thing sweeter even than pleasure. Every now and then, the stroke of a bell from the neighbouring tower fell on my ear: its tones were in unison with the scene, and, instead of jarring, chimed in with my feelings: and it was some time before I recollected, that it must be tolling the knell of some new tenant of the tomb.

Presently I saw a funeral train moving across the village green: it wound slowly along a lane; was lost, and re-appeared through the breaks of the hedges, until it passed the place where I was sitting. The pall was supported by young girls, dressed in white; and another, about the age of seventeen, walked before, bearing a chaplet of white flowers; a token that the deceased was a young and unmarried female. The corpse was followed by the parents: they were a venerable couple of the better order of peasantry. The father seemed to repress his feelings; but his fixed eye, contracted brow, and deeplyfurrowed face, shewed the struggle that was passing within. His wife hung on his arm, and wept aloud with the convulsive bursts of a mother's sorrow.

I followed the funeral into the church. The bier was placed in the centre aisle, and the chaplet of white flowers with a pair of white gloves, were hung over the seat which the deceased had occupied.

Every one knows the soul-subduing pathos of the funeral service: for who is so fortunate as never to have followed some one he has loved to the tomb? but when performed over the remains of innocence and beauty, thus laid low in the bloom of existence, what can be more affecting? At that simple, but most solemn consignment of the body to the grave "Earth to earth-ashes to ashes-dust to dust!" the tears of the youthful companions of the deceased flowed unrestrained. The father still seemed to struggle with his feelings, and to comfort himself with the assurance, that the dead are blessed which die in the Lord: but the mother only thought of her child as a flower of the field cut down and withered in the midst of its sweetness: she was like Rachel, " ing over her children, and would not be comforted."

mourn

On returning to the inn, I learnt the whole story of the deceased. It was a simple one, and such as has often been told. She had been the beauty and pride of the village. Her father had once been an opulent farmer, but was reduced in circumstances. This was an only child, but brought up entirely at home, in the simplicity of rural

life. She had heen the pupil of the village pastor, the fa vourite lamb of his little flock. The good man watched over her education with paternal care: it was limited, and suitable to the sphere in which she was to move; for he only sought to make her an ornament to her station in life, not to raise her above it The tenderness and indulgence of her parents, and the exemption from all ordinary occupations, had fostered a natural grace and delicacy of character, that accorded with the fragile loveliness of her form. She appeared like some tender plant of the garden, blooming accidentally amid the hardier natives of the fields.

The superiority of her charms was felt and acknowledged by her companions, but without envy; for it was surpassed by the unassuming gentleness and winning kindness of her manners. It might be truly said of her, "This is the prettiest low-born lass that ever

Ran on the green-sward nothing she does or seems,
But smacks of something greater than herself;
Too noble for this place."

The village was one of those sequestered spots which still retain some vestiges of old English customs. It had its rural festivals and holiday pastimes, and still kept up some faint observance of the once popular rites of May. These indeed had been promoted by its present pastor, who was a lover of old customs, and one of those old Christians that think their mission fulfilled by promoting joy on earth and good-will among mankind. Under his auspices the May-pole stood from year to year in the centre of the village-green on May-day it was decorated with garlands and streamers; and a queen or lady of the May was appointed, as in former times, to preside at the sports, and distribute the prizes and rewards. The picturesque situation of the village, and the fancifulness of its rustic fetes, would often attract the notice of casual visitors. Among these, on one May-day, was a young officer, whose regiment had been recently quartered in the neighbourhood. He was charmed with the native

taste that pervaded this village pageant; but above all, with the dawning loveliness of the queen of May. It was the village favourite, who was crowned with flowers, and blushing and smiling in all the beautiful confusion of girlish diffidence and delight. The artlessness of rural habits enabled him readily to win her acquaintance: he gradually won his way into her intimacy; and paid his court to her in that unthinking way in which young officers are too apt to trifle with rustic simplicity.

