THE CHURCHYARD AND THE CEMETERY. On! bury me not in the full Churchyard, where rank weeds reeking grow, DIAMOND DUST. THERE is nothing which a vulgar mind so unhesitatingly seizes on for sarcasm as the endeavour of a poor And the poisonous earth, with its thrice-filled graves, lies festering man to appear a gentleman. below; A prosy man is like the clack of a mill when there is Where the grave ne'er wakes a thought of Death from the careless no corn to grind. And the Sexton only speaks of it as a busy trade to ply; And nothing around has mark or sound to tell of a soul's release. THE man who fawns upon the great is apt to lose no cock-of-the-club among those who will let him. opportunity of making himself amends, by playing the THE utmost excellence at which humanity can arrive is a constant and determinate pursuit of virtue, without regard to present dangers or advantage. HARMONY-a sensual pleasure, which, in well regu. lated minds, seldom fails to produce moral results. GREAT talkers not only do the least, but generally say the least, if their words be weighed, instead of reckoned. the least grain of the serpent in his composition, he beWHEN a man is made up wholly of the dove, without comes ridiculous in many circumstances of life, and very often discredits his best actions. LIFE is but a short day; but it is a working day. Activity may lead to evil; but inactivity cannot be led to good. No man can know mankind without having lived alternately in a palace and in a cottage. A trencher and a silver plate must be equally familiar. He is happy whose circumstances suit his temper; but he is more excellent who can suit his temper to any circumstances. SOME people take more care to hide their wisdom than their folly. AUTHORS and lovers always suffer some infatuation, from which only absence can set them free. MISER-one who, though he loves himself better than all the world, uses himself worse. REPINE not over your daily lot, but regard all your labour solely as a symbol; at bottom, it does not signify whether we make pots or dishes. THE reward of work well done is the having done it. Ir is not always the dark place which hinders, but sometimes the dim eye. MISFORTUNE is never mournful to the soul that accepts it, for such do always see that every cloud is an angel's face. THE citadel of Hope must yield to noble desire, seconded by noble efforts. THOSE who start for human glory, like the mettled hounds of Action, must pursue the game not only where there is a path, but where there is none. DUELLIST-a moral coward, seeking to hide the pusillanimity of his mind, by affecting a corporeal courage. ENVY no man's talent, but improve thy own. REST satisfied with doing well, and leave others to talk of you what they please. RODY-that portion of our system which receives the chief attention of Messrs. Somebody, Anybody, and Everybody, while Nobody cares for the soul. THERE is a paradox in pride; it makes some men ridiculous, but prevents others from becoming so. FLATTERY is a sort of bad money, to which our vanity gives currency. PLAGIARISTS are purloiners, who filch the fruit which others have gathered, and then throw away the basket. INDULGE not in anger; it is whetting a sword to wound thine own breast, or to murder thy friend. Printed and Published for the Proprietor, by JOHN OWEN CLARKE, (of No. 8, SUMMER TIME IN TOWN AND COUNTRY. "THE Season" of the Fashionable World is now over, and all, who can get away, are off to the country. The great houses in Belgravia are dismantled and put by. The last barouche, all hung round with travelling boxes, left town this morning, and is at this moment rolling along the broad beech avenue up to the hall-door of Venson Manor, where a group of tall footmen are in waiting to usher the family into their paternal mansion. A few disconsolate members of parliament are occasionally dribbling into the weather-boarded House of Commons, where they vote the estimates a bore, and everything else which keeps them in town at this hot season, when the twelfth of August is so close at hand. You may even catch sight of the retiring skirts of a lord, at the government offices, in Whitehall; and the old Duke may still be seen riding up to the peers' lobby on his accustomed cob. But, to all intents and purposes, "the season" is at an end: Almacks is closed, and dowagers and their daughters have vanished from the whirl of London life for a time-the former, to consider the success of their plans-the latter, to dream over their conquests. The young bloods have taken down a store of buck-shot, sundry canisters of "No. 4," and