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reavement. Perhaps the sole beloved object of some humble domestic circle, whose incomings and outgoings were ever pleasant, is here laid low, while neither can the bereaved learn aught of the fate and final resting-place of their fafourite, nor can those who kindly, but without mourning, performed his last offices, reach their ears with the intelligence, grateful even in its pain, of what had been done to his remains; here the energies which had battled with the waves in their hour of night, and the despair whose expression had been wasted upon the black tempest, are all stilled into rest, and forgotten. The storm is done; its work has been accomplished; and here lies the strange mariner, where no storms shall ever again trouble him.

Such are the imaginings which may arise in contemplating that neglected nook in our churchyards which is devoted to the reception of strangers. The other dead have all been laid down in their final beds by long trains of sorrowing friends. They rest in death in the midst of those beloved scenes which their infancy knew, and which were associated with every happiness, every triumph, every sorrow, which befell them. But the homeless strangers! they died far from every endeared scene. The rills were not here like those which they had known; the hills were different too. -Instead of the circle of friends, whose anticipated grief tends so much to smooth the last bed of suffering man, the pillow of the homeless was arranged by strangers: they were carried to the burial-ground, not by a train of real mourners, anxious to express their respect and affection for the departed, but by a few individuals, who, in so doing, compli mented human nature in general, but not the individual. To the other graves there was also some one to resort afterwards, to lament the departure of those who lay below. The spot was always cherished and marked by at least one generation of kind ones; and, whether distinguished by a monument or not, there was always a greater or less interval before the memory of the deceased entirely perished! from its place. Still, as each holy day came round, and the living flocked to the house of prayer, there was always some one to send a kind eye aside towards that little mound, and be for a moment moved with a pensive feeling, as the heart

recalled a departed parent, or child, or friend. But the graves of the strangers! all regard was shut out from them as soon as the sod had closed over them. The decent few who had affected mourning over the strangers had no sooner turned away, than they were at once forgotten. That ceremony over, their kind had done with them for ever. And so, there they lie, distinguished from the rest only by the melancholy mark that they are themselves undistinguished from each other; no eye to weep over them now or hereafter, and no regard whatsoever to be paid to them till they stand forth, with their fellow-men, at the Great and Final Day.

DIGNITY OF MANNERS.-Chesterfield.

There is a certain dignity of manners absolutely necessary to make even the most valuable character either respected or respectable.

Horse-play, romping, frequent and loud fits of laughter, jokes, waggery, and indiscriminate familiarity, will sink both merit and knowledge into a degree of contempt. They compose at most a merry fellow; and a merry fellow was never yet a respectable man. Indiscriminate familiarity either offends your superiors, or else dubs you their dependent and led captain. It gives your inferiors just, but troublesome and improper, claims of equality. A joker is near akin to a buffoon, and neither of them is the least related to wit. Whoever is admitted or sought for, in company, upon any other account than that of his merit and manners, is never respected there, but only made use of. We will have such-a-one, for he sings prettily; we will invite sucha-one to a ball, for he dances well; we will have such-a-one at supper, for he is always joking and laughing; we will ask another, because he plays deep at all games, or because he can drink a great deal. These are all vilifying distinctions, mortifying preferences, and exclude all ideas of esteem and regard. Whoever is had (as it is called) in company, for the sake of any one thing singly, is singly that thing, and will never be considered in any other light: consequently never respected, let his merits be what they may.

This dignity of manners, which I recommend so much to you, is not only as different from pride, as true courage is

from blustering, or true wit from joking, but is absolutely inconsistent with it; for nothing vilifies and degrades more than pride. The pretensions of the proud man are oftener treated with sneer and contempt, than with indignation; as we offer ridiculously too little to a tradesman, who asks ridiculously too much for his goods; but we do not haggle with one who only asks a just and reasonable price.

Abject flattery and indiscriminate assentation degrade, as much as indiscriminate contradiction and noisy debate disgust. But a modest assertion of one's own opinion, and a complaisant acquiescence in other people's, preserve dignity. Vulgar low expressions, awkward motions and address, vilify, as they imply either a very low turn of mind, or low education, and low company.

Frivolous curiosity about trifles, and a laborious attention to little objects, which neither require nor deserve a moment's thought, lower a man: who from thence is thought (and not unjustly) incapable of greater matters. Cardinal de Retz very sagaciously marked out Cardinal Chigi for a little mind, from the moment he told him he had wrote three years with the same pen, and that it was an excellent good one still.

