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empty a tankard under the auspices of Bloody Mary, as that anointed 'feminitie is called? or take a chop even at Nero's Head? No: inn-keepers know the subtle prejudices of man, nor violate the sympathies of life with their sign-posts.

Here, on the sanded floor of King Ethelbert's hostelry, do village antiquarians often congregate. Here, at times, are stories toldstories not all unworthy of the type of Antiquarian Transactions — of fibula, talked of as "buckles," and other tangible bits of Roman history. Here, we have heard, how a certain woman-living at this blessed hour, and the mother of a family-went out at very low tide, and found the branch of a filbert-tree with clustering filberts on it, all stone, at least a thousand years old-and more. Here, too, have we heard of a wonderful horse-shoe, picked up by Joe Squellins; a shoe, as the finder averred, as old as the world. Poor Joe! What was his reward?-it may be, a pint of ale for that inestimable bit of iron! And yet was he a working antiquarian. Joe Squellins had within him the unchristened elements of F.A.S.!

The sea has spared something of the old churchyard; although it has torn open the sad sanctity of the grave, and reveals to the day, corpse upon corpse-layers of the dead, thickly, closely packed, body upon body. A lateral view of rows of skeletons, entombed in Christian earth centuries since, for a moment staggers the mind, with this inward peep of the grave. We at once see the close, dark prison of the churchyard, and our breath comes heavily, and we shudder. It is only for a moment. There is a lark singing, singing over our head-a mile upwards in the blue heaven-singing like a freed soul: we look again, and smile serenely at the bones of what was man.

Many of our gentle countrymen-fellow-metropolitans—who once a year wriggle out their souls from the slit of their tiles to give the immortal essence sea air, make a pilgrimage to Reculvers. This Golgotha, we have noted it, has to them especial attractions. Many are the mortal relics borne way to decorate a London chimney-piece. Many a skeleton gives up its rib, its alma, two or three odd vertebra, or some suck gimcrack to the London visitor, for a London ornament. Present the same man with a bone from a London hospital, and he would hold the act abominable, irreligiously presumptuous. But time has silvered o'er" the bone from Reculvers; has cleansed it from the taint of mortality; has merged the loathsomeness in the curiosity;

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for Time turns even the worst of horrors into the broadest of jests. We have now Guy Fawkes, about to blow Lords and Commons into eternity and now Guy Fawkes, masked for a pantomime.

One day, wandering near this open graveyard, we met a boy, carrying away, with exulting looks, a skull in very perfect preservation. He was a London boy, and looked rich indeed with his treasure.

"What have you there?" we asked.

"A man's head-a skull," was the answer.

"And what can you possibly do with a skull !

"Take it to London."

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And, when you have it in London, what then will you do with it?"
I know."

"No doubt. But what will you do with it?"

And to this thrice repeated question, the boy three times answered, "I know."

"Come, here's sixpence. Now, what will you do with it?"

The boy took the coin-grinned-hugged himself, hugging the skull the closer, and said very briskly-" Make a money box of it!"

A strange thought for a child. And yet, mused we as we strolled along, how many of us, with nature beneficent and smiling on all sides,-how many of us think of nothing so much as hoarding sixpences-yea, hoarding them even in the very jaws of desolate Death!

351.-The New Dress.

RICHARD BRATHWAYTE.

[RICHARD BRATHWAYTE, a most voluminous writer of small Tracts, both in verse and prose, the son of a gentleman of Westmorland, was educated at Oriel College, Oxford. He died in 1673, aged 69. His works were popular in his own day, although they are now only found in the collections of the bibliographical antiquary. The following is from Contemplations,' appended to his Essays upon the Five Senses, printed in 1625.]

O, my soul, how long wilt thou attire thyself in these rags of sin? how long in these robes of shame? When thine heavenly bridegroom comes, he will not endure to look on thee; He can by no means like

