XI.-FORTY YEARS AGO. 1. I've wandered to the village, Tom, Upon the school-house play-ground, But none were left to greet me, Tom, Who played with us upon the green, 2. The grass was just as green, Tom, Were sporting, just as we did then, But the master sleeps upon the hill, Some forty years ago. 3. The old school-house is altered some; By new ones, very like the same But the same old bricks are in the wall, Its music's just the same, dear Tom, 4. The spring that bubbled 'neath the hill, Is very low; 'twas once so high To think how very much I've changed 5. Near by that spring, upon an elm, Your sweetheart's just beneath it, Tom, And you did mine the same. Some heartless wretch has peeled the bark; 'Twas dying sure, but slow, Just as she died whose name you cut There forty years ago. 1 6. My lids have long been dry, Tom, I thought of her I loved so well, I visited the old church-yard, And took some flowers to strow 7. Some are in the church-yard laid, And when our time shall come, Tom, I hope we'll meet with those we loved XII. THE FATAL FALSEHOOD. 1. MRS. OPIE, in her "Illustrations of Lying," gives, as an instance of what she terms "the lie of benevolence," the melancholy tale of which the following is the conclusion. -Vernon is a clergyman in Westmoreland, whose youngest son, at a distance from home, had. in a moment of passion, committed murder. The youth had been condemned and executed for his crime. But his brothers had kept the cause and form of his death concealed from their father, and had informed him that their brother had been taken suddenly ill, and died on his road homeward. The father hears the awful truth, under the following circumstances, when on a journey. 2. The coach stopped at an inn outside the city of York; and, as Vernon was not disposed to eat any dinner, he strolled along the road, till he came to a small church, pleasantly situ. ated, and entered the church-yard to read, as was his custom the inscriptions on the tombstones. While thus engaged, bø saw a man filling up a new-made grave, and entered into corversation with him. He found it was the sexton himself; and he drew from him several anecdotes of the persons interred around them. 3. During their conversation they had walked over the whole of the ground, when, just as they were going to leave the spot, the sexton stopped to pluck some weeds from a grave near the corner of it, and Vernon stopped also; taking hold, as he did so, of a small willow sapling, planted near the corner by itself. 4. As the man rose from his occupation, and saw where Vernon stood, he smiled significantly, and said, "I planted that willow; and it is on a grave, though the grave is not marked out." "Indeed! "Yes; it is the grave of a murderer.” "Of a murderer!"- echoed Vernon, instinctively shuddering, and moving away from it. 5. " Yes," resumed he, "of a murderer who was hanged at York. Poor lad!—it was very right that he should be hanged; but he was not a hardened villain! and he died so penitent! and as I knew him when he used to visit where I was groom, I could not help planting this tree for old acquaintance' sake."-Hcre he drew his hand across his eyes. 6. "Then he was not a low-born man?" "Oh! no; his father was a clergyman, I think." "Indeed! poor man was he living at the time?" said Vernon, deeply sighing. "Oh! yes; for his poor son did fret so, lest his father should ever know what he had done: he said he was an angel upon earth; and he could not bear to think how he would grieve; for, poor lad, he loved his father and his mother too, though he did so badly." 7. "Is his mother living?" "No; if she had, he would have been alive; but his evil courses broke her heart; and it was because the man he killed reproached him for having murdered his mother, that he was provoked to murder him.” "Poor, rash, mistaken youth! then he had provocation?" "Oh! yes; the greatest: but he was very sorry for what he had done; and it would have done your heart good to hear him talk of his poor father." S. "I am glad I did not hear him," said Vernon hastily, and in a faltering voice, (for he thought of Edgar.) "And yet, sir, it would have done your heart good, too." "Then he had virtuous feelings, and loved his father, amidst all his errors?" "Aye." "And I dare say his father loved him, in spite of his faults." "I dare say he did," replied the man; "for one's children are our own flesh and blood, you know, sir, after all that is said and done; and may be this young fellow was spoiled in the bringing up." 9. "Perhaps so," said Vernon, sighing deeply. "However, this poor lad made a very good end." "I am glad of that! and he lies here," continued Vernon, gazing on the spot with deeper interest, and moving nearer to it as he spoke. "Peace be to his soul! but was he not dissected?" "Yes; but his brothers got leave to have the body after dissection. They came to me, and we buried it privately at night." 10. "His brothers came! and who were his brothers?" "Merchants, in London; and it was a sad cut on them; but they took care that their father should not know it." "No!" cried Vernon, turning sick at heart. "Oh! no; they wrote him word that his son was ill; then went to Westmoreland, and "Tell me," interrupted Vernon, gasping for breath, and laying his hand on his arm, "tell me the name of this poor youth!" 11. "Why, he was tried under a false name, for the sake of his family; but his real name was Edgar Vernon." The agonized parent drew back, shuddered violently and repeatedly, casting up his eyes to heaven, at the same time, with a look of mingled appeal and resignation. He then rushed to the obscure spot which covered the bones of his son, threw himself upon it, and stretched his arms over it, as if embracing the unconscious deposit beneath, while his head. rested on the grass, and he neither spoke nor moved. But he uttered one groan; - then all was stillness! 12. His terrified and astonished companion remained motionless for a few moments,-then stooped to raise him; but the FIAT OF MERCY had gone forth, and the paternal heart, broken by the sudden shock, had suffered, and breathed its last. MRS. OPIE. XIII. THE CYNIC. 1. THE Cynic is one who never sees a good quality in a man, and never fails to see a bad one. He is the human owl, vigilant in darkness and blind to light, mousing for vermin, and never seeing noble game. 2. The Cynic puts all human actions into only two classes -openly bad, and secretly bad. All virtue, and generosity, and disinterestedness, are merely the appearance of good, but selfish at the bottom. He holds that no man does a good thing except for profit. The effect of his conversation upon your feelings is to chill and sear them; to send you away sour and morose. 3. His criticisms and innuendoes fall indiscriminately upon every lovely thing, like frost upon the flowers. If Mr. A is pronounced a religious man, he will reply: yes, on Sundays. Mr. B has just joined the church: certainly; the elections are coming on. The minister of the gospel is called an example of diligence: it is his trade. Such a man is generous of other men's money. This man is obliging: to lull suspicion and cheat you. That man is upright: because he is green. 4. Thus his eye strains out every good quality, and takes in only the bad. To him religion is hypocrisy, honesty a preparation for fraud, virtue only a want of opportunity, and undeniable purity, asceticism. The livelong day he will coolly sit with sneering lip, transfixing every character that is presented. 5. It is impossible to indulge in such habitual severity of opinion upon our fellow-men, without injuring the tenderness and delicacy of our own feelings. A man will be what his most cherished feelings are. If he encourage a noble generosity, every feeling will be enriched by it; if he nurse bitter and envenomed thoughts, his own spirit will absorb the KIDD.-10 |