playmates of his childhood, the companions of his youth, his brothers and sisters, pass weekly by his lonely grave, and none turn aside to look upon it, or to think of him who sleeps beneath. But in the hearts of his parents, the memory of their dead child is as fresh as their affections for their living children. He is not dead to them, though, eight-and-twenty years ago, they saw that turf heaped over his coffin-over the coffin of their eldest born. He is not dead to them, and every Sabbath-day they tarry a moment by his lowly grave, and even now, as they look thereon in silence, does not the heart of each parent whisper as if to the sleeper below," My son! we shall go to thee, though thou shalt not return to us."

another for mutual support; and would it not seem still, as they are thus again drawn closer together, as they approach nearer to the term of their earthly union, as if it were a type and token of an eternal re-union in a better and a happier state? I love to gaze upon that venerable pair,-ay, even to note their decent, antiquated Sabbath raiment-what mortal tailor-no modern one to be sure can have carved out that coat of indescribable colour something of orange tawny with a reddish tinge-I suspect it has once been a rich Devonshire brown, and perhaps the wedding-suit of the squire's grandfather, for it has had a silk lining, and it has been trimmed with some sort of lace, gold probably, and there adown each side are still the resplendent rows of embossed, basket-work gilt buttons, as large as crown-piecesit must have been the Squire's grandfather's wedding-suit. And how snowywhite, and how neatly plaited is the single edge of his old dame's plain mob cap, surmounted by that little black poke bonnet, flounced with rusty lace, and secured upon her head, not by strings, but by two long black corking pins. That bit of black lace, of real lace, is a treasured remnant of what once trimmed her mistress's best cloak, when she herself was a blithe and buxom lass, in the days of her happy servitude; and the very cloak itself, once a rich mode silk of ample dimensions, now narrowed and curtailed to repair with many cunning engraftings, the ravages of time--the very cloak itself, with a scrap of the same lace frilled round the neck, is still worn on Sundays, through the Summer and Autumn, till early frosts and keener winds pierce through the thin old silk, and the good red hooded cloak is substituted in its stead. They have reached the church-yard wicket; they have passed through it now, and wherefore do they turn aside from the path, a few steps beyond it, and stop and look down upon that grassy hillock? It is no recent grave, the daisies are thickly matted on its green sod, and the heap itself has sunk to a level nearly even with the flat ground. The little head-stone is half-buried too, but you may read thereon the few words, the only ones ever engraven there" William Moss, aged 22." Few living now remember William Moss. Few at least think of him. The

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Look down yonder under those arching hawthorns! what mischief is confederating there, amongst those sunburnt, curly-pated boys, clustering together over the stile and about it, like a bunch of swarming bees? The confused sound of their voices is like the hum of a swarm too, and they are debating of grave and weighty matters; of nuts ripening in thick clusters down in Fairlee Copse, of trouts of prodigious magnitude leaping by the bridge below the Mill-head; of apples-and the young heads crowd closer together, and the buzzing voices sink to a whisper-"Of cherry-cheeked apples hanging just within reach of one who should climb upon the roof of the old shed, by the corner of the south wall of Squire Mills's orchard." Ah Squire Mills! I would not give sixpence for all the apples you shall gather off that famous red-streak to-morrow. But who comes there across the field towards the stile? a very youthful couple-Sweethearts, one should guess, if it were not that they were so far asunder, and look as if they had not spoken a word to each other this half hour. Ah! they were not so far asunder before they turned out of the shady lane into that open field, in sight of all the folk gathering into the church-yard, and of those mischievous boys, one of whom is brother to that pretty Fanny Payne, whose downcast looks, and grave, sober walk, so far from the young miller, will not save her from running the gauntlet of their teazing jokes as she passes-and pass shemust, through the knot of conspira tors. Never mind it, Fanny Payne!

Put a good face on the matter, and above all, beware of knitting up that fair brow into anything like a frown, as you steal a passing glance at that provoking brother of yours; it will only bring down upon you a thicker shower of saucy jests.-See! see! that little old man, so old and shrivelled, and lean and wizen, and mummy coloured; he looks as if he had been embalmed and inhumed a century ago, and had just now walked out of his swathing bands, a specimen of the year one thousand seven hundred and ten. His periwig is so well plastered with flour and hog's lard, that its large sausage side curls look as durably consistent, as the " eternal buckles cut in Parian stone" that have immortalized Sir Cloudesley Shovel; and from behind dangles half-way down his back, a long taper pig-tail, wound round with black ribbon, the which, about half-way, is tied into an ele gant rosette. On the top of that same periwig is perched a diminutive cocked hat with such a cock! so fierce! so triangular! the little squat crown so buried within its triple fortification! The like was never seen, save in the shape of those coloured sugar comfits called cock'd-hats, that are stuck up in long glasses in the confectioners' windows, to attract the eyes of poor longing urchins; and his face is triangular too, the exact centre of his forehead where it meets the periwig, being the apex thereof-his nose is triangular-his little red eyes are triangular-his person is altogether triangular, from the sloping narrow shoulders, to where it widens out, corresponding with the broad square fantail flaps of that green velveteen coat. He is a walking triangle! and he carries his cane behind him, holding it with both hands wide apart, exactly parallel with the square line of his coatflaps. See! he is bustling up to join that small group of substantial farmers, amongst whom he is evidently a person of no small consequence; they think him,

as one should say, Sir Oracle," for he knows every fluctuation of stocks to a fraction-criticizes the minister's discourses-expounds the prophecies -explains all about the milleniums and the number of the beast-foretells changes of weather-knows something of physic and surgery-gives charms for the ague and rheumatiz-makes ink-mends pens, and writes a won

