elad; 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 cloth ing 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 along side 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, however— spick and span-and all very proud of being so, even he of the crumpt-up toes, who will soon poke his way through those leathern fetters, and in the meantime, limps along in contented misery. "New clothes!" thinks he" Good clothes! handsome clothes !" thinks Madam Buckwheat.

"Fine clothes! fashionable clothes!" think the Misses Buckwheat.—“Brave clothes! pretty clothes!" thinks the poor idiot, when Monday comes, and he is allowed to resume his old scarlet tatters. All are puffed up with the self-same species of conceit, variously modified, and so are many greater, and many finer folks than they-ay, and many wiser ones too-many more talented. Witness Goldsmith, in his peach-blossom coat, and Johnson, (who ridiculed the poor poet's puerile vanity,) in his gala suit of fine brown broad-cloth. One spread his tail like a peacock, and strutted about to show off its gaudy colours; the other, arrayed like the bird of wisdom, in grave and sombre plumage, was equally proud of the dignity it conferred, and oraculously opined, that a gentleman was twice a gentleman in a full dress suit. Vanity! vanity! thou universal leaven! from what human heart art thou absolutely excluded?

Hark! the trampling of horses, and

the sound of wheels. The Squire's carriage sweeps round the corner of the churchyard. He and his family arrive thus early, that the horses may be stabled in that long low shed, appropriated for the purpose, and the servants ready to enter the church at the same time with their master, and to partake with him of the benefit and comfort of the confession and absolution. Some people seem to consider those partsof the service as a mere prelude, a sort of overture as hacknied, and about as solemn, as that to Lodoiska; and if they reach their pews by the time they are half over, it is well. As for the servants; what can it signify to them? There alights another carriage load-and another -and another--and the comers in a car, and in two tax-carts, and on sundry steeds; and there the patrician party is congregating together round the great east door; and there stands the clerk, with hat in hand, peering down the vicarage-lane, under the pent-house of his other shading hand, for the first glimpse of the minister. Now! he descries the white face of

the old roan mare. Another look, to be sure; it is indeed that sober-footed palfrey, bearing her reverend burthen, and then he turns hastily into the bel fry; and immediately the cracked chimes subside into a few quick single

strokes, announcing the near approach of the clergyman, and the speedy commencement of divine service. That fine ruddy lad, with the white smock-frock, has been immoveably posted at the churchyard wicket for the last half hour. His patience will accomplish its purpose; he is the first to start forward, (hat in hand, and smoothing down his glossy yellow hair,) to receive the bridle of the old man, which the vicar resigns into the hands of careful Will, with the usual charges, and a smile, and a few words of kind notice. The minister has passed into the vestry; the clerk has followed him; a few more strokes, and the bell ceases; a few more seconds, and the churchyard is left to its lonely silence, and to its quiet occupants; and the living are gathered together within those sacred walls, to hear the words of eternal life, on the surety whereof, the sleepers without (with whom they must one day lie down in the dust) have been committed to their narrow beds "in sure and certain hope."

But my discourse purported to be of Churchyards only; and I have rambled from the text. No matter; [ am come (as we all must) to the churchyard at last, and my next chapter shall be of " graves, and stones, and epitaphs."

1.

Oh! for that manly soul of old, Who sung with heart-felt glee:"My love, it is my vessel bold,

My mistress-is the sea.

Let landsmen say each shining wave

May death be, while we rove;
'Tis true, but dearer far that grave,
Than woman's fickle love.

Swell on, thou breeze, and fleet unfold
My sails' white wings to flee ;

My love, it is my vessel bold,
My mistress-is the sea.

II.

"Oh! what can be a lovelier sight

Than yon concave of blue,

The waves all sparkling in the light
The beams of golden hue?

My canvass shines like purest snow,
My streamers in the sun

BALLAD.

Seem crimson wings, and to and fro
The shrieking sea-birds run.
Long, long may I o'er ocean roll'd,

Sing on with heart-felt glee,
My love, it is my vessel bold,
My mistress-is the sea.
III.
"From boy to man, I learn'd to prize
The freedom of the deep;
I've sail'd beneath far sultry skies,
I've seen the snow-drift's heap.
No woman's love allur'd my heart
From its accustom'd rest,

The joys to meet, and pangs to part,
Lie unwak'd in this breast.

I would not change for heaps of gold

This life that suits the free ;
My love, it is my vessel bold,

My mistress-is the sca."

IT has ever been considered an interesting task to contrast the scenes and circumstances of human life, occurring at distant intervals. I would make these contrasts more immediate, and show that one day, nay a few hours, which are often the epitomes of the longest existence, may produce events as violently opposed to each other as if they had been divided by a thousand years. The joy-expectant lover has seen his young bride fall dead at the altar;the mother who rocked her babe to sleep in her arms has found it ere an hour has elapsed lifeless on her bosom, passing away from the earth and its unhappiness without a sigh, but leaving its frantic parent to agony and despair. The aged man, whose boys were the support and luxury of his existence, has by some dire calamity been suddenly deprived of them, and followed their bodies to the grave, with tottering steps and heart-broken feelings. The lips of the sensualist have turned cold upon the glowing cheek of his paramour, and found poison in the cup which seemed mantling with pleasure and with hope. We may reverse the picture, and see the husband come back to his weeping wife, who had mourned for him as dead; the supposed criminal on the eve of an ignominious death proved innocent, and restored to the presence and affection of his friends and relatives; the bankrupt in hope and fortune by some unexpected change exalted to 18 ATHENEUM VOL. 2. 2d series.

joy and prosperity; and the drowning wretch caught as he is sinking for the last time into the wide-mouthed waters.

These reflections are conjured up by the remembrance of circumstances which, although they happened many years ago, can never be obliterated from my mind. I will state them. It was a cold but fine afternoon in November that I was travelling on horseback in one of the most retired and romantic parts of England.

As evening drew on, a sense of loneliness and danger began to creep over me-for there is a startling something in solitude which I have no doubt all have felt, but which most people are ashamed to acknowledge, even to themselves. I was on a rough and unfrequented road far distant from the habitations of men, and yearned to see a human being and hear the sound of a human voice. The night came on-stormy and dark. The winds raised their loud voices, like the curses of the tempest, over the distant waters. The clouds hung gloomily above like shrouds over nature's dead serenity, and the owlet shrieked to the sleepless echo of the hills. I put spurs to my horse and galloped on until I found, from the increasing darkness, that I could neither see the road which I had traversed, nor the one on which I was proceeding.

Prudence taught me to change my pace, and I walked my horse cautiously, fearing every moment, as I did not know the road, that I was on the edge of some precipice,