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The Old Gentleman is very particular in having his slippers ready for him at the fire, when he comes home. He is also extremely choice in his stuff, and delights to get a fresh box-full in Tavistock Street, in his way to the theatre. His box is a curiosity from India. He calls favorite young ladies by their Christian names, however slightly acquainted with them; and has a privi lege of saluting all brides, mothers, and indeed every species of lady, on the least holiday occasion. If the husband, for instance, has met with a piece of luck, he instantly moves forward, and gravely kisses the wife on the cheek. The wife then says, My niece, sir, from the country"; and he kisses the niece. The niece, seeing her cousin biting her lips at the joke, says, "My cousin Harriet, sir"; and he kisses the cousin. He

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never recollects such weather," except during the "Great Frost," or when he rode down with "Jack Skrimshire to Newmarket." He grows young again in his little grandchildren, especially the one which he thinks most like himself; which is the handsomest. Yet he likes best, perhaps, the one most resembling his wife; and will sit with him on his lap, holding his hand in silence, for a quarter of an hour together. He plays most tricks with the former, and makes him sneeze. He asks little boys in general who was the father of Zebedee's children. If his grandsons are at school, he often goes to see them; and makes them blush by telling the master or the upper scholars, that they are fine boys, and of a precocious genius. He is much struck when an old acquaintance dies, but adds that he lived too fast; and that poor Bob was a sad dog in his youth; "a very sad dog, sir; mightily set upon a short life and a merry one."

When he gets very old indeed, he will sit for whole evenings, and say little or nothing; but informs you, that there is Mrs. Jones (the housekeeper) —“ She'll talk.”

A SABBATH SUMMER NOON.

BY WILLIAM MOTHERWELL.

HE calmness of this noontide hour,
The shadow of this wood,

TH

The fragrance of each wilding flower,
Are marvellously good;

O, here crazed spirits breathe the balm
Of Nature's solitude!

It is a most delicious calm

-

That resteth everywhere, —
The holiness of soul-sung psalm,

Of felt but voiceless prayer!
With hearts too full to speak their bliss.
God's creatures silent are.

They silent are; but not the less

In this most tranquil hour
Of deep, unbroken dreaminess,

They own that Love and Power
Which, like the softest sunshine, rests
On every leaf and flower.

How silent are the song-filled nests

That crowd this drowsy tree,

How mute is every feathered breast
That swelled with melody!

And yet bright bead-like eyes declare
This hour is ecstasy.

Heart forth as uncaged bird through air
And mingle in the tide

Of blessed things, that, lacking care,
Now full of beauty glide

Around thee, in their angel hues
Of joy and sinless pride.

Here, on this green bank that o'erviews
The far-retreating glen,

Beneath the spreading beech-tree muse,
Of all within thy ken;

For lovelier scene shall never break
On thy dimmed sight again.

Slow stealing from the tangled brake

That skirts the distant hill,

With noiseless hoof, two bright fawns make

For yonder lapsing rill;

Meek children of the forest gloom,

Drink on, and fear no ill!

And buried in the yellow broom
That crowns the neighboring height,
Couches a loutish shepherd groom,

With all his flocks in sight;
Which dot the green braes gloriously
With spots of living light.

It is a sight that filleth me
With meditative joy,

To mark these dumb things curiously
Crowd round their guardian boy;
As if they felt this Sabbath hour
Of bliss lacked all alloy.

I bend me towards the tiny flower,
That underneath this tree
Opens its little breast of sweets
In meekest modesty,

And breathes the eloquence of love
In muteness, Lord! to thee.

There is no breath of wind to move
The flag-like leaves, that spread
Their grateful shadow far above
This turf-supported head;

All sounds are gone,—all murmuring
With living nature wed.

The babbling of the clear well-springs,
The whisperings of the trees,
And all the cheerful jargonings

Of feathered hearts at ease,
That whilom filled the vocal wood,
Have hushed their minstrelsies.

The silentness of night doth brood
O'er this bright summer noon;
And Nature, in her holiest mood,
Doth all things well attune
To joy, in the religious dreams
Of green and leafy June.

Far down the glen in distance gleams

The hamlet's tapering spire,

And, glittering in meridial beams,

Its vane is tongued with fire;
And hark how sweet its silvery bell, —

And hark the rustic choir!

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And now the glorious anthems swell
Of worshippers sincere,-

Of hearts bowed in the dust, that shed
Faith's penitential tear.

Dear Lord! thy shadow is forth spread
On all mine eye can see;

And, filled at the pure fountain-head
Of deepest piety,

My heart loves all created things,

And travels home to thee.

Around me while the sunshine flings
A flood of mocky gold,

My chastened spirit once more sings,
As it was wont of old,

That lay of gratitude which burst
From young heart uncontrolled.

When in the midst of nature nursed,
Sweet influences fell

On chilly hearts that were athirst,

Like soft dews in the bell

Of tender flowers, that bowed their heads

And breathed a fresher smell,

So, even now this hour hath sped

In rapturous thought o'er me.

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