In a few minutes the soldier was enabled briefly to relate his history; his object in coming; and the embarrassment that attended him on his arrival. "Never mind," said this worthy couple, both speaking in the same breath, and both eagerly anticipating his wishes..."Never mind, Sir, you are a soldier; you can put up with very ordinary accommodation, and we are but too happy in offering you a share of our scanty apartment. Here is your couch; you will deign to partake of our frugal supper, and after a few hours repose you will rise refreshed, and be able to find lodgings better suited to your condition, and the delicate state of your health. In the meantime we bid you a hearty welcome!"

The stranger made no reply, save what might easily be read in the agitated expression of his countenance, and a deep sigh that attested his gratitude. They pressed him to take a little wine, the common wine of the Neckar, and after swallowing a mouthful, he laid himself quietly down on the hard couch, and with his cloak thrown loosely over him, fell immediately into what they thought a sound sleep... Long before morning, however, he started up, and calling his host to him, who had sat up watching him, said, in a firm but low voice, "I perceive that my end approaches. Take this purse; it contains five hundred crowns-a soldier's hard, honest earnings during the late campaign; watch me a little longer. When I die lay me decently in the earth, and may the blessing of a dying soldier rest upon you and yours.'

The poor musician was struck dumb. “Not for the world," said he. "You shall live-live to fight the battles of your country. I will send instantly-no, I will run to fetch Dr. Herrmann;" and so saying, he disappeared, and in a few minutes the doctor had the soldier's hand in his. He looked troubled as he sat counting the measured beat of his pulse. "Yes," said the soldier feebly, "my hours are numbered. I have but one request to make; call in a notary, and let me close my account with this world."... The doctor bowed assent, and when the notary appeared, "I give," said the dying man, "all I possess in the world to this poor, but humane and hospitable family. I was last night sick, an outcast from common sympathy, and here they took me in, dressed my wounds, and cheered me with the words and looks of affection."... He could not say more, than, pointing to the money, "Make it theirs!" The poor musician made many excuses:-"Had the worthy stranger," he inquired, "no relation of his own?" The dying man only answered by a quick motion of the hand, as if praying them to use dispatch. The notary proceeded: the document was finished, sealed, and signed by the patient,

with the physician's name attached as witness. He was now calm, his account, as he expressed it, was closed. "No plunder, no plunder there," said he, pointing to the purse. "It was gained with honor, and to an honorable end I bequeath it."

Then after a little pause, "I leave no family; I had but one friend; we fought together at Jena; he fell crowned with glory. Yes! Frederick Müller-” But a woman's shriek cut short the sentence. "My brother! my brother!-Frederick Müller was my brother! You are Berthold von -" but here, while struggling to utter the name, she fainted away. The dying man looked wildly around him; then lifting his eyes to heaven, and muttering the blessed hope now kindling within him, he sighed "Blessed be God!" The next minute the pulse of life stood still, and his account with this world was closed.

THE GRAVE.

THE sorrow for the dead is the only sorrow from which we refuse to be divorced. Every other wound we seek to heal; every other affliction, to forget; but this wound, we consider it a duty to keep open. This affliction we cherish, and brood over in solitude. Where is the mother, who would willingly forget the infant that has perished like a blossom from her arms, though every recollection is a pang? Where is the child, that would willingly forget a tender parent, though to remember it be but to lament? Who, even in the hour of agony, would forget the friend over whom he mourns?

No, the love which survives the tomb is one of the noblest attributes of the soul. If it has its woes, it has likewise its delights; and when the overwhelming burst of grief is calmed into the gentle tear of recollection; when the sudden anguish, and the convulsive agony over the present ruins of all that we most loved is softened away into pensive meditation on all that it was in the days of its loveliness, who would root out such a sorrow from the heart? Though it may, sometimes, throw a passing cloud over the bright hour of gaiety, or spread a deeper sadness over the hour of gloom, yet who would exchange it, even for the song of pleasure, or the burst of revelry? No, there is a voice from the tomb sweeter than song. There is a remembrance of the dead, to which we turn, even from the charms of the living.

Oh, the grave! the grave! It buries every error, covers

every defect, extinguishes every resentment! From its peaceful bosom spring none but fond regrets and tender recollections. Who can look down upon the grave, even of an enemy, and not feel a compunctious throb, that he should have warred with the poor handful of earth that lies mouldering before him? But the grave of those we loved, what a place for meditation! There it is, that we call up, in long review, the whole history of virtue and gentleness, and the thousand endearments lavished upon us, almost unheeded, in the daily intercourse of intimacy; there it is that we dwell upon the tenderness, the solemn, awful tenderness of the parting scene; the bed of death, with all its stifled griefs, its noiseless attendance, its mute, watchful assiduities! the last testimonies of expiring love! the feeble, fluttering, thrilling,-oh, how thrilling!-pressure of the hand! the last fond look of the glazing eye turning upon us, even from the threshold of existence! the faint, faltering accents, struggling in death to give one more assurance of affection!

