The sentinel sleeps when off his post; the Moorfields barker enjoys some interval of repose; moonshine suffers a partial eclipse on Bank holidays among the omnium gatherem of Bulls and Bears; the doctor gives the undertaker a holiday; Argus sends his hundred eyes to the Land of Nod, and Briareus puts his century of hands in his pockets.—But the match-maker, ante and post meridian, is always at her post!

“The News teems with candidates for the noose:—A spinster conjugally inclined; a bachelor devoted to Hymen; forlorn widowers; widows disconsolate; and why not 'A daughter to marry?' Addresses paid per post, post paid! For an introduction to the belle, ring the bell! None but principals (with a principal!) need apply.”

“Egad,” continued Mr. Bosky, as we journeyed through the fields a few mornings after our caravan adventure, to pay Uncle Timothy a visit at his new rus in urbe near Hampstead Heath, “it will soon be dangerous to dine out, or to figure in; for a dinner may become an action for damages; and a dance, matrimony without benefit of clergy! But yesterday I pic-nic'd with the Muffs; buzzed with Brutus; endured Ma, was just civil to Miss; when early this morning comes a missive adopting me for a son-in-law!”

We congratulated Mr. Bosky on the prospect of his speedily becoming a Benedick.

“Bien oblige! What! ingraft myself on that family Upas tree of ignorance, selfishness, and conceit! Couple with triflers, who, having no mental resources or amusement within themselves, sigh 'O! another dull day!' and are happy only when some gad-about party drag them from a monotonous home, where nothing is talked of or read, but petty scandal, fashions for the month, trashy novels, mantua-makers' and milliners' bills! I can laugh at affectation, but I loathe duplicity; I can pity a fool, but I scorn a flirt. This is a hackneyed ruse of Ma's. The last coasting season of the Muffs has been comparatively unprolific. From Margate to Brighton Miss Matilda counts but five proposals positive, and half a dozen presumptive; in the latter are included some broad stares at Broadstairs from the Holborn Hill Demosthenes! and even these have been furiously scrambled for by the delicate sisters for their marriageable Misses! 'Everybody! says Lord Herbert of Cherbury, 'loves the virtuous, whereas the vicious do scarcely love one another.”

An oddity crossed our path. “There waddles,” said the LaurÉat, “Mr. Onessimus Omnium, who thrice on every Sabbath takes the round of the Conventicles with his pockets stuffed full of bibles and psalm books, every one of which (chapter and verse pointed out!) he passes into the hands of forgetful old ladies and gentlemen whom he opines 'Consols, and not philosophy, console!' Pasted on the inside cover is his card, setting forth the address and calling of Onessimus! You may swear that somebody is dead in the neighbourhood, (the pious Lynx is hunting up the executors!) by seeing him out of 'the Alley' at this early time of the day.”

Farther a-field, rambling amidst the rural scenes he has so charmingly described, we shook hands with Uncle Timothy's dear friend, the Author of a work “On the Beauties, Harmonies, and Sublimities of Nature.” * Happy old man! Who shall say that fortune deals harshly, if, in taking much away, she leaves us virtue?

Winding through a verdant copse, we suddenly came in sight of an elegant mansion. From a flower-woven arbour, sacred to retirement, proceeded the notes of a guitar.

“Hush!” said the LaurÉat, colouring deeply,—

“breathe not! Stir not!” And a voice of surpassing sweetness sang

Farewell Autumn's shady bowers,

Purple fruits and fragrant flowers,

Golden fields of waving com,

And merry lark that wakes the mom I

Earth a mournful silence keeps,

See, the dewy landscape weeps!

Hark! thro* yonder lonely dell

Gentle zephyrs sigh farewell!

Call'd ere long by vernal spring,

Trees shall blossom, birds shall sing;

The blushing rose, the lily fair

Deck sweet summer's bright parterre—

Flocks and herds, the bounding steed

Shall, sporting, crop the flowery mead,

And bounteous Nature yield again

Her ripen'd fruits and golden grain.

Ere the landscape fades from view,

As behind yon mountains blue

Sets the sun in glory bright—

And the regent of the night,

Thron'd where shines the blood-red Mars,

With her coronet of stars,

Silvers woodland, hill and dell,

Lovely Autumn! fare thee well.

Was Mr. Bosky in love with the songstress or the song? Certes his manner seemed unusually hurried and flurried; and one or two of his forced whistles sounded like suppressed sighs. So absent was he that, not regarding how far we had left him in the rear, he stood for a few minutes motionless, as if waiting for echo to repeat the sound!

