"Bah! But there is the jovial Easton, and his merry little wife, and their six beautiful children, like a cluster of human angels, smiling round their table, and enlivening their hearth."

Why, surely you are mad! It is these very cherubs who have destroyed Easton's peace, and worry his merry little wife out of her senses. He is jolly that he may forget them for a while; and she is only mirthful when foreign pleasures release her from the annoyances of home. One pretty child or two may do very well; but few women can bear to sacrifice all their other enjoyments on the altar of a crowded and noisy nursery. Mrs. Easton's temper has been fretted into inconsistency and asperity, which she liberally dispenses upon her husband, her elder branches, and her servants. A brief cry drives her distracted; and the dump of a fall, though, perhaps, only a joint-stool overturned, throws her into a state of indescribable confusion and illhumour. These fits have now become so frequent that Easton is glad to be absent from his once dearest magnet of attraction as often as possible; and, if the truth must be told, sometimes returns to her not in a condition to renew her affection, or amend her spleen. The poor babies lead an uncertain life, sometimes petted, sometimes chafed, and sometimes unkindly checked, and unjustly punished. Thus formed, their future prospects cannot be of the brightest. I hope you are satisfied?" "Quite !"

"Let us turn to Welshere. He has no children. His circumstances are amply comfortable. Mrs. Welshere is an amiable and charming woman, with literary tastes similar to his own. A more congenial couple never could exist. There surely can be nothing to mar their perfect and uninterrupted happiness. There is one thing, one bitter thing, and you have touched upon it, which utterly poisons and destroys all their felicity. It is the want of children. They envy the very beggars in the streets, though they may have only borrowed, hired, or stolen brats, in filth and rags. Mr. Welshere would give his soul for a son; and Mrs. Welshere sighs hers away in an unlanguaged longing for a baby of either sex, and however small! Their beautiful Charles-the-Second spaniel, Flora, is the only creature living that has cause to be of a contrary way of thinking; and she appears to be so sensible of it, that I am inclined to consider her the sole sensible being in this unhappy family."

"For heaven's sake, where are we to go, if happiness is neither to be found with the lofty, with the rich, with the fruitful, or the fruitless? Blooms it in a humbler sphere, with Johnson the shopkeeper, Williams the clerk, or Smith the mechanic?"

"No. Johnson is but Dorus in miniature -on a small scale,-and with more fears of want of success to agitate him. With less of comfort, his wife is but a bustling, alienated Mrs. Dorus. Their family is more promising, but they are much distressed how to provide for them in the world. In short, they are all full of anxiety and care. Williams, the clerk, is so much away, that Mrs. Williams is dull without company. She is therefore glad to receive gossips at home, or walk abroad merely for a temporary amusement. Of this Williams does not always entirely approve, and little coldnesses and occasional bickerings are the consequences. They could not claim even a rasher off the flitch. Smith is a great politician, a liberal, and belongs to the Institute, to which he is so addicted, that you might fancy the Institute belonged to him. Of this partiality Mrs. Smith does not cordially ap

prove, and wishes Smith would stay more with her and the bairns, poor things. Her little dirty maid may (rarely) be seen going to the beershop at the corner about dusk, with a little dirty jug in her hand, which would not hold a gill of beer, and which she covers with her little dirty apron as she comes back. But Mrs. Smith belongs to the Total Abstinence Society, and there is no judging from appearances; only the Liberal has given her a cuff when he found his way home at eleven o'clock from a lecture, by Mrs. Macowen, on the Wrongs of Women.” "Stop. I perceive that the poor cannot truly be said to be happy. But is not Crosswick, the millionaire millocrat, with his gay buxom partner, and family, and immense establishment, the centre of happiness in one bright circle round ?”

"No more, I beseech ye. Crosswick is so delightfully mated, that, in the midst of a fever of wretchedness, endured with slight intermission, from the trials of that gay buxom partner, he, in a passion of despair, exclaimed, 'Would to h-1 I were a pauper; for then I would be obliged to go into the Union, and be separated from my wife and all that belong to her!""

"Then there is no happy family on earth-yes; the Queen, God bless her! is happy."

"No such thing. The fatigues, and ceremonies, and cares of royalty were never allied with human happiness.

"Uneasy lies the head that wears a crown.

But the Queen is no subject; so we will only wish her an increase of blessings, and to be as happy with her accomplished spouse and royal offspring as mortal may be in this sublunary sphere."

"Then, I repeat, there is no happy family on earth.”,

"Yes, there is one, and in London."

