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taining a vast quantity; so that to empty one was to empty them all ; yet a last effort might be crowned with success; and, since so many difficulties had been conquered, it was resolved to embrace the only opportunity that now offered for any farther discovery. Machinery was accordingly erected, pumps and buckets were employed, and a large course of troughs conducted the water, among the distant roots, to a fall of a few inches ; by which the men were enabled, unmolested, except by the caving in of the banks, to dig on every side from the spot where the first discovery of the bones had been made.
Here alternate success and disappointment amused and fatigued us for a long while, until with empty pockets, low spirits, and languid workmen, we were about to quit the morass with but a small collection, though in good preservation, of ribs, toe and leg bones. In the meanwhile, to leave no means untried, the ground was searched in various directions with long-pointed rods and cross handles : after some practice, we were able to distinguish by the feel whatever substances we touched harder than the soil ; and by this means, in a very unexpected direction, though not more than twenty feet from the first bones that were discovered, struck upon a large collection of bones, which were dug to and taken up with every possible care. They proved to be a humerus, or large bone of the right leg, with the radius and ulna of the left, the right scapula, the atlas, several toe-bones, and, the great object of our pursuit, a complete under jaw!
EPITAPHS. I am a great admirer of simple epitaphs. In an old churchyard in South Wales, I once met with one on a simple stone, which affected me deeply. It told more about the parents' sorrow for their lost infant, than the most labored epitaph could possibly have done. In the old quaint spelling, on a plain slab, were carved in rude letters only the words
Deere Childe. What could be more pathetic, excepting perhaps the following, which I saw in Kensal Green Cemetery, in the Harrow Road, London“TO THE MEMORY OF LITTLE Kate.”
At the Laurel Hill Cemetery, Philadelphia, I also noticed one of those touching inscriptions. A white marble slab has on it a simple word,
That was all—it told plainly enough to thoughtful hearts, that bright, golden-haired, wee “Willie,” in spite of love, had gone down in life's young spring, to darkness and the worm.- Local Loiterings.
OLD ENGLAND, AND NEW ENGLAND. Pleasant indeed are the New England villages ; so different too, from those of Old England, the former with so much of newness about them : the latter so venerable and grave in their appearance. In the old country (I love to hear that almost affectionate recog. nition of it) on some calm summer evening, as you descend a hill side, green and fragrant with heath and broom blossoms, whilst a stream goes on dancing to its own music at your feet, you behold a cluster of houses, whence thin blue curling smoke ascends, in the valley below, from which one hoary edifice arises in sombre prominence. It is of gothic design, and in the mullioned windows the lozenge-shaped panes glow like gems in the red sunset; and as that luminary goes down behind a bank of gorgeous clouds, his slant beams creep slowly up the steeple, ivyclad almost to its summit, until at last the ball and vane glow like molten brass against the sky, whilst all below is left in gloom. Around that sacred edifice rise shadowy ancestral elms, beneath whose broad shadows lie in their dreamless slumbers the “rude forefathers of the hamlet,” the patriarchs of the parish, and the little children who died yesterday. Pass on, and you enter the village street. Every thing has the stamp of age upon it; the cottage roofs are green with the mosses of centuries. There is the old manor house, with its quaint roof, its pointed gables, its monstrous doors with ponderous hinges, its fantastic carvings of grotesque heads, which stand out in bold relief against the quiet sky. And near it is the vicarage, a neat, modest edifice, where rose trees and woodbines cluster round the casement and lift up their flowers so that they may look within. All around the parson's modest mansion there is such an air of quiet that it seems like a little heaven below. Before the house is a closelymown lawn, across which the church Alings its shadow-the old parish church! Look in at one of the low windows and observe its large pews—its empty pulpit-its mouldering monuments. its quaintly carved men and women lying in niches with solemn looks and folded hands, and heraldic devices, its silent organand its lonely altar-then walk through its picturesque churchyard and read
“The short and simple annals of the poor;" then out again into the village, and mark the substantial farm house--sit awhile by the “ingle nook,” where huge logs are piled up
“Pelion on Ossa,” and blazing away to all hearts' content--then away by the almshouse, where aged people sit listlessly at their doors, or tend flowers as carefully as they did their children, who died years and years ago and on by many picturesque dwellings, until all signs of man's habitations cease on the verge of the bleak common, and some idea may be formed of an Old England village scene.