We thought—it might be an illusion—that a fair hand waved him a graceful recognition. At all events the spell was soon broken, for he bounded along to us like the roe, with

“Jog on, jog on, the foot-path way,

And merrily hent the stile-a:

A merry heart goes all the day,

Your sad tires at a mile-a.”

The laughing Autolicus! It was his blithesome note that first made us acquainted with Uncle Timothy!

The remembrance of boyhood is ever pleasing to the reflective mind. The duties that await us in after-life; the cares and disappointments that obstruct our future progress cast a shade over those impressions that were once interwoven with our existence. But it is only a shade; recall but one image of the distant scene, and the whole rises in all its freshness and verdure; touch but one string of this forgotten harmony, and every chord shall vibrate!

“Arma, vi-rump que cane-o!” exclaimed the LaurÉat, pointing to his old schoolmaster, who was leaning over his rustic garden-gate, reading his favourite Virgil. And how cordial was their greeting! The scholar played his urchin pranks over again, and the master flourished a visionary birch. Mr. Bosky hurried us into the playground; (his little garden was still there, but it looked not so trim and gay as when he was its horticulturist!) led us into the school room, pointed out his veritable desk, notched at all corners with his initials; identified the particular peg whereon, in days of yore, hung his (too often) crownless castor; and recapitulated his boyish sports, many of the sharers of which he happily recognised in the full tide of prosperity; and not a few sinking under adverse fortune, whose prospects were once bright and cheering, and whose bosoms bounded with youth, and innocence, and joy!

“Let me die in autumn! that the withered blossoms of summer may bestrew my grave, and the mournful breeze that scatters them, sigh forth my requiem!”

These were the words of the poor widow's only son, at whose tomb, in the village church-yard, we paused in sorrowful contemplation. Its guardian angels were Love and Pity entwined in each other's arms. Uncle Timothy, after recording the name and age of him to whom it was raised, thus concluded the inscription:—

Mysterious Vision of a fitful dream!

Pilgrim of Time thro* Nature's dark sojourn!

Then cast upon Eternity's wide stream—

To Know Thyself is all thou need'st to learn:

And that thy God, omnipotent and just,

Is merciful, remembering thou art Dust!

—When the friends of our youth are fast dying away; when the scenes that once delighted us are fading from our view, and new connections and objects ill repay the loss of the old, how welcome the summons that closes our disappointments and calls us to rest! The mourners walk the streets, but the man is gone; the body dissolves to dust, but the spirit returns to Him that gave it!

The Village Free-School was at hand, (the morning hymn, chanted by youthful voices, rose on the breeze to heaven! ) and the Alms-houses, where Uncle Timothy first met the poor widow and the good pastor. A troop of little children were gathered round one of the inmates, listening to some old wife's tale. 'Tis the privilege of the aged to be reminiscent: the past is their world of anecdote and enjoyment. Let us then afford them this pleasure, well nigh the only one that time has not taken away; remembering, that we with quick pace advance to the closing scene, when we shall be best able to appreciate the harmless gratification they now ask of us, and which we, in turn, shall ask of others.

The ancient church spire rising between the tall elms, and the neat Parsonage House gave an exquisite finish to the surrounding scenery. Happy England! whose fertile hills and valleys are spotted with these Temples of the Most High, where “the rich and the poor meet together, for the Lord hath made them all and the humble dwellings of the shepherds of his flock. The good pastor scattered blessings around him. His genius and learning commanded admiration and respect; his piety, and Christian charity conciliated dissent; and his life exemplified the beauty of holiness.” He had confirmed the faithful; fixed the wavering; and reclaimed the dissolute.

“The wretch who once sang wildly—danc'd and laugh'd,

And suck'd down dizzy madness with his draught,

Has wept a silent flood—reversed his ways—

Is sober, meek, benevolent, and prays.”

Place us above the sordid vulgar; light us on that enviable medium between competency and riches, and there we shall find the domestic virtues flourishing in full vigour and grace. In the rank hotbed of artificial life spring up those noxious weeds that choke and destroy them.

We now arrived at Uncle Timothy's cottage, reared in the midst of a flower garden. In a summer-house fragrant with roses, woodbine, and jessamine sat our host and the good pastor. A word of introduction soon made us friends; and from the minister's kind greeting, it was clear that

Uncle Timothy had not been niggard in our praise.

An old lady in deep mourning walked slowly up the path. Uncle Timothy went forth to receive her. It was the poor widow! The mother of that only son!