ammunition enough to see them well through the moorish campaign. Lieutenant Scarlet, of the Coldstreams, may still be seen in the Square at St. James's, engaged in the hazardous enterprise of relieving guard; but he, too, is contemplating a move to his sporting ground; he declares "the town is deserted," vows the Park to be "detestable," and protests that he is the "last man in town." On Monday next, go down to the Square, and you will see the Lieutenant is off. There is only Ensign Straggles, and he has to be content with an occasional petit souper at the Star and Garter, at Richmond. So "the last man" has left, and the City is deserted! Not quite! About two millions of souls remain, and even the gay "world" is scarcely missed. The full tide of city life still rolls on; the roar of London is with us yet; the streets, the roads, the river, all the great thoroughfares, are multitudinous with the throng of men. The capital of the world is not so easily emptied. The twenty or thirty thousand lords, ladies, landed gentry, with their followers, hangers-on, and servants, who may have left [PRICE 14d. town, were but visitors: the people of London-they whose homes are there-are all still "in town;" and these are a little nation in themselves. They must enjoy their summer as they can; and if they cannot carry themselves out to the country, they will, at least, endeavour to bring the country into the town. Not that the Londoner is ever tired of the delights of town life; the country is stale, flat, and unprofitable compared with it. There are the coffee-shops, with their newspapers, crowded as ever. There are the shops along Oxford Street, the Strand, all over the City, stretching out for miles together, still overflowing with their wares, and still attractive to purchasers. We are "a nation of shopkeepers: " Napoleon may have meant that for a sneer; but it was a compliment, of which we may be prouder than if he had called us a "nation of warriors." Our shops and our steam-engines, our ships and our spinning-jennies, have made London what it is. See our shopkeepers running their far-spreading suburbs into the country, throwing railways over the land, and making even desert places musical with life. Our shopkeepers are no mean civilizers; they have reason to be proud of their shops. Charles Lamb was a man of intense London tastes; he was born and bred in its smoke, and grew to like it and all its stir and life so much, that he would not exchange it for the finest country scenery you could offer him. "I don't care," said he, once writing to Wordsworth in his cottage home in Westmoreland, "I don't care if I never see a mountain in my life. I have passed all my days in London, until I have formed as many and intense local attachments as any of you mountaineers can have done with dead nature. The lighted shops of the Strand and Fleet Street, the innumerable trades, tradesmen and customers, coaches, waggons, play-houses, all the bustle round about Covent Garden, the watchmen, rattles; life awake, if you are awake, at all hours of the night; the improbability of being dull in Fleet Street; the crowds, the very dirt and mud, the sun shining upon houses and pavements, the print-shops, the old bookstalls, parsons cheapening books, coffee-houses, steams of soups from kitchens, the pantomimes,-London itself a pantomime and masquerade; all these things work themselves into my mind, and feed me without a power of satiating me. The wonder of these sights impels me into night-walks about her crowded streets; and I often shed tears in the motley Strand, from fulness of joy at so They are mute: some have already taken their leave for much life." Theatres are always a joy in London; and now the evening sun peeps through the gallery-windows at full price, and the "gods' cannot help feeling that it is rather out of place. So, by this time, an adjournment takes place to out-of-doors; and Vauxhall, Cremorne, and Rosherville, blaze in all their glory under the meridian of midnight. Beneath the summer air of England, we can thus realize scenes surpassed only by the wonders of the "Arabian Nights." What crowds of happy faces! What intense enjoyment of life! Look at them as they enter the golden gate! Are they not beaming with anticipation of joy and enchantment? "Give me," said Lamb, "a score of honest, happy, anticipatory faces, waiting for the opening of the pit-door, or the gardengate; such a sight is worth all your pastoral sheep and lambs in creation!" But the Londoner loves the country too, and that right heartily. How proud is he of his Parks! they are his