Ay, go to the grave of buried love, and meditate! There settle the account with thy conscience, for every past benefit unrequited; every past endearment unregarded, of that departed being, who can never-never-never return to be soothed by thy contrition! If thou art a child, and hast ever added a sorrow to the soul, or a furrow to the silvered brow of an affectionate parent; if thou art a husband, and hast ever caused the fond bosom that ventured its whole happiness in thy arms, to doubt one moment of thy kindness or thy truth; if thou art a friend, and hast ever wronged, in thought, or word, or deed, the spirit that generously confided in thee; if thou hast given one unmerited pang to that true heart, which now lies cold and still beneath thy feet; then be sure, that every unkind look, every ungracious word, every ungentle action, will come thronging back upon thy memory, and knocking dolefully at thy soul; then be sure, that thou wilt lie down sorrowing and repentant on the grave, and utter the unheard groan, and pour the unavailing tear; more deep, more bitter, because unheard and unavailing.

Then weave thy chaplet of flowers, and strew the beauties of nature about the grave; console thy broken spirit, if thou canst, with these tender, yet futile tributes of regret; but take warning, by the bitterness of this, thy contrite affliction over the dead, and henceforth, be more faithful and affectionate in the discharge of thy duties to the living. W. Irving.

AN ENGLISH FARM.

It was a beautiful great green pasture-field which we drove into, with a score of fat sleek cows feeding in it, or lying about chewing the cud; and Joe was very proud of them, and walked the chestnut along slowly while he pointed out his favorites to me, especially one short-horn, whose back he said was like a kitchen table, though why she should be any the handsomer for that I can't say... The house was an old brick building, with tall chimneys and latticed windows; in front of it was a nice little flower-garden, with a tall, clipped holly hedge running round it, so thick that you couldn't see through; and beyond that a kitchen-garden and an orchard. Outside the enclosure stood four such elms as I never saw before, and a walnut tree nearly as big as they, with' queer great branches drooping close on the ground, on which some turkeys were sitting There was only a little wicket gate in the holly hedge, and a gravel foot-path up to the front-door, so we drove into the farmyard at the back; and while Joe and his man took care of the chestnut, I had time to look about and think what a snug berth Joe seemed to have fallen upon.

...

The yard must be sixty yards across, and was full of straw, where the pigs were lying with nothing but their snouts out; lots of poultry were scratching and pecking about before the barn-doors, and pigeons were fluttering down amongst them, and then up again to the tops of the barns and stables, which ran all round the yard. The rick-yard full of long stacks of hay and round stacks of corn was beyond. A terrier and spaniel were sleeping in sunny corners, and a greyhound was stalking about and looking at the pigs; and everything looked sleepy and happy, and as if life went easily along at Elm Close Farm.

Presently Joe came out of the stable, carrying his whip, and took me into the house, calling into the kitchen as we passed to send in dinner directly. There was nobody in the parlor at first, but I saw that the table was laid for three, and, before I could look round at the prints and samplers on the wall, Joe's mother and the dinner came in. She was a good-looking old lady, dressed in black, with a very white lawn cap and collar, and was very kind and civil, but a little deaf... Joe bustled about, and got out I don't know how many bottles of home-made wine, clary, and raisin, and ginger, all of which he made me drink, besides beer, for he said that no one in the Vale had such receipts for wine as his mother. And what with the dairy-fed pork, and black puddings, and a chicken almost

as big as a turkey, and the cheese cakes and tarts afterwards, and the hearty welcome and good example which Joe gave me, I don't remember when I have made so good a dinner.

The old lady went off directly after dinner, and I could see that Joe wanted to go, and see after his men; so I told him not to mind me, for I should enjoy loitering about the place better than anything... And so I did; first I went into the flowergarden, and watched and listened to the bees working away so busy in the mignonette, and the swallows darting up into their nests under the eaves, and then diving out again and skimming away over the green pasture; and then round the kitchen-garden, and into the orchard, where the trees were all loaded with apples and pears, and so out into a stubble field at the back, where there was a lot of young pigs feeding and playing queer tricks ; and back through the farm-yard and into the great pasture, where I lay down on the grass, under one of the elms, and watched a flock of little shiny starlings, hopping upon the backs of some old south-down wethers, who were feeding near me, and flying backwards and forwards into the old elms and walnut trees, talking to one another all the while.

And so the time wore on, till a stout lass in a blue cotton print came out, and called the cows in to milking; and they all went trooping slowly by into the farm-yard, some of them just stopping to stare at me with their mild eyes, and smelling so sweet, that I hadn't the heart to go on smoking, and let my pipe out... And after a bit, I followed into the line of sheds where they were being milked by the lass and a man, who balanced himself on two legs of the milking-stool and drove his head into the cow's side; and I thought I had never heard a sweeter sound than the tinkling sound which the milk made in the bright tin pails.

I soon got into a talk with the lass, who was very pleasant and free spoken, and presently when her pail was full, I lifted it out for her, all frothing up, and looking not a bit like our London sky-blue; and I told her I didn't think I had ever tasted real new milk, so she got me a long straw, and while she went on milking, I went down on my knees, and began to suck away through the straw... But I had hardly begun, when I heard a noise behind, and looking round, there stood Joe, laughing all over; and by his side a young woman in a broad straw hat, and a grey jacket; and though, for good manners, she didn't laugh out like Joe, I could see it was all she could do to keep from going off too.

Why was I ashamed of being caught? I don't know, but I was ashamed; and so I stuck there on my knees on the deep