"It sounds very natural in my ears, Hannah; pray go on." I have no more to say, sir, concerning that particular time. When they knew that I was within hear ing, they spoke in a whisper; and after a bit, Master Mark came out, ran down stairs, and was off to the stables. When Miss Deane passed me soon after, I saw that her eyes were red, and that she had been crying, poor dear! Well, sir, things went on pretty much as usual after Master Mark's departure, and in course of time.we hoped he would come back, and bide at home. My mistress expected no less; and she had the window curtains and bed furniture belonging to his room dyed, and made up quite handsome, with new fringe. Miss Deane, too, was as happy and busy as may be. She set his books, and everything he had left at home, in order; and she embroidered (braided, she called it,) a beautiful cover for his writing table; it was a pity, as I told her, it should be slopped all over with ink. But when we least. thought of such a thing, there came a letter from Master Mark, to say as how he was going with Mr. Tracey to London for a week or two, and should come down to Beauchamps from thence. We heard no more for three weeks, and then he wrote again to excuse his biding a little longer in London. He said as he was amongst old friends, all the Knightswood family being in town, which we knew before; and as how Lady Tracey was very polite, and invited him to all her grand parties. Miss Deane was sorely disappointed at hearing this letter, I could see that; and my mistress was not over well pleased; however, she soon got the better of it, and said that, after all, it was no more than right, that a young gentleman of his expectations should see something of London life before he settled down in the country; and I know that she sent him up a handsome present of money by return of post: "It was nigh upon two months before Master Mark came down to Beauchamps; and I noticed that Miss Deane did not run out to meet him as she was used to do; she was up stairs when he arrived, and there she stayed for some little time. So, sir, when Master Mark had been into the oak parlour, and talked a bit to my mistress, he came out again, and I met him in the passage leading down to the back hall. Miss Deane, sir,' says I, is up stairs in the little book room.' He thanked me, and said he should see his cousin presently, but he wanted to know about a fishing-rod, that he had ordered to be sent down from London, and whether it was come safe. I can say nothing as to how he and Miss Deane met, but the next day she showed me a beautiful work-box, fitted up with smelling bottles and all manner of things, that Master Mark had brought her as a present from London; and glad I was to see it. However, sir, notwithstanding the work-box, and though he used to walk sometimes with his cousin, or read with her, I could see a great change in Master Mark, and that neither Miss Mary, nor any thing else at Beauchamps, pleased him as it had done. My mistress saw something of it too. I don't know as I ever knew her so much offended in my life, at least with her nephew, as she was one day at dinner, concerning the cooking of some dish; his biding so long in London was nothing to it; and it can't be denied but she had some reason; for every thing that was sent up to table at Beauchamps was cooked according to the choicest family receipts. Besides, when Master Mark said that he preferred this dish dressed some other way, my mistress thought that Lady Tracey had set him on; but, for my part, as I told Andrew, I did not think that very likely. Master Mark | used to sit a good deal in the dining parlour by himself -a reading and writing, as I suppose; till, by and by, when Sir William, and my lady, and all the rest of them came down; and then there was never a day, I verily believe, but he was at Knightswood, one part or other of it. Your eldest cousin, Mr. Tracey, married beneath himself, or in some way or other to displease his father; and he made a sort of go-between of Master Mark, in order to obtain Sir William's pardon, and something, I conclude, to live upon. This might be one cause of our young gentleman's being so much at Knightswood; and then there was always something or another going on up there, in which his company was wanted; so it came to pass that he and Miss Deane saw but little of each other. Towards the end of that uncomfortable summer, my poor mistress had a paralytic stroke, from which she never wholly recovered. Her memory quite failed her, and she was very feeble besides; so she was never from that time left alone, either Miss Deane or myself being in constant attendance upon her; and I must do Master Mark the justice to say, that he was very attentive and dutiful to his aunt, and more mindful, as it seemed to me, of his cousin. Oftentimes he would come into the oak parlour, and say, 'Now, Mary, let me prevail on you