sional dip of the head, like a militia fugleman on parade. His curled hair and lavender gloves, one of which dangled between the fingers of his left hand, formed a striking contrast with the squalid appearance of the funeral party by which he was accompanied to the church-door. No relative or friend followed the deceased. The coffin-maker preceded the four bearers, and they, with the parson and clerk, formed the whole of the procession; the two old men from the Union having retired from the churchyard gate as soon as they had resigned their charge into the custody of those who had undertaken, for the small remuneration of a shilling a head, to bear it to its final destination.

When the coffin was placed upon the tressels, the four burly labourers sat beside it, squalid with mud, listening with listless apathy to the thin squeaking voice of the minister, who read, with affected solemnity, the imposing service for the dead. It was, in truth, a pitiable sight. I was present, and never did I witness anything so appallingly sorrowful. Nothing could be more cold than the manner in which the service was delivered. The indifference of every one engaged was painfully manifest. The bearers, the clerk and these, including myself, formed the entire congregation-seemed to have caught the feeling of the clergyman, being alike insensible to the solemn act they were severally assembled in God's house to perform. The former, with their soiled faces and tattered attire, looked more like the grim ministers of death, than sober rustics taking part in the obsequies of a poor neighbour. They were seated close by the coffin, and one of them rested his arms on it, gaping round upon the pillars and ceiling of the sacred edifice, as if it were the first time he had been within the walls of a church. The clerk gabbled over that beautiful psalm selected for this solemn occasion, with such indecent haste, that no one could mistake how little interest he took in what was going on.

In due time the corpse was again placed upon the shoulders of the bearers and borne to the grave, beside which it was laid on two ragged ropes, that appeared as if they had been similarly employed for several past generations. The grave was nearly half filled with water, which was baled out by the clerk before the clergyman could proceed. So loose was the soil above, that a plank had been fixed on both sides with staves across, to prevent the earth from falling in. When the body was ready to be lowered, the staves and planks were removed; but scarcely had this been accomplished than a large body of clay rolled from either

side with a dull heavy splash into the bottom of the pit, nearly half filling it. A portion of this was removed with much difficulty, and after considerable delay, the body was hurriedly dropped upon the remaining mass. Even then the upper part of the coffin reached to within half-a-yard of the surface. The confusion and busy indifference of the parties engaged, during the whole scene, made so painful an impression, that my heart recoiled with indignation and disgust. The unseemly impatience of the minister was no less offensive than the utter absence of feeling displayed by his subordinate in office, and the four men who had been hired for a shilling a head at the parish cost, to perform a Christian duty.

was

The remainder of the service, after the body had been committed—"earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust," hurried over with unbecoming rapidity, lest the damp ground should chill the reverend pastor's blood; and, when it was concluded, he skipped from the church-yard into the vicarage with an alacrity that showed how little sympathy he had with human wretchedness, and how little the death of the poor widow had impressed his heart. In truth, he was the idol of his own worship, but I believe he was that idol's only worshipper. Out of a large income of more than two thousand a year, of which he did not spend one fourth part, he distributed not in charity one farthing in the pound. He only gave spiritual counsel, if, indeed, that could be said to be given for which the parish paid him several hundred pounds per annum.

That same evening his demand of half-a-crown upon the overseer was satisfied, and after a few weeks, the lonely spot where the poor widow had been interred, under circumstances so harrowing to a sympathetic heart, had been trampled flat by the urchins of the village school, and there no longer remained any memorial of her upon earth.

275

A WORD OR TWO ON CHANGES.

SIMULTANEOUS with creation was the birth of a spirit, subtle, insinuating, and oft-times imperceptible in progress, but mighty, comprehensive, and all-pervading. The most magnificent of Nature's works is too weak to check its course, and the most insignificant atom of her frame is not sufficiently unimportant to elude its influence. It sweeps with its shadowy wing the bright glories of the proudest empire, and leaves its impress on the leaf that whirls in the eddies of the autumn wind. Over city and hamlet, palace and hut-over mountain and plain, forest and desert-over ocean and sky, over earth and its inhabitants, over all things animate and inanimate, flows the silent and resistless tide of change. The principle of change, as applied to the reproductive operations of animal and vegetable life, is exceedingly beautiful, and perfect in its philosophy. However anomalous it may seem, it is the very spirit of perpetuation-the safeguard of future existence the interposing shield between life and annihilation. The transition of the chrysalis to the gorgeous butterflyof the acorn to the kingly oak-of the diminutive seed to the sweet flower, whose perfume and beauty gladden the heart, and awaken a thousand associations, teaches us that the design of change is improvement; that its march is onward, and that its destination is perfection. Instructive as it is to trace the workings of change through the progressive movements of the physical world, they acquire tenfold interest when viewed in connection with sentient beings; and the influence of change on the hopes, plans, ambitions, and affections of mankind, presents to us a page, teeming with greater wonders than fiction ever dared to represent, and abounding with passages of the deepest pathos. Man has generally been characterised as "fond of change," but this is true only as far as regards a change of his own seeking; having exhausted one round after another of occupation or pleasure, his restless spirit prompts him to seek fresh excitement in untried scenes; but to the general and universal principle he is naturally averse, and his whole life is a series of

