pings of the tongue, salutary maxims, and principles seriously propounded for the benefit of the auditor. The idea of wisdom is not more striking than that of conservation in the case of the old; and the moral and physical scars from the storms of calamity which they inevitably bear, render them as conspicuous over their generation, as the masses of thunder-stricken granite over the neighbouring hills. Age too, may be conceived to chronicle the events and manners which have diversified this otherwise monotonous scene; from which we feel disposed, as careful catechists, to extract the lessons of a gradually deepening antiquity; and by progressive steps which we are conscious of taking, to identify ourselves with the "mighty shadow of a departed world." Among the very advanced, or as they may be termed nonagenarians, there is one who is not a distant resident from me. He is a little cheery chap of shrewd proportions, whose tallness, even when he could straighten himself before the drill sergeant, never exceeded half an inch above five feet. He has a keen eye, aquiline nose, clear round features, and a fleece of beautiful white hair, which would adorn a patrican gala, and even would not ill become the solemn atmosphere of the bench. For some years he has been a butt for the pleasant raillery of his fullgrown neighbours, as well as for sallies of fun and mirth, with which his more youthful contemporaries assail him. These pun gent offences he retaliates by a roguish and sympathetic nod of the head, and a face strewed over with the light of good humour. Before he was so shaky and dilapidated, I imagine he must have been a sort of well-head of information touching rural customs, from which many a knowing wight may have filled his bucket, penetrated with that silent respect, which even now is accorded him by the pensive visi tor. The home in which he lives is a tiny thatched cottage, standing in a row, and consists of two apartments. The hinder one is his dormitory, distingushed by a stump bed stead, sweltering under the robes of antiquity, and a shattery casement, bunged up with rags of blanket and felt. The front one is the scene where he expends his days. A small quadruped table with black foldings, and two stools or settles, in one of which the hoary inmate sits over a starved pit-coal fire, which flickers, or anon slumbers on the hearth, form the sum total of his furniture. A low jamb of the olden fashion, which constitutes the basis of a lofty mantelpiece surmounted by one or two broken cups, a cropped pot and spoutless mug, demands submission of every fireworshipper, under penalty of a severe lesson of humility. Within the liberties of the fire-place, a snug window or lattice looks out to the East, where suns unnumbered have travelled by, and a thousand moons have bestowed their silver tribute of vesper light on the poor and musing tenant. As a co-dweller with Bob, (for such is his nick-name,) it is due time to notice his nephew, who has the appellation of Jim. He is superior in hight to Bob, yet is much such a thing in temper, from a long course of cohabitation and exchange of sympathies. Through early mismanagement he suffers from a bowed ankle, which in progression, gives him a wave of the head, so regularly repeated on himself, that as he circulates around the town, with his basket full of bran-new matches, he may, like our planet, be said to have his diurnal, as well as his annual motions. He is a sort of fee-faw-fum character, whose gamut of thought and feeling may include three notes. In outrageous exercise of the principle of contrast, the neighbourhood in which Bob and Jim live is called after one of the precious metals, 'Silver End'; though no section of human habitations presents stronger traits of wretchedness of poverty. In this group of dwellings, which is of a triangular form, was to be seen a curious exhibition of humanity, where a pagan night brooded within a hundred yards of the light of a high civilization. Young and old, unlettered and unread, frittered away existence in vanity and vice, held to no account by anything much stronger than the impulses of the flesh; so that even when the cold blue pestilence confined its fatal circle to them, and perished out their hopeless lives, but few of them had sting of conscience enough to drive them to seek a sanctuary. In this element of unquiet misery might be observed Satyr and purseless Sybarite, virago and trull, and some so weird-like in look, as to suggest the idea that they were not unacquainted with the broomstick, or even perhaps, with the nightly carnival of frolic and mischief, which denotes the pure breed of the witch and the warlock. Collecting their streaming hair, and sipping a dish of hot tea, how would they discourse of setting moons and the merry achievements of the night, while the younger group which listened around, grew wild, mysterious, drawling, and expert, ere time had underscored their roses, or interlined their tallowy visages! When a short 'un' has refreshed Bob's wits and unloosed the ties of his tongue, he will chatter over his early exploits in the marble-ring, leap-frog, prisoner's bars, and particularly in fox and hounds, when the yellow moon had cleared the horizon; his tricks with the doors, the windows, the chimnies, when the wind blew horny and loud so as to cover the noise of retreat, confound the clew, and expose others to an occasional bastinado instead of himself. He will particularly enlarge on the misfortunes which attended his early love, and extinguished in the cold grave his fair shepherdess, whom he so much mourned, that he had no further desire to covenant with a maid. Single and unblessed, he has travelled down nearly a century, sometimes lone, sometimes social, sober when not in his cups, muck-drunken when not sober; a boisterous blackguard, clutching or battering all who came in his way, till some kind friend has often safely landed the little offal in his own proper purgato ry. Through evil report, and good report, a man of chance work, he, like many others, has beaten the shifting and rugged round of duty, and though often without pity or pence, has survived the threat of starvation, and many a plump son of wealth, who bid fair to outrun him in the race of existence. Sunshine and shade, calm and storm, and a multitude of seasons resembling a long succession of bright faces, have escorted poor Bob to his ninetieth year, and given him a more decided turn for housekeeping, and a nearly perpetual desire of communion with the glowing embers of his hearth. It is only when a gleam invites that he can muster courage enough to encounter the bleak winter wind of his native street, to look out for his objects, whom with dodging gait he courses, meets, and salutes, by way of getting an alms, under pretext of 'bacco, barber, or beer; and if his gains prove good, to seat himself on the stocks, under the old central tree of the Market Hill, to munch his dark bread and bacon, or await the arrival of the daily coach, from which he sometimes obtains a capital prize. Latterly, when the days of summer come shining in, he has been in the habit of resorting to the waters, where he has initiated himself into the art of fishing, (if such, gagging of an eel can be called,) and in the green meadow, or margin of the clear, yet mud-bottomed stream, may his little incurvated form (like a decaying crescent about to set,) be seen, about two hours before or after the meridian. One evening I happened to pay him a visit, when, among other things, I asked him much about the past, which he answered with a sparkling countenance, as much as to say, 'I'll tell you, for I know all about that'; but when I enquired as to the future, his lip quivered, and his eyes ran over with tears, and I concluded, that, though toppling on the very verge of life his destiny beyond was UTTER DARK NESS. "I'LL THINK OF THEE." I'll think of thee when morn is spreading Oh! then I'll think of thee ! I'll think of thee, when lightly sailing I'll think of thee when meek and lowly W |