to take a walk this fine day, whilst I stay with my aunt; and go you, too, Hannah, and look after your chickens; I will ring if you are wanted.' I remember, in particular, one afternoon, that he had persuaded Miss Deane to go out for a little air,-my mistress was asleep, or in a doze like, upon the couch, with a large screen before her, to shade off the light; and I was sitting with my needle-work near one of the windows, Master Mark having desired me to sit still, and not mind him, unless I wished to leave the room: so there I sat, and he took up the newspaper. I don't know whether the noise he made in turning it backwards and forwards disturbed her; but presently my mistress roused herself up, and, 'Where is Mary?' said she. Who is in the room? What are you about, Mary? Mary is not here,' said Master Mark; I thought it would do her good to get out in the air for a little while, and she is taking a turn on the terrace.' 'Oh!' said my mistress, as if she did not quite understand his words, and was dozing off again. Just then Miss Deane came back into the room; she opened the door so quietly that my mistress did not hear her, or know that she was present. 'Mary is a good girl,' says she presently, again waking up, a very good, dutiful child, and may be not so well provided for as she deserves. I am too poorly to do anything now, and have no hope that I shall ever be better, or have any head for business; but what I can't do, I desire you will, Mark; whatever you think right, I leave it all to you.' Those were her very words, and Í shall never forget them. As for poor Miss Deane, I thought she would have dropped; and Master Mark looked rather confused too. However he besought his aunt that she would set her mind at rest concerning Mary Deane, who had, he said, a double claim upon him for every service he could render her. Had they not been brought up under the same roof? and had she not been to him all her life as a sister? You may think, sir, that I noticed that last word; but my poor mistress made no answer; she had dozed off again, almost before he had done speaking; so he shook Miss Deane's hand, in a hasty sort of way, and went out of the room. "After a time, my mistress, to the surprise of every one, seemed to mend. She could manage to take a turn on the terrace, steadying herself with a staff in one hand, and leaning upon Miss Deane, or her nephew, or me, with the other, just as it might happen. Sometimes she could listen whilst Miss Deane read a chapter in the Bible; and, unless she was very poorly indeed, always saw Mr. Penrose, who came up most days to read prayers. Upon the whole, she did seem a deal more comfortable; and Master Mark believed there could be no immediate danger. I told him, as I thought it my duty to do, that my mistress might have another attack at any moment; the doctor had told me as much, and also said, that most likely the next would be fatal. No doubt it was a great confinement to a young gentleman of his age, and very wearisome. So, as the family at Knightswood were going on a tour, as they call it, into Wales, he was persuaded to go along with them. He desired Miss Deane to write to him, especially if his aunt should get worse, or if he was wanted at home, | go moaning and lamenting all through the house. Then, telling her, as near as he could, to what post-offices she should direct her letters; and so he went." Went!" I exclaimed, interrupting Hannah. Yes, sir, and I can't say that I was altogether sorry for it. I thought my mistress might linger on for a good many weeks, and that, as things then were, we could do as well without Master Mark as with him; except in regard to carrying my mistress up and down stairs; when, to be sure, we were always glad of his help. However, it was God's will that she should not need that, or any other earthly help, much longer. Master Mark had not been gone above ten days, when, going to my mistress's bed-side early one morning, which I always did as soon as I awoke, for I slept in her room, I found her speechless; and, before the doctor could reach the house, she had breathed her last, to the great grief of us all." Here the faithful Hannah, although so many years had passed since the death of her mistress, was obliged for a few moments to suspend her narrative. I expressed myself sorry for having, by my inquiries, occasioned her distress, and proposed to conclude my visit some other day. No, sir," she replied, recovering herself; "there is no need for you to go; it does one good to talk it all over with such a kind gentleman as yourself; one who was a friend of the family, as I may say. There was none of your name, sir, that ever came to Beauchamps like as you did." "That was no merit in me," I replied. "I had great pleasure in visiting there, and so would my cousins, also, had they been invited." "No doubt of it; and then to have gone away, and made game of us. I ask your pardon, sir; I ought not to speak disrespectfully of your kinsfolk." "Nor of the departed, my good friend; those to whom you allude, both found an early grave." 