efforts to fortify himself against its encroachments, and to surround himself with treasures, whose durability, he vainly flatters himself, will outlast its effacing touch. The schoolboy cuts his name in the glossy stem of the beech, under whose waving foliage he has wiled away the holiday afternoon, in the vague and unexpressed hope that something connected with himself will remain when he is gone and forgotten; the poet travails in mental labour, denying himself rest and relaxation, consuming the "midnight oil" and his health together, that there may be retained, "When the original is dust,

A name, a wretched picture, and worse bust."

The man who all his life has been scraping up wealth scavenger generally of the most dirty description), consoles himself, when called to part from it, with the reflection that "the property will be kept in the family ;" and the high-born aristocrat is gratified with the idea, that the name and honours of his illustrious line will be perpetuated by his heir, sleeping, all unconscious of the coming greatness, in his costly cradle. However varied may be the objects which twine themselves round our hearts, we are all actuated by one impulse-to shelter them from the swelling stream of Time and Change; and we are idly busied in erecting our puny barriers against the rising waters. Well is it for us, that the operations of change are (for the most part) gentle as they are mighty,-imperceptibly extracting some closely-grasped toy from our reluctant hand, and slipping into its vacant place, some new substitute ere we are well aware of our loss happy is it for us too, that in its more startling transitions, we possess that pliability which so soon accommodates itself to circumstances; otherwise, how could we behold the fragments of precious hopes, wrecked and borne away on the restless waves of change? How familiar to us is the exclamation, "I saw So-andSo to-day-haven't seen him before for years-not a bit altered that I can see!' True, not that you can see; change may have passed its hand lightly over his features and form, but are you sure it has not been at work within? Has not its passing shadow darkened his "schemes of hope and pride?" Is his heart as fresh, is his faith as unsuspecting, are his affections as happy and pure, as in the days that are gone? Does he still view things through the bright but delusive medium of roseate fancy, or has wisdom brought sorrow for its companion, and cold calculation,

bred of bitter experience, extinguished the last lingering spark of generous fire? Does he enter now upon projects with the energy of a mind that believes in the existence of their remunerative capabilities, or does he go through them with the dull and weary air of one who feels them to be but " vanity and vexation of spirit ?"

Alas! we know that the kernel may be withered, while the shell is untouched-that change may spare the form, only to blight the mind-and that the heart may grow grey, while yet the hair is bright! Oh, spirit of change! cold is thy touch; and thou leavest in thy track, the chill of desolation round many a deserted hearth, long time the gathering-place of happy facesthe rallying-point of those who are striving in the world's warfare, and the sacred abode of the dear Penates. Few things are calculated to make a more painful impression of the nature of change, than the view of empty rooms, once containing within their walls so much of the warmth and light and joy of life; there is a voice in their silence ever proclaiming the mutability of human things; the dull ashes in the cheerless grate are emblematical of the decaying embers aforetime brightly burning in bosoms now changed and cold; the remnants of string which lie about on the floors, are types of the broken fibres which once bound some fond heart to a cherished object-severed now, and bleeding, but still refusing to quit their hold. It is nothing to tell us that "the change is for the better," that "they were glad to leave," that "they would be much better off when they were gone," &c.

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Who but has felt the fallacious character of such comfort in the

bitterness of a parting hour? Their worldly prospects may be better; they may, perhaps, have a larger share of the good things (as they are called) of this life; but think you that a place to eat and drink and sleep in, constitutes a home? Even "the ox knows its owner, and the ass his master's crib ;" and if the brutes discover a predilection for their accustomed stalls, shall the spirit feel no clinging to the spot so identified with its joys and griefs-a spot hallowed by affection, and endeared even by suffering; where some we love have lisped their first words, and others have breathed their last sighs.

Ye weary-hearted exiles in a foreign land, do ye find full compensation in its warmer skies and richer soil, for the wrench that plucked your hearts up by the roots from their native earth? Does the brighter glow of the Ausonian sun counteract the cold