of Heaven knows how many Becky Morgans, -set himself to consider the subject. "Let me think," quoth he. "I saw last night what they had put upon the coffin, was it seventy-nine?"

"No, no!" said the sexton.

"Ah! yes: it was though," returned the old man, with a sigh. "For I remember thinking she was very near our age. Yes, it was seventy-nine."

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Are you sure you didn't mistake a figure, Davy?" asked the sexton, with signs of some emotion.

"What?" said the old man. "Say that again."

"He's very deaf. He's very deaf indeed," cried the sexton petulantly; "are you sure you're right about the figures?" "Oh! quite," replied the old man. "Why not?" "He's exceedingly deaf," muttered the sexton to himself. "I think he's getting foolish."

The child rather wondered what had led him to this belief, as, to say the truth,- the old man seemed quite as sharp as he, and was infinitely more robust. As the sexton said nothing more just then, however, she forgot it for the time, and spoke again.

"You were telling me," she said, "about your gardening. Do you ever plant things here?"

"In the churchyard?" returned the sexton. "Not I."

"I have seen some flowers and little shrubs about," the child rejoined; "there are some over there, you see. I thought they were of your rearing; though, indeed, they grow but poorly.”

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They grow as Heaven wills," said the old man; kindly ordains that they never shall flourish here." "I do not understand you."

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Why, this it is," said the sexton. They mark the graves of those who had very tender, loving friends."

"I was sure they did!" the child exclaimed. "I am very glad to know they do!"

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'Ay," returned the old man; "but stay. Look at them. See how they hang their heads, and droop, and wither. Do you guess the reason?"

"No," the child replied.

"Because the memory of those who lie below, passes away so soon. At first, they tend them, morning, noon, and night; they soon begin to come less frequently; from once a day, to once a week; from once a week, to once a month; then at

long and uncertain intervals; then, not at all. Such tokens seldom flourish long. I have known the briefest summer flowers outlive them."

"I grieve to hear it," said the child.

"Ah! so say the gentlefolks who come down here to look about them," returned the old man, shaking his head, "but I say otherwise. 'It's a pretty custom you have in this part of the country,' they say to me, sometimes, 'to plant the graves, but it's melancholy to see these things all withering or dead." I crave their pardon, and tell them that, as I take it,'tis a good sign for the happiness of the living. And so it is. It's nature."

"Perhaps the mourners learn to look to the blue sky by day, and to the stars by night; and to think that the dead are there, and not in graves," said the child in an earnest voice.

"Perhaps so," replied the old man doubtfully. "It may be." "Whether it be as I believe it is, or not," thought the child within herself, "I'll make this place my garden. It will be no harm at least to work here day by day; and pleasant thoughts will come of it, I'm sure."

Her glowing cheek and moistened eye passed unnoticed by the sexton, who turned towards old David, and called him by his name. It was plain that Becky Morgan's age still troubled him, though why, the child could scarcely understand.

The second or third repetition of his name, attracted the old man's attention. Pausing from his work, he leant upon his spade, and put his hand to his dull ear.

"Did you call?" he said.

"I have been thinking, Davy," replied the sexton, "that she," (he pointed to the grave,)" must have been a deal older than you or me."

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Seventy-nine," answered the old man, with a sorrowful shake of the head, "I tell you that I saw it.”

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"Saw it?" replied the sexton ; ay, but, Davy, women don't always tell the truth about their age."

"That's true indeed," said the other old man, with a sudden sparkle in his eye. "She might have been older." "I'm sure she must have been. Why, only think how old she looked. You and I seemed but boys to her."

"She did look old," rejoined David. "You're right. She did look old."

"Call to mind how old she looked for many a long, long year, and say if she could be but seventy-nine at last, — only our age," said the sexton.

"Five years older at the very least!" cried the other. "Five!" retorted the sexton. "Ten! Good eighty-nine. I call to mind the time her daughter died. She was eightynine if she was a day, and tries to pass upon us now, ten years younger. Oh! human vanity!"

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The other old man was not behindhand with some moral reflections on this fruitful theme; and both adduced a mass of evidence, of such weight as to render it doubtful, — not whether the deceased was of the age suggested, but whether she had not almost reached the patriarchal term of a hundred. When they had settled this question to their mutual satisfaction, the sexton, with his friend's assistance, rose to go.

"It's chilly, sitting here, and I must be careful, summer," he said, as he prepared to limp away. "What?" asked old David.