66 And that is a true word," she replied, "and I should have thought of their untimely end before I spoke; but it is no harm to say, that my mistress always favoured you, sir, although she was by no means partial to the rest of the family." "And I have not forgotten her kindness, nor ever shall; that is one reason why I feel an interest in Miss Deane. Tell me (if it really is not painful to you to speak on the subject) what happened next; and how poor Miss Deane was supported under such trying circumstances." Why just, sir, by the goodness of the Almighty; a scene of desolation it surely was; but there was too much to be done for us to sit down and think about it. When I saw the state my poor mistress was in, I rang up Dinah, the housemaid, and desired her, as soon as she came, to send off for the doctor. A few minutes after, Miss Deane, having heard the bell ring pretty sharply, came running into the room, half dressed. Between us we supported my mistress in her last agony; but, as I said before, it was soon over; and when Mr. Meadows arrived, he said that nothing could have been done to save her, if he had been on the very spot. I begged of him, seeing Miss Deane was in no state to do anything, to write to Master Mark, and would have sent the letter by an express; but Miss Deane, coming more to herself, told us that her cousin must then be on his way home, and if the letter were directed to Ross, and sent by the post, she thought it would get there just at the right time to meet him. So that was done, but we were forced, with the help of Mr. Meadows and good Mr. Penrose, who came up as soon as ever he heard of our misfortune, to make some preparations for the funeral; hoping, and expecting, however, to have Master Mark (Mr. Gifford, I should say) back, long before it could take place. It was a dismal day at Beauchamps, and a still more dismal night that which followed. We were got quite into the autumn, and the weather was stormy; the rain pelted against the windows; the wind shook the shutters, and seemed to between whiles, Carlo within doors, and old Towzer without, howled so piteously, one could not be off from thinking that the poor beasts were sensible of the change that had taken place. Sad enough it was for all of us, but especially for a young creature like Miss Deane. Very loth she was to go to bed; so I made a fire in the little dressing-room next to my mistress's chamber, and sat with her there. She fetched her large prayer-book; and, sitting herself down on a low stool near the fire, she read to me out of it several psalms and collects. You remember that book, sir." Certainly, if you mean the prayer-book that I gave Miss Deane, just before I left England. It had belonged to my father, and, being too large, as well as too handsome, for my use, I left it, as a token of remembrance, for Miss Deane." "And she always set great store by it, sir; my poor mistress, too, mightily admired the book-the print was so beautiful. Well, I let her take her own way, and sit up reading; for I thought, when she was tired out she would go to bed, and have a good sleep; and so it proved; for when I went into her room at eight o'clock, thinking to take her a cup of tea from my own breakfast, I found her still asleep. Sorely, however, we wanted Mr. Gifford. It was likely that my mistress had left some directions concerning her funeral; but, although Miss Deane knew very well where to find her will, it could not be opened, nor anything else done, more than such things as could not be delayed, before her cousin came home. In the mean time, she wrote to an elderly lady of her own name, her father's aunt, (there was no one else she knew of to write to,) concerning her own loss; and by return of post she got a very kind answer, which she showed me. This lady, and her daughter, invited her to reside with them at Kensington, (which was what my mistress had planned in her own mind,) saying, that they should b; glad to see her whenever she liked to come-the sooner, the better-and though it was not in their power to offer her such a home as she had been used to, yet she should find that she was not left altogether friendless. J. A. E. L. RURAL SKETCHES; WITH HINTS FOR PEDESTRIANS. No. III. AFTER a few days' journey amidst such scenery and attractive objects as we have attempted to describe, the tourist will be glad to hear the early church bell ringing to welcome that day of rest which occurs after those six which are devoted to secular employments and manual labour. Some works of necessity yet claim the attention of the farm-servant: the ox and the ass must be loosed from the stall; and the lanes and the village green are busy with the cattle which are led away to watering. In all