lungs, his promenades, his pleasure-grounds! There is nothing like them; there are few parks, even in the country, more beautiful than they. True, he cannot boast of a garden at his door. He may have a geranium or fuchsia in his window, thanks to the graceful taste and care of his wife; and he may sedulously cultivate the six paces of earth before or behind his door; but the waterbutt is not ornamental, and the dust is rather choking; nevertheless, such as it is, he rejoices in his garden produce. He would like the companionship of a purling brook; but, alas! there is only a sluggish ditch. He would have no objection to the songsters of the woods, but, instead of these, he recognises only a few chirping sparrows, as black as little sweeps. So, the first fine day, he is off to the country to see the real living grass and trees, inhale the pure air, and bask in the sunshine. Sunday is the great city-holiday. On summer Sundays, the streets are almost deserted. From an early hour in the morning, the population has been pressing out country-wards in all directions, on foot, in busses, or along the river, up or down, in steamers. To many of the hard-worked, toiling classes, Sunday is the very eye of the week. Through it, they see Nature and her God. It enables them to cast the slough of their six day's toil, and rescues them from the polluted miasms in which too many of them daily live. In our hearts we cannot believe that the beneficent use of the Sabbath, in cleansing and purifying the physical and moral nature of man, is inconsistent with the example of Him, who taught that it was right to pull a sheep out of a pit on the Sabbath-day. And how much better is a man than a sheep? All the fields and heaths for ten miles round London are gay with health and pleasure-seekers on this day. On Shooter's Hill, on Primrose Hill, on Blackheath, on Clapham Common, on Hampstead Heath, you find working-men, with their wives and families, and younger men with their sweethearts, seated on the grass, drawing from the depths of mysterious bags and baskets the materials for their noon repast. Greenwich and Richmond Parks are full, and Hampton Court Palace is swarming with visitors. Pleasure-vans come pouring in till a late hour in the afternoon, and disgorge loads of people, who, in turns, pass through the gardens, picture-galleries, and chapels of the Court. Towards evening, all the teagardens about town are filled, long tables are set out in the open air, and many a tea is joyfully dispatched at ninepence per head. Dusk comes on, and the streams of human beings again pour back into the city. And now for summer-time in the country! The weather is warm, the sky is beautiful, and a sense of heat and quiet is over all nature "The birds are faint with the hot sun, And hide in cooling trees." the year, and migrated. The insect tribes are all full of When the beauties of nature afford so abundant a variety as at this season, we scarcely know where to choose. Shall it be hedge-rows and field-paths, the suntanned reapers harvesting on either side, little children sitting prattling under the hawthorn bush, until their parents can rest for the mid-day meal, or playing by the old stile, half-hidden under the overhanging boughs of an old oak, waiting there for the evening hour of rest, when they all plod wearily homewards together? Or, shall it be the green lanes about cities, many of which are still preserved in the neighbourhood of old London-the country pressing closely upon the crowded city on every side? Beautiful exceedingly are they about Highgate, where the Poet's Lane, Coleridge's and Keats's favourite walk on the skirts of Mansfield Park, still invites many lovers of nature to while away the summer evening hour, until the sun's departing rays "Fling back a lingering, lovely after-day;" when the air sleeps all over the heavens, and the red round disc of the departing god crimsons over the little inland mere with mellowed loveliness, while the nightingale sends up her mellifluous song from the bowery gardens in the lane. Or, shall it be Love Lane, near Camberwell, or Hag Bush Lane, or the beautiful green walks about Kensington or Dulwich? But no! it is the country-the far-off country of which we would speak. Shall it be then by the seashore? Ah! how cool "the sea" sounds in hot weather; when we go to bed hot, lie half-asleep hot, rise hot, take a hot breakfast, gaze out upon hot brick walls, see the hot postman hurrying on his errands in hot scarlet, and walk along hot streets with heated thousands. No wonder so many should, at such a time, rush to