few weeks; and the only consequence was
that he distrusted the doctor. He sank more
rapidly than any other fever patient in the
place. In a newspaper paragraph, and on a
monumental tablet, he was described as a
martyr to his sacred office in a season of
pestilence; and his family called on future
generations to honour him accordingly.

"I am sorry for the poor young man,"
observed the host at the Plough and Harrow;
"he did very well while nothing went wrong;
but he had no spirit for trying times."

"Who has?" murmured farmer Neale.
"Any man's heart may die within him that
looks into the churchyard now."

"There's a woman's that does not," observed
the host; " I saw the Good Lady crossing the
churchyard this very morning, with a basket
of physic bottles on her arm—"

"Ah! she goes to help to make up the
medicines every day now," the hostess
explained, " since the people began to suspect
foul play in their physic."

"Well; she came across the bit of grass that
is left, and looked over the rows of graves—
not smiling exactly, but as if there was not a
sad thought from top to bottom of her mind
—much as she might look if she was coming
away from her own wedding."

"What is that about 'sweet hopes,' in the
newspaper?' asked Neale; " about some 'sweet
hopes ' that Mr. Finch had? Was he going
to be married?"

"By that, I should think he was in love,"
said the host: " and that may excuse some
backwardness in coming forward, you know."

"The Good Lady is to be married, when
she gets home to America," the hostess
declared. "Yes, 'tis true. Widow Johnson
told the doctor so."

"What will her lover say to her risking her
life, and spending her time in such a way,
here?" said Neale.

"She tells her aunt that he will only wish
he was here to help her. He is a clergyman.
' O!' says she, ' he will only wish he was here
to help us.'"

"I am sure I wish he was," sighed Neale.
"I wonder what sort of a man will be sent us
next. I hope he will be something unlike
poor Mr. Finch."

"I think you will have your wish," said the
landlord. " No man of Mr. Finch's sort would
be likely to come among us at such a time."

THE SON OF SORROW.

A FABLE FROM THE SWEDISH.

ALL lonely, excluded from Heaven,
   Sat SORROW one day on the strand;
And, mournfully buried in thought,
   Form'd a figure of clay with her hand.

JOVE appeared. " What is this?" he demands;
   She replied. " 'Tis a figure of clay.
Show thy pow'r on the work of my hand;
   Give it life, mighty Father, I pray!"

"Let him live! " said the God. "But observe,
   As I lend him, he mine must remain."
"Not so," SORROW said, and implor'd,
   " Oh! let me my offspring retain!

"'Tis to me his creation he owes."
   "Yes," said JOVE, "but 'twas I gave him breath."
As he spoke, EARTH appears on the scene,
   And, observing the image, thus saith:

"From me—from my bosom he's torn,
   I demand, then, what's taken from me."
"This strife shall be settled," said JOVE;
   " Let SATURN decide 'tween the three."

This sentence the Judge gave. " To all
   He belongs, so let no one complain;
The life, JOVE, Thou gav'st him shalt Thou
   With his soul, when he dies, take again.

"Thou, EARTH, shalt receive back his frame,
   At peace in thy lap he 'll recline;
But during his whole troubled life,
   He shall surely, O SORROW, be thine!

"His features thy look shall reflect;
   Thy sigh shall be mixed with his breath;
And he ne'er shall be parted from thee
   Until he reposes in death!"

MORAL.

The sentence of Heaven, then is this:
   And hence Man lies under the sod;
Though SORROW possesses him, living,
   He returns both to EARTH and to GOD.

THE APPETITE FOR NEWS.

THE last great work of that great
philosopher and friend of the modern housewife,
Monsieur Alexis Soyer, is remarkable for a
curious omission. Although the author—
a foreigner—has abundantly proved his
extensive knowledge of the weakness of his
adopted nation; yet there is one of our
peculiarities which he has not probed. Had
he left out all mention of cold punch in
connexion with turtle; had his receipt for curry
contained no cayenne; had he forgotten to
send up tongs with asparagus, or to order
a service of artichokes without napkins, he
would have been thought forgetful; but when
—with the unction of a gastronome, and the
thoughtful skill of an artist—he marshals
forth all the luxuries of the British breakfast-
table, and forgets to mention its first necessity,
he shows a sort of ignorance. We put it to
his already extensive knowledge of English
character, whether he thinks it possible for
any English subject whose means bring him
under the screw of the Income-tax, to break
his fast without—a newspaper.

The city clerk emerging through folding
doors from bed to sitting-room, though thirsting
for tea, and hungering for toast, darts upon
that morning's journal with an eagerness, and
unfolds it with a satisfaction, which show that
all his wants are gratified at once. Exactly
at the same hour, his master, the M.P., crosses
the hall of his mansion. As he enters the
breakfast-parlour, he fixes his eye on the fender,
where he knows his favourite damp sheet