respects, save these and the like, there is a peculiar stillness in the country on the Sunday; it is unlike the other days, when "man goeth forth to his work, and to his labour, until the evening." The fields, which yesterday were busy with persons engaged in those various occupations that fill up the seasons, one by one,-are now deserted and quiet, until the time arrives when they go up to the parish-church, where their forefathers worshipped; and then those meadows and fields, through which lay the pleasant paths which conduct them to God's house, are trod by the old and the young, and they are seen approaching in all directions-" Young men and maidens, old men and children." But, hark! the cheerful chime of the bells reminds | confirmation; where he was united to the faithful all that the time approaches for Divine service: "Think, when the bells do chime, partner of his joys and of his sorrows, and where he so often had partaken of the Holy Communion : meet it is, therefore, that his body should be interred beneath the shade of those sacred walls. After the conclusion of that part of the funeral the procession is again formed, and proceeds to the grave, where 'Tis angel's music; therefore come not late." I Little groups assemble in the churchyard; some engaged in discussing the weather, hazarding opi-service which is appointed to be read in the church, nions of a change, or of a continuance of the same bright sunbeams which make glad this day of rest. Others are reading the epitaphs on the head-stones, which, by a pleasing and pious uniformity, all face to the East: and if children ask us why they do so, it is sufficient for us to tell them, and for them to know, that it has been the custom so to place the dead, facing to the East, in allusion to Him who is the resurrection and the life; and as the body of the departed reposes, awaiting the sound of the last trump, it is meet that "even in his grave, thither still he directs his slumbering eye, in quiet expectation of awakening to behold in the same direction the second coming of his Lord."2 But the bells cease their chime, and the last loiterers in the churchyard enter the temple gates. All irreverence is checked in him in whom it might be otherwise unsubdued, by the Scriptures, which meet his eyes as he crosses the threshold: "This is none other but the House of God; this is the gate of Heaven." footstool." "We will go into His tabernacle; and fall on our knees before His "For the Lord is a great God, and a great King above all Gods." And as the priest commences to read one or more of those sentences of the Scriptures which are appointed, all rise from their seats, and assume a reverent attitude while the exhortation is read which reminds them of their duty now they are assembled together in God's house, and calls on them with bended knee to join in the confession, with which so appropriately His worship commences. The afternoon arrives, and again "the churchgoing bell" sends out its cheerful sound over the valleys and the woodlands. He who has been accustomed to spend his Sundays in the city, will miss the various tones of a hundred bells by which the different parishioners of a crowded neighbourhood are called to their respective churches. Here the bells of one church only greet his ear, save when the wind brings a faint sound from those of an adjoining parish. The churchyard path is again trod by many of the morning worshippers, or by those whose duties then prevented their attendance. After the service is concluded, the mournful tolling of the heaviest bell announces that a parishioner is about to be carried to his long home; and soon the slow and measured tread of footsteps of men is heard, who are carrying to his burial some deceased neighbour, in plain yet decent show of grief, a touching contrast to the nodding plumes and ill-assumed gravity of the hired mutes and attendants, which mock the sable pageantry of a funeral procession through the streets of a city. When they reach the gate of the churchyard, the corpse is met by the clergyman, who bids the mourners to weep not as those without hope, by reciting the cheering words of Scripture which are appointed for the occasion. The body of the departed is then borne into that building in which he was "received into Christ's holy Church" by baptism, and where he received the solemn rite of "Friends, brothers, and sisters, are laid side by side, Yet none have saluted and none have replied." 3 And here the body of the departed is committed to the ground, "earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust; in sure and certain hope of the resurrection to eternal life, through our Lord Jesus Christ." All those who stand around the grave were either friends or relatives of the deceased, by all of whom his death is more or less regretted. Here, again, is a contrast to the business-like funerals "performed" in a city! "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 ever 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 the daily intercourse of intimacy; there it is that endearments lavished upon us almost unheeded in we dwell upon the tenderness, the solemn, awful tenderness of the parting scene." 