Very different in their quiet beauty are the villages of New England. How white and glittering those pretty cottages, with their cheerful-looking green blinds! There is so much taste displayed in their construction that every one of them, with its pillars and veranda, and sometimes its observatory, seems intended as a model for exhibition-indeed the little lightningrods pointing from the chimneys, seem to be the cut-off ends of the cords by which they might have been gently let down from cloud-land - and then surrounded as they are by beautif: I trees, and adorned by tastefully disposed gardens, and the clearest of atmospheres around and above them, they appear to an English eye more like things seen in dreams than real dwelling places, so very airy, unsubstantial-looking, and smokeless do they appear. And instead of the ancient temple and its grave-yard, arises an exquisitely neat church, white and pure-looking as the feathers of an eagle's wing-how it glitters in the sunshine! And hark ! from the classical pretty turret, the bell sounds “as if an angel spoke.” As yet, the venerable grave-yard is not, for the builders of the temple are its contemporaries--it has no Past! Gaze within - how chaste are its adornments. There is no light thrown from its high-arched windows, turning the pavement to gems, but green blinds soften the glare, and produce a pleasantly "dim-religious light.”-A Looker-on.
BOSTON COMMON. I know of only one place which almost equals it in beautyalmost I say, for it is not so rich in trees as is the common. I refer to Chippenham Mead, on the banks of the Wye, in South Wales, and close to the town of Monmouth. It was there that the poet Gray used to walk, and he called it, in his enthusiasm, "the delight of my eyes, and the very seat of pleasure.” And truly, a more delightful locality it must be hard to find. I have often strolled over it as the author of the Elegy in a Country Churchyard did, years before, treading in the very pathway which he frequented, whilst the beautiful river sang its low song as it did years ago to his finely-tuned ear. Like the common, it is the property of the town, and like it, too, seldom enough frequented by those to whom it is calculated to be a real blessing.
Many glorious sights have been witnessed on Boston Common. One of them I should particularly like to have seen. I refer to the scene which must have presented itself when George WHITEFIELD preached there. I can imagine the calm Sabbath
—the crowd of worshippers, beneath a cloudless sky—the fervid preacher's appearance, as he read the hymn of praise--and the singing of the vast multitude. I can see Whitefield, as he stood, with his little Bible in one hand, the other pointing to the blue concave above, and hear him, as now with the persuasive tones of an angel, he paints the bliss of Paradise, and anon, with the thunder of his eloquence, wakes up the sleepers on the brink of perdition. Whitefield, whenever he could, chose picturesque situations for the scene of his labors; and Boston Common was just the place for him. On such an occasion it must have been good to have been there.—Ibid.
INTERESTING ANECDOTE OF QUEEN VICTORIA.
One of the pleasantest churchyards I know of is in the Isle of Wight, and many years ago I was sauntering among its graves, when I saw a lady in deep mourning, with a little girl, sitting on a tombstone. The former was reading a book to the latter, who was looking with tearful eyes into her mother's face. When they turned away from the spot, I saw that they had been looking on the tomb of the “Dairyman's Daughter," whose simple epitaph was engraved on the head-stone. That lady was the Duchess of Kent, and the little child was the Princess VicTORIA, now a Queen, on whose dominions the sun never sets. Perhaps the book the lady was reading was the delightful and affecting narrative of Legh Richmond. Striking was the contrast in the condition of the sleeper and her who watched by her grave—the one a peasant's daughter in her dreamless slumbers, the other a child who ere many years had passed over her head, was to take her place amongst the rulers of the nations! The humbler of the two had won her palm, and was wearing her crown, whilst the daughter of a royal line was fated to endure the perilous splendour of dominion, and become the mother of more kings, ere she should lie down in the vaults of Windsor.-Local Loiterings. Boston, Mass. 1846.
Ienquiries and Correspondence.
To the Editor of the Youths' Magazine. SIR,–). Will you or any of your talented correspondents, reconcile the following seeming contradictions: In John v. 31, Jesus says, “ If I bear witness of myself, my witness is not true”—and in John viii. 14, “ Though I bear record of myself, yet my record is true.”
2. Again in John xx. 17, “Jesus saith unto Mary, Touch me not, for I am not yet ascended to my Father ;” and yet in verse 27, he says to Thomas, “ Reach hither thy finger, and behold my hands; and reach hither thy hand and thrust it into my side, and be not faithless, but believing."
A YouthFUL READER.
1. It seems to have been a maxim among the Jews in our