Margate, Ramsgate, Brighton, and every point of the sea-coast, for a breath of fresh air and a plunge into the delicious cool brine. Or, shall we bury ourselves in cool forests, beneath the shade of thick trees, "A covert of old trees, with trunks all hoar," whose foliage nature already tinges as with the hues of the dying dolphin; or lay ourselves down by cool grots on the banks of running brooks, listening to the water gurgling through stones, or welling up from the cool recesses of the earth? Or, shall it be one of the old English parks, than which nothing can be more beautiful at this charming season? Every county in England contains many such: the Park is the English gentleman's pride,—and well it may be. Fancy yourself on the castle or hall-terrace. Before you lies a wide park, dotted with clumps of beautiful trees, 12th of August gentlemen, who hannt the moors to shoot grouse, will realize the magnificent conceptions of the Sheffield blacksmith. But even the mere sportsman cannot fail to relish the wild grandeur of the scene. Up in the morning with the sun, and away up the hill-side, through the mists, with his dogs, brushing the early dew with his feet, he startles the "cootie moorcocks" from their seat, and whirr! bang! he bags his first bird. The sun creeps up the sky, "forth gushing from beneath a mountains, and the grass-blades stoop heavy with glistening diamond drops. He sees beneath him, as far as the eyes can reach, a magnificent glen or strath, the red deer standing startled and on the alert, on the crags of the neighbouring hills; but onward he goes, and now he has the moors all to himself, the glens below are quite shut out from his view, and he seems like the one solitary being standing between earth and heaven. Miles of heather are traversed, and one by one the grouse are bagged, till far off, on a shepherd's stone, he takes from his kit his welcome sandwich and shares it with his panting dogs. Ah! the sport is one for princes, and we do not wonder at the fascination which it exercises over the healthy-blooded, life-enjoying, pleasure-loving gentlemen of England. We only wish it were possible to transport the tens of thousands of our city population, annually, to enjoy a few days of the bracing air which is always blowing across these majestic pleasure-grounds of our country. under which you see clustering groups of deer sheltering from the noon-day heat. Green knolls and hills rise and swell at intervals, and vistas through the trees lead the eye into distant prospects, where it lights on a picturesque farm-steading, or a village spire. A lake lies at your feet, and its margin is fringed with water-lilies, with their flowers wide open to the sun. A green island, covered with verdure, reposes in its midst, and a rustic seat crowns its summit. A few milk-white swans are sailing upon the lake, and a little boat-house, almost covered by over-low-hung cloud;" the mists roll up the sides of the hanging trees, shows that the fairy isle has sometimes visitors. A cascade springs from the corner of a green valley, and leaps from rock to rock till it reaches the vale beneath you. Closely-shaven lawns stretch away around the castle terrace, through among shrubberies, and groves, and along borders of flowers, into the dense copse and deep woods, stocked with pheasants and other game, which skirt the park in all directions, leading you to glens and waterfalls, and old ruins, and rustic arbours commanding delicious prospects of valleys, and mountains, and smiling cornfields. Such is the English gentleman's Park, of which there are thousands throughout England. They are so beautiful, indicate a love of country so intense, a taste so refined, and sources of pleasure so exquisite, that we do not wonder at the saying of the Russian Emperor, Alexander-"That if he was not Alexander, he would choose to be an English gentleman." But all this is not enough. Even beauty the most perfect palls upon the over-refined taste; and the repetition of the finest park-scenery may become tiresome. Bounding hills, and even barren heaths, are relished as a change; and accordingly the English gentleman invents a new pleasure; grouse-shooting begins on the twelfth; and long before that time he is off to his "Box" on the moors. There is, after all, something grand and solemu in an extensive tract of moorland-scenery. Here Nature reigns in all her native wildness; for the sterii heath defies the cultivating arts of man. The wind blows free and fresh, unpolluted by the breath of towns, or the smoke of civilization. It breathes upon the lone wind-flower