On Country Churchyard Epitaphs.

" To the memory of father , mother , and 1 , Who all of us died in one year , Father lies at Salisbury—And mother and I lies here . " " Her temper mild , her manners such ; Her language good , but not too much . "

What a variety of sentiment and expression is breathed in these lines ! could Longinus , Scaliger , or Toup , live again , how many beauties would they not discover in them—how many dissertations would they not enter intorespecting them ? Their

in-, equality of measure , their freedom of system , their multitudinous combination of ideas , are equally entitled to the disquisitions and labours of the most eminent commentators . The more elegant epitaphs which I have met with and which I truly admire for

their sweetness and simplicity , I will present to my readers without further observation . What comment is needed for such as the following

?—ON TWO INFANTS . " The storm that sweeps the wintry sky , No more disturbs their deep repose , The summer ev ' ning ' s latest sigh That shuts the rose .

" Just to her lips the cup of life she prest , Found the taste bitter , and refus'd the rest . She felt averse to life ' s returning day , And softly sighed her little soul away . " "Ere sin could blight , or sorrow fade . Death came with friendly care ;

The opening bud to Heav ' n conveyed , And bade it blossom there . " "How sweet a thing is Death , to all who know That all on earth is vanity and woe . Who , taught by sickness , long have ceased to dread

The stroke that bears them to this peaceful bed I Few are our days , yet while those days remain , Our joy must yield to grief ; our ease to pain ; Then tell me weary pilgrim , which is best . The toilsome journey or the traveller ' s rest !" I will conclude these extracts with a few beautiful lines which I picked up at an obscure village in the North of England . They are inscribed by a husband to the memory of a beloved wife .

A tender plant , borne from the fost'ring gales That breathe on Avon ' s margin drooped aud died . Yet Time shall be , sweet plant , a gale divine—Shall thee restore . And thou , in health and -youth , *> y the pure streams of peace shall ever live , And flourish in the Paradise of God ! "

On Country Churchyard Epitaphs.

My latest wish will be , that whenever I am no more of this world , my remains may be deposited in a country churchyard , and that my eulogy may be entrusted to a village poet . I care not whether my epitaph be short or long ; whether it be

elegant or quaint , so that it be divested of those pompous ornaments of language , those gross effusions of adulation , which too often disgrace the marble upon which they are engraved . Who can forget that our worldl lory must end with our life

;y g that the sculptor ' s art and the panegyrist ' s abilities are alike unable to preserve our ashes from annihilation , or our fame from oblivion ? J . H .

How Little We Know Of Each Other.

HOW LITTLE WE KNOW OF EACH OTHER .

From the " London Journal . " How little we know of each other , As we pass through the journey of life , With its struggles , its fears , and temptations—Its heart-breaking cares and its strife .

We can only see things on the surface , For few people glory in sin ; Aud an unruffled face is no index To the tumult which rages within . How little we know of each other ! The man who to day passes by

, Blessed with fortune , and honour , and titles , And holding his proud head so high , May carry a dread secret with him Which makes of his bosom a hell . And he sooner or later , a felon , May writhe in a prisoner ' s cell .

How little we know of each other ! That woman of fashion , who sneers At the poor girl betray'd and abandon'd And left to her sighs and her tears , May , ere the sun rises to-morrow , Have the mask rudely torn from her

face , And sink from the heig ht of her glory To the dark shades of shame and disgrace .