VOL. XVI.

derful fine hand, with such flourishes, that without taking his pen off the paper, he can represent the figures of Adam and Eve, in the involutions composing the initial capitals of their names! He Is " Sir Oracle," and not the less so, because people do not exactly know what he has been, and where he comes from. Some think he has been a schoolmaster-others conjecture that he has been a doctor of some sort, or a schemer in mechanics, about which he talks very scientifically-or in the funds or in some foreign commercial concern, for he has certainly lived long in foreign parts, and is often heard talking to his old grey parrot in some outlandish tongue, and the bird seems to understand it well, and replies in the same language.

There are not wanting some, who suspect that he has not been always in his perfect mind; but however that may be, he is perfectly harmless now, and has conducted himself unexcep tionably ever since he came to settle in the village of Downe, ten years ago. In all that time he has never been known to receive within his dwelling any former friend or kinsman, and he has never stirred beyond the boundary of the parish, but to go once a-year to the banker's in the nearest town, to receive a small sum of money, for which he draws on a mercantile house in Lombard Street. He boards and lodges with a widow, who has a neat little cottage in the village, and he cultivates the finest polyanthuses and auriculas in the flower-plot, of which she has yielded up the management to him, that were ever beheld in that neighbourhood. He is very fond of flowers, and dumb animals, and children; and also the children in the place love him, and the old white Pomeranian dog, blind of one eye, who follows his master everywhere except to church. Now, you know as much as I or any one knows of Master Jacob Marks, more, perhaps, than was worth telling, but I could not leave such an original subject half-sketched.

Behold that jolly-looking farmer and his family approaching up the green lane that leads from their habitation, that old substantial-looking farmhouse yonder, half embowered in its guardian elms.

They are a portly couple, the farmer and his wife! He, a hale, florid, fine

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father talks as yet only of their prosperous establishment (all classes talk of establishing young ladies now,) as the wives of wealthy graziers, or substantial yeomen, or farmers, or thriving tradesmen. But he drinks his port wine, and follows the hounds. And then, bringing up the rear of the family procession, lounges on its future representative, its sole son and heir. And he is a smart buck, far too genteel to walk arm-in-arm with his sisters; so he saunters behind, cutting off the innocent heads of the dangling brier-roses, and the tender hazel shoots, with that little jemmy switch, wherewith ever and anon he flaps the longlooped sides of his yellow topped boots; and his white hat is set knowingly on one side, and he wears a coloured silk handkerchief knotted loosely round his throat, and fastened down to the shirt bosom by a shining brooch,—and waistcoat of three colours, pink, blue, and buff,-a grass-green coat, with black velvet collar, and on his little finger, (the wash leather glove is off on that hand,) a Belcher ring as thick as the coil of a ship's cable. Well done, young Hopeful! That was a clever aim! There goes a whole shower of hazel-tops. What a pity your shear ing ingenuity is not as active among the thistles in your father's fields! The family has reached the churchgate; they are entering now; and the farmer, as he passes through, vouchsafes a patronizing nod, and a goodhumoured word or two, to that poor widow and her daughter, who stand aside holding the gate open for him, and dropping humble curtsies to every member of the family. The farmer gives them now and then a few days' work,-hoeing, weeding, or stoning, or, at hay or harvest time, on his broad acres; but his daughters wonder " Pa'a should demean himself so far as to nod familiarly to such poor objects." They draw up their chins, flirt their handkerchiefs, and pass on as stiff as pokers. And last, in straggles Master Timothy (He hates that name, by the by, and wishes his sponsors had favoured him with one that might have shortened buckishly into Frank, or Tom, or-Tim won't do, and his sisters scout the barbarous appellation, and have re-christened him "Alonzo." They would fain have bestowed on him the name of Madame Cottin's interesting Saracen, Malek Adhel, but it was

impossible to teach their mamma the proper pronunciation of that word, which she persisted in calling " Molly Coddle")-In straggles Timothy Alon zo, but he is even more condescending than his papa, and bestows a very tenderly expressive glance at the widow's daughter, as she drops her eyes, with her last and lowest curtsey to him.