"For the love of mercy, where?—and who?—and what?"

"Listen: they are not men, but beasts; not human, but brutal. Their daily resort is Trafalgar Square, where you may witness them and their happiness in a cage. At night they live upon equally amicable terms; quarrel or sorrow are unknown to them; and their beatification is so great, that the gentleman who provides (or their commissariat) has voluntarily inscribed on a board attached to their dwelling-place, THE HAPPY FAMILY.' This is the only happy family in all London, search where you may, in palace or in hovel, in square, street, court, place, terrace, or alley."

"Suppose we visit them ?"

"There are three cats, three rats, three owls, three guineapigs, a hare, rabbits, pigeons, starlings, daws, hawks, and mice. Sleek and happy do they look, and happy they are; could men and women but take them for models, and live in contentment as they do! See how fondly they nestle together!-how the cats suckle the rats!-how the owls blink blandly, and pet the mice. Redeunt saturnia regna."

"On similar grounds, and by similar means, mankind might be similarly happy."

"There are entirely different tastes. One likes meat, and another feeds on vegetables; so there is neither envy nor strife about one of the too common sources of mortal dissatisfaction."

"But the grand secret must be let out. If you were to treat rational beings as these brutes are treated, they would be equally quiet, easy, and comfortable.

"For instance, take your old tabby aunts, and stupify them with opium, and there would be an end of their shrill tongues and prowling interference. Like the happy cats, they would doze away their lives, purring and puzzling to know whether they were awake or asleep. What improvement in families, where such creatures exist, would be accomplished in this way! There may be doubt upon the China opium question, but there can be none upon this.

"Next, where you find politically inclined bipeds troublesome and annoying, draw their teeth, as their ratting deserves, and the old files will become calm and harmless. Here, again, the example of the brute-creation teaches us the useful lesson; and how our rats might subsist in harmony with innocent young rabbits and pigeons without gall.

"Your softly sybarite, easy, good-natured folks, who seem to live only to eat and drink, whose appetite being satisfied, require nothing else, are represented by these guineapigs, whose motto might be 'Live and let live.' They never would disturb society, but, on the contrary, serve as sorts of cushions, or what the steamers call fenders, to prevent the collision of more striking bodies.

"These owls, the sleepy old Doseys of the day, are not, however, to be trusted with mice at night. A separate maintenance from sunset to sunrise is expedient for them; and the only difference with respect to their hawk friends is merely to reverse the order of time, turning night into day, and day into night, in respect to their victualling department. Proper precautions are better than ex post facto acts of parliament, and more conducive to the well-being of mankind, as well as of fowls. The mystery of good management is to deprive the fera naturæ of the power of injury, as you would give cats laudanum, draw rats' teeth, trust owls only in the day-time, and hawks only at night; whilst you suffered the timid hares, the gentle doves, the dainty daws, and the sucking pigs full liberty to do whatever they pleased, knowing well that they could hurt nobody if they would.

"Thus the scheme of individual, family, and national happiness were complete. Charles Fourier's system of association is folly, without providing against dissension and wrong by eradicating causes of evil, and affording scope for the more extensive and uncontrolled freedom of weakness.

"But the moral of all amounts to this, that there is but one happy family in the metropolis of Great Britain, and that it is in all its habits beastly; that even this desideratum is unattainable except by drugging, removing instruments of force, separating, and governing with a discretion unknown to the social or family compacts of man; and that, in short, abstract happiness is so extremely rare, that nobody grudges a penny to see it, though only in a cage, and under a keeper."

THE YEOMAN'S GRAVE.

A WILTSHIRE STORY.

BY PAUL PINDAR, GENT.

IT is many years since I gambolled in churchyard, a truant schoolboy; and yet, when I paid a visit to it last autumn, I found but few material changes. There were, it is true, a few more tombs in the "Litten,' ,"* and some of the older monuments had suffered from ill-usage; but the church itself externally had undergone no change, while the old yew-tree looked as vigorous as ever, studded with thousands of crimson berries.

There was a conclave of starlings basking in the morning sun on the pinnacles of the tower, and I fancied, like the vizier in Eastern story, that I could comprehend the language of birds as I listened to their chattering and chirring. A pair of young ones seemed to be rejoicing at the fright they had occasioned the old miser in the village, by making strange noises, at which they are such adepts, in the dilapidated roof just above his chamber. Another was imitating the owl that sat in the old ivy-covered elm, near the parson's house, last night, and three or four of them appeared to be laughing and exulting at the buffeting and pecking they had given the old night-prowler, whom they had caught from home that morning, carried away by the ardour of the chase, till the sun, peeping over the distant hills,

"Gilding pale streams with heavenly alchymy,"

warned him to return precipitately to his ivied retreat.