115 As the evening approaches, the tourist will probably take "a sabbath day's journey" through the fields by which the village is skirted, even as the evangelist records of our Saviour, that he went through the corn-fields on the sabbath-day." Seating himself beneath a wide-spread beech, he may take Walton's Lives from his pocket, and hold converse with those good men who, like himself, felt that "The Sundays of man's life, On Sundays, Heaven's gate stands ope, More plentiful than hope."6 bleating of sheep, and the harmonious and joyful concert of the birds, blended with the pleasant murmur of the brook which rolls peacefully near his feet, and the sighing of the wind among the branches over his head, will dispose him to read Walton. As he closes the book, and bends his steps with peculiar pleasure the pleasant pages of Izaak to his lodging, those lines of Herbert will present themselves with peculiar force to his mind: The hum of bees, the lowing of the kine, the "Sweet day! so cool, so calm, so bright, PALM LEAVES. Select Oriental Tales. II. ALMET'S VISION. As Almet, who watched the holy lamp at the grave of the Prophet, stood at the eastern door of the Temple, and prayed, he saw a man clad in costly robes, and attended by many followers, approach towards him. Almet went forth to meet the Stranger, and inquired if he sought him. "Almet," answered he, "thou seest before thee a man who is rendered miserable by the gifts of fortune. All my wishes are fulfilled; I have the enjoyment of all earthly blessings in my grasp; and yet I am not happy. I lament the time past, because it passed unenjoyed: I have no hope for the future, because I know no real blessedness: yet I tremble at the thought of death. To pass away like the foam on the waves-to slumber beneath the veil of darkness-these are pictures before which my heart fails me. If thou, amongst the treasures of wisdom, canst find advice which will bring contentment and peace, let me participate in it: for this am I come." Almet listened to the complaint of the Stranger with an expression of sympathy and sorrow; but his countenance soon regained its tranquillity. He lifted up his hands towards Heaven, and said, "The Prophet hath instructed me in this matter; thou shalt learn his wisdom from my mouth. Trees of every kind, bearing blossoms and fruit, overshadowed this path, and birds sang merrily among the branches. Beautiful flowers sprang up all around, and filled the air with their sweetness. On one side flowed a clear stream, gently murmuring over golden sand, which glittered through the rippled water; on the opposite side, rivulets, grottoes, and waterfalls, enlivened the scene, and were crowned by a gentle acclivity, which, however, did not conceal the boundary of the little field. "As my eyes dwelt with delight on this enchanting scene, I saw a man, richly attired, slowly and thoughtfully pacing along the path. His eyes were bent on the ground, his arms folded across his breast, and his face full of distrust and sorrow. A numerous train followed him, and appeared ready at the least sign to fulfil his commands. One gathered for him the finest fruit; another offered him a golden cup; but he ate and drank as though he heeded it not. The most beautiful fruit, which he had eagerly taken in his hand, he would throw away with indifference, having scarcely touched it with his lips. He laid himself down near the streams and waterfalls, as though he would listen to their gentle murmurs and to the song of the birds: but here also he found no rest. He threw himself now on one side, now on the other; then arose, and pursued his way with his former discontented deportment. At times, he would start, as if in alarm or pain; and when his eyes rested on the "I sat one day, as the sun was going down, alone Desert which lay before him, then would he totter and thoughtfully in the porch of the Temple, and back some steps, and try to return; but an unseen gazed down the streets of the city, in which an in-power led him, against his will, still nearer to the numerable company of pilgrims, of all degrees and Desert. nations, moved up and down, like the waves of the great sea. As I marked the anxiety with which the rich strove one against another, and the patient industry with which the poor bore heavy burdens, my heart was oppressed within me. 