“Welcome, dear Madam! to this abode of peace. To-day—and what a day! so cool, so calm, so bright! we purpose being your guests.”

“Mine?” faltered the poor widow, anxiously.

“Yours!” replied Uncle Timothy; “sit down, my friends, and I will explain all.

“My childhood was sorrowful, and my youth laborious. A near relation wasted my patrimony; and with no other resource than a liberal education, wrung from the slender means of my widowed mother, I began the world. In this strait, a generous friend took me by the hand; first instructing me in his own house of business, and then procuring me an eligible appointment abroad. From time to time I acquainted him with my progress, and received in return substantial proofs of his benevolent and watchful care. Years rolled away,—fortune repaid my ardent endeavours,—and I resolved to revisit my native land. I embarked for England; when, almost in sight of her white cliffs, a storm arose, the ship foundered, and I lost half my possessions. Enough still remained to render me independent. My mother and sister were spared to bid me welcome,—my early oppressor (the infidel may laugh at retribution; but retribution begins, when a man is suspected in the society of others, and self-condemned in his own) had descended remorseful to the grave,—and my noble benefactor—

'O grief had changed him since I saw him last;

And careful hours, with time's deforming hand,

Had written strange defeatures in his face—'

by pecuniary embarrassments, heightened by ingratitude, was brought very low. Cheerfully would I have devoted to him my whole fortune, and began the world again. For then I possessed strength and energy to toil. But ere I could carry this my firm resolution into effect, three days after my arrival,

'As sweetly as a child,

Whom neither thought disturbs nor care encumbers,

Tired with long play, at close of summer day,

Lies down and slumbers!'

he pressed his last pillow, requiting my filial tears with a blessing and a smile.

“My debt of gratitude I hoped might still in part be paid. My friend had an only daughter—Did that daughter survive?

“The most diligent inquiries, continued for many years, proved unsuccessful. On the evening of an ill-spent and wearisome day, Heaven, dear sir, (addressing the good pastor) led me to your presence while performing the sacred duty of comforting the mourner. What then took place I need not repeat. You will, however, remember that on a subsequent occasion, while looking over the papers of the widow's son, we discovered a sealed packet, in which, accompanying a mourning ring, presented to his mother, were these lines:—

Pledge of love for constant care

Let a widow'd mother wear;

Filial love, whose early bloom

Proves a garland for the tomb.

Ever watchful, ever nigh,

It breaks my heart, it fills my eye

To see thee hide the falling tear,

And hush the sigh I may not hear!

Heaven thy precious life to spare

Is my morning, evening prayer,

When I rise, and sink to rest,

'Tis my first and last request.

If, when deep distress of mind

Press'd me sorely, aught unkind

I have said or done, forgive!

Error falls on all that live.

Beneath the sod, where wave the trees,

And softly sighs the whispering breeze,

Fain I would the grassy shrine,

Mother! guard my dust and thine.

What are grief and suffering here?

Are they worth a sigh or tear?

What is parting?—transient pain,

Parting soon to meet again!

The second enclosure was the miniature of his grandfather. But that miniature! Gracious God! what were my sensations when I beheld the benignant, expressive lineaments of my early benefactor. The object of my long and anxious inquiries was thus miraculously discovered! 'Till that moment I had never felt true happiness. This cottage, dear Madam, with a moderate independence, the deed I now present secures to you; in return, I entreat that the miniature may be mine: and I hope some kind friend (glancing at his nephew) will, in death, place it upon my bosom.”

“What darkness so profound,” exclaimed the good pastor, “that the All-seeing Eye shall not penetrate? What maze so intricate and perplexed that our Merciful Father shall not safely guide us through? 'Throw thy bread upon the waters, and it shall return to thee after many days.'”

The village bells rang a merry peal; for the good pastor had given the charity children a holiday. They were entertained with old English fare on the lawn before the cottage, and superintended in their dancing and blindman's-buff by Norah Noclack and the solemn clerk. Nor were the aged inmates of the bountiful widow's Almshouses forgotten. They dined at the Parsonage, and were gratified with a liberal present from Uncle Timothy. And that the day might live in grateful remembrance when those who now shared in its happiness found their rest in the tomb, the LaurÉat of Little Britain (some, like the sponge, require compression before they yield anything; others, like the honey-comb, exude spontaneously their sweets,) expressed his intention of adding two Alms-houses to the goodly number, and liberally endowing them.