I entered the church, where I found some changes. First, the walls had been white-washed by some zealous churchwarden, who had " repaired and beautified" the building during his year of office. The same careful personage had also caused to be daubed out two very remarkable ancient paintings, which, when a boy, had excited my wonder and admiration, and which, with my little smattering of antiquarian knowledge, I was now desirous of examining and interpreting. A monumental brass had suffered, but not from the same cause; most probably from the visit of some pseudo antiquary, with the organ of 'acquisitiveness" largely developed. The marble monuments looked dingier, and the armorial bearings, the pride of an old house, were sadly faded; "Gules" had lost its florid hue, "Azure" looked less ethereal, "Sable" had become rusty, and "Or" glittered in patches only, a fit type of the tinsel of this life,-" bracteata felicitas!" A rusty helm or two hung above, void and grim as the fierce visages that once tenanted them. There was also a marble monument, not an old one, executed at great cost,- not less, perhaps, than five hundred pounds,-in which is represented a dying woman, waited upon by Faith, Hope, and Charity, the second holding a huge anchor in her left hand, -taper fingers grasping the anchor of a frigate!-while her right points upwards. I smiled at the trite puerility of the design, and,

A corruption of the Anglo-Saxon lictuni. e. the corpse inclosure. In the west of England the path across the grave-yard is called the lichway by the country people.

reading the inscription to the memory of the deceased, couched in the hyper-florid language of laudation, thought of the sarcasm of an English writer, and devoutly wished I had lived in the days of such a godly personage. It was impossible not to compare the short reign of this amiable being with those of the fierce spirits whose dust was beneath, and whose armorial insignia mocked the place. I could not help contrasting the " pomp and circumstance" with what it ought to be; nor could I forbear asking what it would avail in the great account, when plumes and shaven crowns, the warrior and the monk, the simple ploughman and the sage, the high-born beauty and the lowly country wench, shall be regarded without distinction; when heraldic coats shall cover no foul spot, and that red hand, that red right hand, the boast and ornament of many a proud escutcheon, shall be held tremblingly up to plead before the judge of all the world!

With these reflections I quitted the church, and re-entered the grave-yard where I found an old man digging a deep grave.

"Good morning, Thomas," said I. "So you 're at your usual work ?"

The old man made a pause, shaded his eyes with his hand, and looking up, regarded me attentively.

"Eeez," he replied.

"It's some time since we met, Thomas," observed I.

"Ee-ez, zur, 'tis. Be 'nt you Measter -?"

"To be sure I am."

"Well, now, nif I didn't thenk zo, that I did! Why, you be'nt a bit altered, zur, only a leetle paler like. I thought I kneowed 'e when 'e vust spwoak to m'; but my eyes be but middlin'. I be quite purley wi'out m' speotitles."

"Who is this grave for ?" inquired I. "It's a deep one."

"Oh, vor poor owld Dame Pinnock-the poor body as lived on the hill yander. They do zay as how a was ninety-vower year owld, zur." "Ah! I remember her well: she was the widow of Farmer Pinnock, who shot his son."

"Eeez, zur, a was; the varmer hizzelf lays about a spit deeper: I'll sheow 'e his coffin in a minnut or two."

With these words the old man proceeded to shovel out the earth with renewed vigour; and in a short time the spade struck on the coffin-lid.

"There a is," resumed he, relinquishing his spade, and brushing away the mould from the coffin-plate with his hand; then spelling the inscription, "Willum Pinnock, Yeowman, died the twenty-fowerth day of June, zeventeen hundred and ninety-nine!" That's e! Ha! a was a stout owld man in 's time, and as brave as a lion; but, owin' to that terrible zun o' hisn a lost 's wits entirely. People do keep a long time in this ground ov ourn, zur; his coffin's inamwoast as zound as when a was made that a is! His zun lays underneath un."

"I wish you would tell me the story of that poor man," said I; "I heard it when a boy; but I should like to hear it from you."

"Why, d'ye zee, zur," resumed my acquaintance, scrambling up out of the grave, and seating himself on a tombstone, "thuck poor body as lays there had a zun; a vine stout young vellow a was, too, but the girtest hang-gallus in ael the county. People 'oondered whatever would become ov un. A run on vor a lang time at a vine rate, and then, when a 'd got into debt a' wi' every publican vor miles round, a