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thee; nor love thee, nor espouse himself unto thee, so long as these sullied garments of sin cover thee. To a clean lord must be a clean habitation. A pure heart must be his mansion, purged by faith, adorned with good works, inflamed with heavenly thoughts. No edging of vanity, no pearl of vain glory, no tinsel lustre of hypocrisy, must set forth thy nuptial garment; for these would detract from thy virgin beauty. Those Egyptian laces, and Babylonian borders, might attract a wandering eye, but purely fixed be the eyes of thy spouse. Whatsoever is without thee cannot take Him; it is thine inward beauty that doth delight Him. Let thy affections then be renewed, thy virgin beauty restored, thy decays repaired. Come not in his sight till thou hast put off those rags of sin, and, having put them off, say with the spouse in the Canticles: "I have put off my coat, how shall I put it on?" Let thy new dress be a new heart, so shall thy spouse take delight in thee, with his sweet arms embrace thee, and be enamoured of thee when he looks on thee; and, in the knowledge of thy beauty, say thus unto thee; "Thou art all fair, my love, there is no spot in thee." Cast thine eye all about thee, O my soul, but let it not wander, lest thou lose thine honour. Take a full view of the renewal of all creatures, and reflect upon thyself, who, though sovereigness over all, becomes least renewed of all. Thou seest the hart, the eagle, the swallow, how they are renewed; nay, even the snake, how by casting his slough he is renewed. Again, thou observest how years, days, hours, and minutes are renewed; how the earth itself is renewed. She is with fresh flowers adorned, with a native tapestry embroidered, with a new beauty afreshed. Meantime, how art thou renewed? Where be those fresh fragrant flowers of divine graces, and permanent beauties, wherewith thou shouldest be adorned? Must all things change for better, and thou become ever worse in the sight of thy Maker? None more inconstant than thou in humouring the fashions of our time; none more constant than thou in retaining the fashion of sin. What canst thou see in thee that may please thee, or appear pleasing to him that made thee? Sin is a soil which blemisheth the beauty of thy soul. In this, then, to glory, were the highest pitch of infelicity. Thou art only to approve that with a discreet choice, which may make thee most amiable in the sight of thy spouse. When thou eyest the vanity of earth, fix the eye of thy heart on the eternity of Heaven. Mix not thy delights in such objects where surfeit or ex

cess begets a loathing, but in those lasting pleasures where fruition begets in thee an affectionate longing. Fashion not thyself after this world, where there is nothing that tempts but taints. Desire rather to be numerous in hours than in years: so dispose of thy time, that time may bring thee to eternity. Ever consider, O my soul, that thou art here in a wilderness, and far removed from the Canaan of true happiness. A captive's proper melody is Lachrymæ: he cannot raise his voice to any other note, unless he mad himself in his misery, and forget his own state. Fie, then, in sighs with sins. Take compassion of thy woful condition. Be not commanded by thine handmaid. Restrain her, lest she grow imperious; show thyself a mistress, that she may become more obsequious. She is worthy to obey that knows not how to command. Do not lose thy prerogative; preserve thy style, retain thy state, and make her know how dangerous it is to incur thine hate. The more thou bringest her to contempt, the more shalt thou partake of content. Shouldst thou delicately feed her, or in her desires supply her, or loose thy reins and give liberty unto her, she would not stick to deprive thee of thine honour, and by thy unworthy subjection become an usurping commander. To free thee from this danger, let devotion be thy succour; so shall the shadow of the Almighty be thy shelter. "Though the servant earnestly desire the shadow, and the hireling look for the reward of his work, or rather the end of the day, to conclude his work, tarry thou the Lord's leisure; with patience endure the heat of the day, the weight of thy labour." Though a pilgrim be wearied, he must not fail nor faint till his journey be ended; wherein he accounts himself so much the happier, as he his to his own native country nearer. If thou fit and furnish thyself in all points for this journey, thou shalt be joyfully received in thine arrival to thy country. Run, then, to the goal which is set up for thee; strive to come to the mark which is before thee. Let no impediments foreslow thee, no delights on earth divert thee. Seal up thine eye if it wander, but open it if it promise to fix on thy Saviour. Hourly thy dissolution is expected; the marriage-feast prepared; and, though invited, let thy garment be holiness, so shall thy end be happiness.

352. THE GOOD PARSON.

A parish priest was of the pilgrim train;
An awful, reverend, and religious man.
eyes diffused a venerable grace,
And charity itself was in his face.

His

DBYDEN.

Rich was his soul, though his attire was poor
(As God hath clothed his own ambassador);
For such, on earth, his bless'd Redeemer bore.
Of sixty years he seem'd; and well might last
To sixty more, but that he lived too fast;
Refined himself to soul, to curb the sense;
And made almost a sin of abstinence.
Yet, had his aspect nothing of severe,
But such a face as promised him sincere.
Nothing reserved or sullen was to see:
But sweet regards, and pleasing sanctity:
Mild was his accent, and his action free.
With eloquence innate his tongue was arm'd;
Though harsh the precept, yet the people charm'd;
For, letting down the golden chain from high,
He drew his audience upward to the sky:
And oft with holy hymns he charm'd their ears
(A music more melodious than the spheres):
For David left him, when he went to rest,
His lyre; and after him he sung the best.
He bore his great commission in his look:
But sweetly temper'd awe; and soften'd all he spoke.
He preach'd the joys of heaven, and pains of hell,
And warn'd the sinner with becoming zeal;
But, on eternal mercy loved to dwell.

He taught the gospel rather than the law;
And forced himself to drive; but loved to draw.
For fear but freezes minds: but love, like heat,
Exhales the soul sublime, to seek her native seat,
To threats the stubborn sinner oft is hard,
Wrapp'd in his crimes, against the storm prepared;