Well, they are gone by, thank Heaven! and the poor woman and her child follow at humble distance to their Master's house. They will not always be abased there. The widow Maythorn and her daughter Rachel are a very poor, but a very happy pair. Her daughter is sickly and delicate, and folks say, in our country phrase, "hardly so sharp as she should be," but she has sense enough to be a dutiful child, to suffer meekly, to hope humbly, to believe steadfastly.—What profiteth other knowledge? The mother and daughter possess a little cottage, a bit of garden, and a cow that picks its scanty pasture on the waste. They work hard, they want often, but they contrive to live, and are content. The widow Maythorn and her daughter are a happy pair!-Yonder, winding slowly up that shady green lane, come the inmates of the parish work-house

the in-door poor. First, the master, a respectable-looking middle-aged man, with somewhat of pompous sternness in his deportment; but there is nothing hard or cruel in the expression of his eye, as ever and anon he looks back along the line of paupers, of all ages and sexes, so decently marshalled under his command. On the contrary, he hangs back, to speak a few words of hearty encouragement to that weary old man, who totters along so feebly on his crutches, under the burden of his fourscore years of toil and trouble, and the increasing load of his bodily infirmities. And the grateful look of old Matthew, and his cheerful, "Lord love ye, master!" are eloquent vouchers, that for once, the man " armed with a little brief authority" abuseth not his trust. The mistress has less dignity, but more severity of aspect, as her sharp, quick glance runs back often and suspiciously along the line of females-and she calls them peremtorily to order, if their voices are heard too voluble; and she rebukes the straggling children, and denounces exemplary vengeance against those two detected urchins in particular-de

tected in the misdemeanor of skulking behind to pull those tempting clusters of almost ripe nuts, that peep so invitingly from the high hazel hedge. But her denunciations are not listened to, it should appear, with any very vehement demonstrations of dread." I believe o' my conscience, "her bark is waur than her bite;" and that half her terrors lie in that long, sharp, bowsprit nose, those little red gimblet eyes, and in the sound of a voice, shrill, cracked, and squeaking like the tone of a penny trumpet. Very neat, decent, and respectable is the appearance of the long line of parish poor. They are all comfortably clad in whole and clean apparel; and even that poor idiot, who brings up the rear, straggling in and out of the file of children,-who can restrain his vagaries? Even he is clothed in good grey woollen, and a whole new hat, in lieu of the scarlet tatters, and old battered soldier's helmet, with its ragged red and white fea ther, in which he delights to decorate his poor little deformed figure on week-days, calling himself corporal, captain, general, or drum-major, as the whim of the moment rules his wayward fancy, each grade, as he assumes it, the most honourable in his estimation. They are passed on, all of them-men, women, and childrenthe two culprits still lagging in the rear-I wager they have another pluck at the forbidden fruit, on their way back to the work-house.

More children still! marshalled in double files-boys and girls, three scores at least; each sex uniformly clad; the master and mistress leading the van of their respective divisions. That is the subscription charity school, and the children have just donned their new clothing, and-do but see! poor urchins! what hogs in armour some of them look like? good clothing it is warm and decent, and of durable material;-thick grey frieze for the boys, with dark blue worsted hose, and black beaver hats-black hats at least; and for the girls, grogram gowns, and wild-boar petticoats (reader, did you ever hear of such materials?) and stiff enough they are, Heaven knows; and as the things are all sent down ready made from a London warehouse, they are of necessity pretty much of the same size, as having the better chance to fit, or, at all events, to do for all. So you shall see

a poor little boy muffled up in a coat that looks like his grandfather's greatcoat, the flaps of which dangle almost to the ground; the collar is turned half way down his back, or it would mount up so high as to bury his head, which is indeed already buried, under a hat, the brim of which rests upon his shoulders and the bridge of his nose; and when he hangs down his arms, you cannot see so much as the tip of his fingers peeping from within those long enormous sleeves. To complete the picture of comfort, he skuffs along in a pair of shoes, the stiff upper leathers of which reach up to the middle of his shins, and the poor little legs stick in them like two chumpers in a couple of butter churns. Altogether he looks like a dangling scarecrow set up in a corn-field.

But then, the little muffled man presents a fine contrast to his alongside mate. His long-tailed coat makes him a short jacket. His arms are squeezed through the sleeves, to be sure, but then they stick out like wooden pins on either side, with excessive tightness; and there, see, dangles half a yard of red, lean wrist, and all the blood in his body seems forced down into those great blue bony knuckles. It was a good hearty thump, certes, that jammed down that stiff skimming-dish of a hat, even to where it now reaches on his unlucky pate. The great flat unhemmed red ears stick out from under it, like two red cabbage leaves; and for his shoes!

The blacksmith would have shod him better, and have inflicted less pain in the operation; for, see! his feet are doubled up in them, into the form of hoofs, and he hobbles along, (poor knave!) like a cat in pattens, or as if the smooth green lane were paved with red-hod flints. And the girls are not much better off; some draggle long trains after them, and have waists down to their hips; others are wellnigh kilted; and that long lanky girl there, Jenny Andrews, would reveal far more than a decent proportion of those heron legs of hers, were it not that she has ingeniously contrived to tie the wild-boar petticoat a reef below the grogram gown, thereby supplying the deficiencies of the latter. Well! they are all new clothed, howeverspick and span-and all very proud of being so, even he of the crumpt-up toes, who will soon poke his way