and the antler'd moss, the bog-rush and the purple heather. But Ebenezer Elliott has already painted the Moors so magnificently, that we shall borrow his description from "The Village Patriarch." "The moors-all had! Ye changeless, ye sublime! But listening to his beating heart-ye lie! With winds and clouds dread harmony ye keep; Ye speak, are mute-and there is no reply I thank ye, billows of a granite sea, For one grim region in a land of woe, Where tax-sown wheat, and paupers, will not grow. Here pause, old man, the Alpine air to taste; forlorn Drink it from Nature's goblet, while the morn Hail to the tempest's throne, the clouds' high-road, The path we tread the Sherwood Outlaws trode, [This article includes our usual "Notes on the Month," for August.] THE CHURCH OF THE VASA D'AGUA. ONE very hot evening, in the year 1815, the curate of By At the word host, Margarita raised her eyes, and beheld a stranger who accompanied her master. The face of the old dame assumed suddenly an expression of wrath and disappointment; her angry glances fell on the new comer, and again on her master, who looked down, and said with the timidity of a child who dreads the remonstrances of his parent : "Peace Margarita, where there is enough for two, there is always enough for three, and you would not have wished me to leave a christian to starve? he has not eaten for three days." "Santa Maria! he a christian, he looks more like a robber," and muttering to herself, the housekeeper left the room. During this parley, the stranger remained motionless at the threshold of the door; he was tall, with long black hair, and flashing eyes, his clothes were in tatters, and the long rifle which he carried excited distrust rather than favour. "Must I go away?" he inquired. The curate replied, with an emphatic gesture, "never shall he, whom I shelter, be driven away, or made unwelcome; but sit down, put aside your gun, let us say grace, and to our repast." shot from the guards. A baby lay at her breast, by her side a little boy of about four years old, who was endeavouring to wake her, pulling her by the sleeve, thinking she had fallen asleep, and calling her mamma. One may judge of Margarita's surprise when the curate returned with two children on his arms. "Santa Madre! What can this mean! What will you do in the night? We have not even sufficient food for ourselves, and yet you bring two children. I must go and beg from door to door, for them and ourselves. And who are these children? The sons of a bandit-a gipsy; and worse perhaps. Have they ever been baptized?" "I never quit my weapon, as the proverb says, two friends are one, my rifle is my best friend, I shall keep it between my knees. Though you may not send me from your house till it suits me, there are others who would make me leave theirs against my will, and perhaps head-foremost. Now to your health, let us eat." The curate himself, although a man of good appetite, was amazed at the voracity of the stranger, who seemed to bolt rather than eat almost the whole of the dish, besides drinking the whole flask of wine, and leaving none for his host, or scarcely a morsel of the enormous loaf which occupied a corner of the table. Whilst he was eating so voraciously, he started at the slightest noise, if a gust of wind suddenly closed the door, he sprang up and level- At this moment, the infant uttered a plaintive cry, ling his rifle, seemed determined to repel intrusion; hav-"What will you do to feed this baby, we cannot afford a ing recovered from his alarm, he again sat down, and nurse; we must use the bottle, and you have no idea of went on with his repast. "Now," said he, speaking the wretched nights we shall have with him." with his mouth full, "I must tax your kindness to the "You will sleep, in spite of all," replied the good utmost. I am wounded in the thigh, and eight days have curate. passed without its being dressed. Give me a few bits of linen, then you shall be rid of me." 66 "O! santa Maria, he cannot be more than six months old! happily I have a little milk here, ! "I do not wish to rid myself of you," replied the must warm it," and forgetting her anger, Margarita curate, interested in his guest, in spite of his threatening took the infant from the priest, kissed it, and demeanour, by his strange exciting conversation. "I soothed it to rest. She knelt before the fire, stirred the am somewhat of a doctor, you will not have the awk-embers to heat the milk quicker, and when this little one wardness of a country barber, or dirty bandages to complain of, you shall see," so speaking, he drew forth, from