There was nothing in his advances to startle or alarm. He never even talked of love: but there are modes of making it more eloquent than language, and which convey it subtilely and irresistibly to the heart. The beam of the eye, the tone of the voice, the thousand tendernesses which emanate from every word, and look, and action-these form the true eloquence of love, and can always be felt and understood, but not described. Can we wonder that they should readily win a heart, young, guileless, and susceptible? As to her, she loved almost unconsciously; she scarcely inquired what was the growing passion that was absorbing every thought and feeling, or what were to be its consequences. She, indeed, looked not to the future. When present, his looks and words occupied her whole attention; when absent, she thought but of what had passed at their recent interview. She would wander with him through the green lanes and rural scenes of the vicinity. He taught her to see new beauties in nature; he talked in the language of polite and cultivated life, and breathed into her ear the witcheries of romance and poetry.

Perhaps there could not have been a passion between the sexes, more pure than this innocent girl's. The galJant figure of her youthful admirer, and the splendour of his military attire, might at first have charmed her eye; but it was not these that had captivated her heart. Her attachment had something in it of idolatry. She looked up to him as to a being of a superior order. She felt in his society the enthusiasm of a mind naturally delicate and poetical, and now first awakened to a keen percep tion of the beautiful and grand. Of the sordid distinctions of rank and fortune she thought nothing; it was the difference of intellect, of demeanour, of manners, from those of the rustic society to which she had been accus. tomed, that elevated him in her opinion. She would listen to him with charmed ear and downcast look of mute

delight, and her cheek would mantle with enthusiasm ; or, if ever she ventured a shy glance of timid admiration, it was as quickly withdrawn, and she would sigh and blush at the idea of her comparative unworthiness.

Her lover was equally impassioned; but his passion was mingled with feelings of a coarser nature. He had begun the connection in levity; for he had often heard his brother officers boast of their village conquests, and thought some triumph of the kind necessary to his reputation as a man of spirit. But he was too full of youthful fervour. His heart had not yet been rendered sufficiently cold and selfish by a wandering and dissipated life: it caught fire from the very flame it sought to kindle; and before he was aware of the nature of his situation, he became really in love.

(Continued at page 170.)

NEWSPAPER-WRITERS.

THE merits of newspaper writers are of a very equivocal nature. Perhaps their most evident merit is assiduity; but newspapers, like pins, pass through several hands before they are completed. Dr. Johnson in speaking of newspapers, says "To these compositions is required neither genius or knowledge, neither industry nor sprightliness, but contempt of shame and indifference to truth, are absolutely necessary." He then talks of their increase in the time of war, and concludes by affirming that a peace will equally leave the warrior and the newspaper writer destitute of employment; and I know not whether more is to be dreaded from streets filled with soldiers accustomed to plunder, or from garrets filled with scribblers accustomed to lie." The late Mr. Perry, of the Morning Chronicle, was the polar star of the Newspaper press, and by his indefatigable industry and its attendant success, he rose to great importance.

Mr. Perry too became a man of letters, and by lucky hits, amassed considerable wealth; but his impaired health marred its enjoyment. Dr. Johnson's opinion is rather too morose; for notwithstanding the corruption and tergiversation of newspaper writing, there are men to be found whose political consistancy ranks them among the most useful and exemplary members of society.

THE INTERMENT OF SIR JOHN MOORE.*

NOT a drum was heard, not a funeral note,
As his corse to the rampart we hurried,
Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot
O'er the grave where our hero we buried.
We buried him darkly at dead of night,
The sods with our bayonets turning;
By the struggling moon beam's misty light,
And the lantern dimly burning.

No useless coffin confined his breast,

Not in sheet or in shroud we wound him,
But he lay like a warrior taking his rest
With his martial cloak around him.
Few and short were the prayers we said,
And we spoke not a word of sorrow;
But we stedfastly gazed on the face of the dead;
And we bitterly thought of the morrow.

We thought as we hollowed his narrow bed
And smoothed down his lonely pillow,

[head,

That the foe and the stranger would tread o'er his

And we-far away on the billow.

Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's gone,
Aud o'er his cold ashes upbraid him;
But little he'll reck, if they let him sleep on,
In the grave where a Briton laid him.

But half of our heavy task was done,

When the clock told the hour of retiring;
And we heard the distant and random gun
That the foe was sullenly firing.

Slowly and sadly we laid him down,

From the field of his fame fresh and gory;

We carved not a line, and we raised not a stone,
But we left him alone with his glory.

Numerous authors have claimed the above beautiful verses; among the most forward has been the Rev. Mr. R. H. yet it is generally supposed they came from the pen of the deceased Byron.