"He's very deaf, poor fellow!" cried the sexton. by!"

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"Ah!" said old David, looking after him. "He's failing very fast. He ages every day!"

And so they parted: each persuaded that the other had less life in him than himself; and both greatly consoled and comforted by the little fiction they had agreed upon, respecting Becky Morgan; whose decease was no longer a precedent of uncomfortable application, and would be no business of theirs for half-a-score of years to come.

EXERCISE CLXXXI.

A LESSON TO REFORMERS.

Mrs. Child.

GREAT is the strength of an individual soul, true to its high trust; - mighty is it, even to the redemption of a world.

A German, whose sense of sound was exceedingly acute, was passing by a church, a day or two after he had landed in this country; and the sound of music attracted him to enter, though he had no knowledge of our language. The music proved to be a piece of nasal psalmody, sung in most discordant fashion; and the sensitive German would fain have covered his ears. As this was scarcely civil, and might appear like insanity, his next impulse was to rush into the open air, and leave the hated sounds behind him. "But this,

too, I feared to do," said he, "lest offence might be given; so I resolved to endure the torture, with the best fortitude I could assume; when lo! I distinguished, amid the din, the soft clear voice of a woman singing in perfect tune. She made no effort to drown the voices of her companions, neither was she disturbed by their noisy discord; but patiently and sweetly she sang in full, rich tones: one after another yielded to the gentle influence; and before the tune was finished, all were in perfect harmony."

I have often thought of this story, as conveying an instructive lesson for reformers. The spirit that can thus sing patiently and sweetly in a world of discord, must indeed be of the strongest, as well as the gentlest kind. One scarce can hear his own soft voice, amid the braying of the multitude; and ever and anon comes the temptation to sing louder than they, and drown the voices that cannot thus be forced into perfect tune. But this were a pitiful experiment: the melodious tones, cracked into shrillness, would only increase the tumult..

Stronger, and more frequently, comes the temptation to stop singing, and let discord do its own wild work. But blessed are they that endure to the end, — singing patiently and sweetly, till all join in with loving acquiescence, and universal harmony prevails, without forcing into submission the free discord of a single voice.

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This is the hardest and the bravest task, which a true soul has to perform amid the clashing elements of time. once has it been done perfectly, unto the end; and that Voice, so clear in its meekness, - is heard above all the din of a tumultuous world: one after another chimes in with its patient sweetness; and, through infinite discords, the listening soul can perceive that the great tune is slowly coming into harmony.

EXERCISE CLXXXII.

TWILIGHT. Mrs. Norton.

O TWILIGHT! Spirit that dost render birth
To dim enchantments; melting heaven with earth,
Leaving on craggy hills and running streams

A softness like the atmosphere of dreams,·

Thy hour to all is welcome! Faint and sweet
Thy light falls round the peasant's homeward feet,
Who, slow returning from his task of toil,
Sees the low sunset gild the cultured soil,
And, though such radiance round him brightly glows,
Marks the small spark his cottage window throws;
Still as his heart forestalls his weary pace,
Fondly he dreams of each familiar face,
Recalls the treasures of his narrow life,
His rosy children and his sunburnt wife,
To whom his coming is the chief event
Of simple days in cheerful labour spent.
The rich man's chariot hath gone whirling past;
And these poor cottagers have only cast
One careless glance on all that show of pride,
Then to their tasks turn quietly aside;

But him they wait for, him they welcome home,
Fixed sentinels look forth to see him come :
The fagot sent for, when the fire grew dim,
The frugal meal prepared, are all for him;
For him the watching of that sturdy boy,
For him those smiles of tenderness and joy,
For him, who plods his sauntering way along,
Whistling the fragment of some village song!

EXERCISE CLXXXIII.

ELYSIUM. Mrs. Hemans.

"In the Elysium of the ancients, we find none but heroes and persons who had either been fortunate or distinguished upon earth: the children, and, apparently, the slaves and lower classes, that is to say, Poverty, Misfortune, and Innocence, - were banished to the infernal regions."-Chateaubriand.

FAIR Wert thou, in the dreams

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Of elder time, thou land of glorious flowers
And summer-winds, and low-toned silvery streams,
Dim with the shadows of thy laurel-bowers!
Where, as they passed, bright hours

Left no faint sense of parting, such as clings
To earthly love, and joy in loveliest things!

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