a closet, a bundle containing all things needed, and turning up his sleeves, prepared himself to discharge the duty of a surgeon. The wound was deep, a ball had passed through the stranger's thigh, who, to be able to walk, must have exerted a strength and courage more than human. "You will not be able to proceed on your journey today," said the curate, probing the wound with the satisfaction of an amateur artist. You must remain here to-night, good rest will restore your health and abate the inflammation, and the swelling will go down." "I must depart to-day, at this very hour," replied the stranger, with a mournful sigh. "There are some who wait for me, others who seek me," he added, with a ferocious smile. "Come, let us see, have you done your dressing? Good: here am I light and easy, as if I never had been wounded. Give me a loaf-take this piece of gold in payment for your hospitality, and farewell." The curate refused the tendered gold, with emphasis. "As you please, pardon me-farewell." So saying, the stranger departed, taking with him the loaf which Margarita had so unwillingly brought at her master's order. Soon his tall figure disappeared in the foliage of the wood which surrounded the village. An hour later, the report of fire-arms was heard. The stranger re-appeared, bleeding, and wounded in the breast. He was ghastly, as if dying. 66 Here," said he, presenting to the old priest some pieces of gold. "My children-in the ravine-in the wood-near the little brook." He fell, just as half a dozen soldiers rushed in, arms in hand; they met with no resistance from the wounded man, whom they closely bound, and, after some time, allowed the priest to dress his wound; but in spite of all his remarks on the danger of moving a man so severely wounded, they placed him on a cart. "Basta," said they, "he can but die. He is the great robber, Don Josè della Ribera." Josè thanked the good priest, by a motion of his head, then asked for a glass of water, and as the priest stooped to put it to his lips, he faintly said, "You remember." The curate replied with a nod, and when the troop had departed, in spite of the remonstrances of Margarita, who represented to him the danger of going out in the night, and the inutility of such a step, he quickly crossed the wood towards the ravine, and there found the dead body of a woman, killed, no doubt, by some stray had had enough, she put him to sleep, and the other had his turn. Whilst Margarita gave him some supper, undressed him, and made him a bed for the night, of the priest's cloak, the good old man related to her how he had found the children; in what manner they had been bequeathed to him. "O! that is fine and good," said Margarita, “but how can they and we be fed?" The curate took the Bible, and read aloud"Whosoever shall give, even a cup of cold water, to one of the least, being my disciple; verily I say unto you, he shall not lose his reward." Amen," responded the housekeeper. The next day, the good father ordered the burial of the poor woman, and he himself read the service over her grave. Twelve years from this time, the curate of San-Pedro, then seventy years of age, was warming himself in the sun, in front of his house. It was winter, and there had been no sunshine for two days. Beside him stood a boy, ten or twelve years old, reading aloud the daily prayers, and from time to time casting a look of envy on a youth of about sixteen, tall, handsome, and muscular, who laboured in the garden adjoining that of the priest. Margarita, being now blind, was listening attentively, when the youngest boy exclaimed, "O! what a beautiful coach," as a splendid equipage drove up near the door. A domestic, richly dressed, dismounted, and asked the old priest to give him a glass of water for his master. "Carlos," said the priest to the younger boy, “give this nobleman a glass of water, and add to it a glass of wine, if he will accept it. Be quick!" The gentleman alighted from the coach. He seemed about fifty. "Are the children your nephews?" inquired he. "Much better," said the priest, "they are mine, by adoption, be it understood." "I shall tell you, for I can refuse nothing to such a gentleman, for poor and inexperienced in the world as I am, I need good advice, how best to provide for these two boys." "Make ensigns of them in the king's guards, and in order to keep up a suitable appearance, he must allow them a pension of six thousand ducats." "I ask your advice, my lord, not mockery." "Then you must have your church rebuilt, and by the side of it, a pretty parsonage house, with handsome iron |