A certain degree of exterior seriousness in looks and motions gives dignity, without excluding wit and decent cheerfulness, which are always serious themselves. A constant smirk upon the face, and a whiffling activity of the body, are strong indications of futility. Whoever is in a hurry, shows that the thing he is about is too big for him-haste and hurry are very different things.

I have only mentioned some of those things which may, and do, in the opinion of the world, lower and sink characters, in other respects valuable enough; but I have taken no notice of those that affect and sink the moral characters: they are sufficiently obvious. A man who has patiently been kicked, may as well pretend to courage, as a man blasted by vices and crimes, to dignity of any kind. an exterior decency and dignity of manners will even keep such a man longer from sinking, than otherwise he would be; of such consequence is decorum, even though affected and put on.

But

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THE ENJOYMENTS OF THE POOR IN SPRING This is truly the glad season of the year. Wherever we turn our eyes, Nature wears a smile of joy, as if, freed from the storms and the cold of winter, she revelled in the well. enhanced luxury of spring. The lengthening day, the in creasing warmth of the air, and the gradually deepening green of the awakened earth, excite in every breast a lively sense of gratitude, and pleasingly affect the imagination. A walk among the woods or fields, in a calm spring day, when the trees are bursting forth into beauty, and all the land is echoing with song, may well soothe the stormiest passions, and inspire that "vernal delight," which is "able to drive away all sadness but despair." The mind sympa thises with the joy of inanimate Nature, and rejoices to be hold the reviving beauty of the earth, as if itself had escaped from a period of gloom to bask in the sunshine of hope and enjoyment.

We are familiar with the joys of spring as felt or sung by poets and other ardent lovers of Nature. They form the burden of many a poetic strain, and excite to many a medi tative reverie. They have inspired enthusiasm and deep delight, ever since there was an eye to witness, or a mind to feel, the harmony and loveliness of this gorgeously-arrayed and breathing world. They are the source of exquisite émotion to every mind, in which dwells a sense of beauty and creative design. They also light the brow of care, and bring back the flush of health and hope to the pale and wasted cheek. And not only by the rich and the enlightened by the children of luxury and mental refinement→→→ are the fine and indescribable delights of this season deeply felt and valued; spring is also a time of increased enjoyment to the poor. It fills the inmates of many an humble dwelling with gladness, and makes even desponding poverty smile and hope for better days.

There is something in the flowery sweetness and genial warmth of spring, that kindles in the rudest bosom feelings of gratitude and pleasure. The contrast to the cold and desolation of winter is so striking and agreeable, that every heart, unless it be hardened by the direst ignorance and

crime, is melted to love and pious emotion; and breathings of deep-felt adoration escape from the most untutored lips. The carols of the ploughman, as he traverses the field the live-long day, and turns up the fresh soil, seem to bespeak allightsome heart, and evince the joyousness of labour. The shepherd, as he sits upon the hill-side, and surveys his quiet flock, with its sportive companies of lambs those sweetest emblems of innocent mirth-feels a joy and a calm satisfaction, that is heightened by the recollection of the vanished snow-storms of recent winter, and of all the anxieties and toils attending his peculiar charge. Even the hard-working mechanic of the village or town shares the general gladness of the season. As he strolls in sweet relaxation into the glittering fields, or along the blossoming hedgerows and lanes, haply supporting with his hand the tottering footsteps of his child, or carrying the tender infant in his arms, he breathes the freshening air, treads the reviving turf beneath his feet, and inhales the first faint perfumes, and listens to the first melodies of the year, with an enjoyment that/his untaught powers of expression cannot describe. The chil dren of our cottagers also-whose lot is often poverty ape proaching to want, and whose joys are always but limited, and of the humblest kind-appear to derive peculiar pleasure from the soft breath of spring. How many happy hours they now spend basking and sporting upon the sunny hill, or gathering wild flowers by the brook, building the frail house of turf and green boughs, or plaiting the lithe rushes into every fantastic shape! And with what delight do they search for, and find the bird-nest at the hedge-root, or among the blossoming furze! Would that their own enjoyments taught them to spare the tender brood, and the feelings of the fond mother, while they revel in those rural and healthy sports, by which a kind Providence has counterbalanced their numerous privations. abrig dir qu

In the country, there is usually least demand for labour in winter, when agricultural operations are either necessarily few, or are retarded by the severity and changeableness of the weather. The poor labourer, whose family depends, from day to day, upon the proceeds of his toil, is thus fre quently thrown out of employment, when the rigours of the