Many a merrier party may have sat down to dinner, but never a happier one. It was a scene of deep and heartfelt tranquillity and joy. The widow—no longer poor—presided with an easy self-possession, to which her misfortunes added a melancholy grace.

Time passed swiftly; and the sun, that had risen and run his course in splendour, shed his parting rays on the enchanting scenery. Suddenly a flood of light illumined the chamber where we sat with an almost supernatural glory, beaming with intense brightness on the countenance of Uncle Timothy, and then melting away. Ere long in the distant groves was heard the nightingale's song.

“One valued relic” said the widow, addressing

Uncle Timothy, “I have ever carefully preserved. You, dear sir, were an enthusiast in boyhood: and when, as your senior, I once presumed to counsel you, this was your reply.”

And she read to Uncle Timothy his youthful fancy.

Let saving prudence temper joy,

Curtail of wit the social day;

Excitement's pleasures soon destroy,—

The spirit wears the frame away.

Thanks, gentle monitor! I greet

This friendly warning, well design'd;

For Stellas voice is ever sweet,

And Stellas words are ever kind!

I would not lose, to linger here,

One happy hour of wit and glee;

If e'er of death I have a fear,

It would with friends the parting be!

Then wear, my frame, and droop, and fade,

And fall, and dust to dust return;—

With friendship's rites sincerely paid,

'Tis sweeter to be mourned than mourn.

For mourn we must—it is a pain,

A penalty that man must pay

For dreaming childhood o'er again,

And sitting out last life's poor play.

Sad privilege! too dearly bought,

To sorrow over those that sleep;

Sadder, in apathy and naught,

To lose the will, the power to weep!

Ere thought and memory are obscur'd,

Let me, kind Stella! say adieu;

I would not ask to be endur'd,

No, not by e'en a friend like you!

Love, friendship, interchange of mind,

Celestial happiness hath given;

These glorious gifts she left behind,

Her foot-prints as she fled to Heaven!

“And so, Eugenio,” said Uncle Timothy, “you intend to visit the Eternal City, and muse over the mouldering ruins of the palaces of the CÆsars. But rest not there—take your pilgrim's staff and pass onward to that Land made Holy by the presence of our Redeemer! Would that I could accompany you to the sacred hills of Zion!”

“O for such a guide!” exclaimed Eugenio. “But I should be too—too happy—and I may no more expect light without darkness, than joy without sorrow.”

“If Uncle Tim goes, I go!” whispered the LaurÉat. “With him I am resolved to live—with him it would be happiness—” the last few words were inaudible.

“Eugenio,” said the good pastor, laying his hand on the young traveller's head, who knelt reverently to receive his blessing, “you are in possession of youth, health, and competence. How enviable your situation!—how extensive your power of doing good! Fortune smiled not on the widow's son,—yet, to him belongs a far higher inheritance; the inexhaustible treasures of Heaven, the eternal affluence of the skies! A man's genius is always, in the beginning of life, as much unknown to himself as to others; and it is only after frequent trials, attended with success, that he dares think himself equal to certain undertakings in which those who have succeeded have fixed the admiration of mankind. Be then what our lost friend would have been, under happier circumstances. A stagnant, unprogressing existence was never intended for man. Action is the mind's proper sphere, ere time obscures its brightness and enfeebles its powers. And carry with you these truths, that the foundation of domestic happiness is faith in the virtue of woman; the foundation of political happiness is confidence in the integrity of man; the foundation of all happiness, temporal and eternal, is reliance on the goodness of God. If, amidst more important occupations, the Muse claim a share of your regard, let not the ribald scorn of hypercriticism discourage you on the very threshold of poetry—f Know thine own worth, and reverence the Lyre—'”

The night proved as lovely as the day. But with it came the hour of parting. Parting!—What a host of feelings are concentrated in that little word! The LaurÉat bore up heroically.—The glare of the candles being too much for his eyes, he walked in the moonlight, while Eugenio sang—

Our sails catch the breeze—lov'd companions, adieu!

Farewell!—not to friendship—but farewell to you!

When Alps rise between us, and rolls the deep sea,

Shall I e'er forget you? Will you forget me?

Ah! no—for my hand you at parting have press'd,

In memory of moments my brightest and best!

How sad heaves my bosom this tear let it tell,

How falters my tongue when it bids you farewell!

Eugenio was on ship-board early the following morn. His friends attended, to wish him bon voyage and a safe return. And as the noble vessel moved majestically along the waters, high above the rest waved adieu the hand of Uncle Timothy!