'Poor mortals,' I exclaimed, why are ye thus hurried? Ye seek happiness, but who among you find it? Can robes of silk and purple confer contentment? Can the glitter of precious stones satisfy the mind? Or, are your eyes blinded, that ye strive so unvariedly after deceitful brightness, which at each step recedes from your grasp? Which are happiest, the rich or the poor? In what enjoyment, in what pleasure, is contentment to be found? All is a dream! all is deception! Neither wisdom nor riches bring happiness we are the sport of our desires, which drive us hither and thither, until the great sea of destruction overwhelms us!' "What may this vision mean?' I spoke, and turned to the Angel. He replied, "The book of Nature lies open before you; look on, and learn wisdom.' "I turned again, and saw a narrow valley, between bare and savage rocks; neither grass nor herb grew in its sandy waste. The sun's rays descended with burning heat upon the rocks, and the only stream which flowed from their sides soon disappeared in the hot sand. Except a few wild deer, which were leaping over the rocks, no living thing was visible in this desert; but towards the west, this wilderness lost itself in a fruitful country, full of trees, fields, and houses. My eye returned to the burning valley, and I saw a half-clad man, bearing on his back a slaughtered deer, climbing with difficulty the rocky heights. The sharp stones wounded his hands and feet, yet he heeded them not, but diligently ascended until he reached a cave, before which stood, awaiting him, a woman and four children. When the little ones saw the man, they called to him, stretched out their arms, and ran to the edge of the rock to meet him; they jumped joyously about him, and led him with shouts of delight to the cave, where he threw down his prey, and sat to rest with them in the shade. His face was thin and sun-burnt, but its expression was kind and peaceful. He laughed with his children as they wiped his hot brow with their little hands, and he seemed to forget in their joy how hard his toil had been. At times he gazed with quiet pleasure on the cheerful view which lay before him in the distance; he also pointed it out to the children as the abode of joy and peace. Still I did not perceive anything in his deportment which could lead me to believe that the beautiful prospect made him less contented with his rocky cave. willed, who live only to indulge pride and self-gra- "I gazed on, and rejoiced in the appearance of this man, who was happy in that barren desert. Then the Angel said to me: 'Observe, Almet, what thou hast seen. Contentment and Hope are daughters of Love. He who works not for the well-being of others, will never be happy himself. In the midst of superfluity misery will assail him. Thus thou hast seen the idle one in the field of Pleasure: he did nothing for others; he lived for himself alone, and held as slaves those who worked for him; therefore he could experience no pleasure. He heard not the song of the birds, he saw not the beauty of the flowers, he felt not the balmy air which surrounded him. He looked with dread upon the dark Desert which lay beyond him, be-" cause he felt his own uselessness and nothingness. For how could he believe that his self-seeking and self-love would obtain for him any future reward? Must he not learn from that Justice whose law is written in the human heart, that good deeds alone are rewarded, and await a stern judgment? "This poor man, on the contrary, works for his wife and children. The love which dwells in his heart makes him strong and of good courage. He bears his burden with cheerfulness, for the joy of his loved ones is reward enough for him. The love which produces self-sacrifice for others, feels their worth: it hopes for a just recompense, and all that it hopes for itself it desires likewise for them. therefore it is that this poor man looks contentedly forward to the prospect which lies before him, without allowing the trials of his present situation, in which those he loves participate, to disturb his serenity. Thus has Eternal Wisdom placed true happiness in man's own hands. The idle and self "Thus, my son," said Almet to the Stranger, the Prophet instructed me in wisdom, not for my own advantage only, but also for thine. Thou hast, hitherto, lived only for thyself, and for thine own gratification; on that account thou hast found no real happiness. Thou hast had no hope in the future, because conscience, the unsparing judge, told thee thy deeds deserved no reward. Let not this lesson of the Prophet be lost to thee, like the rain which falls upon a barren rock; but go and practise what thou hast been taught. Become a father to thine own, and to thy people; clothe the naked with thy herds; feed the hungry from thy fields; be a friend to those who are oppressed by wrong; love mankind, and work their good. Thus shalt thou find contentment and hope; for never was the true heart of a loving father saddened by the melancholy belief that he and his are only as the foam upon the waves of the sea." Almet, his face glowing with benevolence, returned into the Temple, and the Stranger went on his way in peace. |