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 66 66 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, TH The fragrance of each wilding flower, O, here crazed spirits breathe the balm It is a most delicious calm - That resteth everywhere, — Of felt but voiceless prayer! They silent are; but not the less In this most tranquil hour They own that Love and Power How silent are the song-filled nests That crowd this drowsy tree, How mute is every feathered breast And yet bright bead-like eyes declare Heart forth as uncaged bird through air Of blessed things, that, lacking care, Around thee, in their angel hues Here, on this green bank that o'erviews Beneath the spreading beech-tree muse, For lovelier scene shall never break 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 With all his flocks in sight; It is a sight that filleth me To mark these dumb things curiously I bend me towards the tiny flower, And breathes the eloquence of love There is no breath of wind to move All sounds are gone,—all murmuring The babbling of the clear well-springs, Of feathered hearts at ease, The silentness of night doth brood 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 the rustic choir! And now the glorious anthems swell Of hearts bowed in the dust, that shed Dear Lord! thy shadow is forth spread And, filled at the pure fountain-head My heart loves all created things, And travels home to thee. Around me while the sunshine flings My chastened spirit once more sings, That lay of gratitude which burst When in the midst of nature nursed, 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. |