cord can never be forgiven. Marget had arranged everything with Whinnie, and all saw the fitness. His father took the head, and the feet (next in honor) he gave to Domsie.

"Ye maun dae it. Marget said ye were o' his ain bluid.28 ››

On the right side the cords were handed to the Doctor, Gordon, and myself; and on the left to Drumsheugh, Maclean, and Chalmers. Domsie lifted the hood for Marget, but the roses he gently placed on George's name. Then, with bent, uncovered heads, and in unbroken silence, we buried all that remained of our scholar.

We always waited till the grave was filled and the turf laid down, a trying quarter of an hour. Ah me! the thud of the spade on your mother's grave! None gave any sign of what he felt save Drumsheugh, whose sordid slough had slipped off from a tender heart, and Chalmers, who went behind a tombstone and sobbed aloud. Not even Posty asked the reason so much as by a look, and Drumtochty, as it passed, made as though it did not see. But I marked that the Dominie took Chalmers home, and walked all the way with him to Kildrummie station next morning. His friends erected a granite cross over George's grave, and it was left to Domsie to choose the inscription. There was a day when it would have been, "Whom the gods love die

young. Since then Domsie had seen the kingdom of God, and this is graven where the roses bloomed fresh every summer, for twenty years, till Marget was laid with her son:

GEORGE HOWE, M. A.,

Died September 22d, 1869,
Aged 21.

"They shall bring the glory and honor

of the nations into it."

It was a late November day when I went to see George's memorial, and the immortal hope was burning low in my heart; but as I stood before that cross, the sun struggled from behind a black, watery bank of cloud, and picked out every letter of the Apocalypse in gold.

NOTE.-I. Of parts. 2. Old schoolhouse. 3. Plump; thriving. 4. Scatters. 5. A leather lash. 6. Do. 7. Night. 8. A considerable quantity. 9. Potatoes. 10. A punishment. II. Well enough. 12. Have not. 13. Heart's. 14. Gospel. 15. Have nothing more. 16. Doubt greatly. 17. Does not. 18. Expenses. 19. Free Church people. 20. An exclamation. 21. Once. 22. Dare not look. 23. Six. 24. Went back. 25. Got now. 26. Brook. 27. You must do it. 28. You were of his own blood.

GRAY'S ELEGY.

The curfew tolls the knell of parting day,
The lowing herd winds slowly o'er the lea,
The plowman homeward plods

his weary way,

And leaves the world to dark-
ness and to me.

Now fades the glimmering land-
scape on the sight,

And all the air a solemn still

ness holds,

Save where the beetle wheels
his droning flight,

And drowsy tinklings lull the
distant folds; —

Save that from yonder ivy-mantled tower,
The moping owl does to the moon complain
Of such as, wandering near her secret bower
Molest her ancient solitary reign.

Beneath those rugged elms, that yew tree's

shade,

Where heaves the turf in many a moldering heap,

Each in his narrow cell forever laid,

The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep.

The breezy call of incense-breathing morn, The swallows twittering from the straw-built shed,

The cock's shrill clarion, or the echoing horn, No more shall rouse them from their lowly

bed.

For them, no more the blazing hearth shall burn,

Or busy housewife ply her evening care; No children run to lisp their sire's return, Or climb his knee the envied kiss to share.

Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield,

Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke;

How jocund did they drive their team a-field! How bowed the woods beneath their sturdy stroke!

Let not Ambition mock their useful toil,
Their homely joys, and destiny obscure;

Nor Grandeur hear, with a disdainful smile,
The short and simple annals of the poor.

The boast of heraldry, the pomp of power,
And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave,
Await alike the inevitable hour,-

The paths of glory lead but to the grave.

Nor you, ye proud, impute to these the fault,

If Memory o'er their tomb no trophies raise, Where through the long-drawn aisle and fretted vault

The pealing anthem swells the note of praise.

Can storied urn or animated bust,

Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath? Can Honor's voice provoke the silent dust,

Or Flattery soothe the dull, cold ear of Death?

Perhaps in this neglected spot is laid

Some heart once pregnant with celestial fire; Hands that the rod of empire might have swayed,

Or waked to ecstasy the living lyre.

But Knowledge to their eyes her ample page, Rich with the spoils of time, did ne'er unroll; Chill Penury repressed their noble rage,

And froze the genial current of the soul.