The clock of St. Paul’s slowly doled out the hour of midnight, and it seemed as if in the responsive, al-l’-s-w-e-l-l of the watchman, rendered indistinct by the distance, the spirit of the hour was bewailing in plaintive tones the annihilation of its being. Time’s brazen voice announced to unheeding thousands—“Ye are rushing on eternity.” I thought of my friends who had dropped off one by one, from around me,—youth and old age had alike sunk into the abyss of death—consumption—fever—palsy—had done their work; the slight ripple of their exit had subsided, and all was still—as quiet and as beautiful as if they had never been. Among others, was poor Louisa S——, in the prime of her youth, and the bloom of her beauty. But one short week—she was the pride of her friends, the idol of her husband;—in another, the slow toll of the village bell announced her funeral. I shall never forget the scene. The soft yellow light of the declining sun was streaming through the lofty elms which bordered the rustic grave-yard, painting their broad shadows on the velvet turf, as the procession of mourners slowly wended their way among the mounds which covered the decaying remnants of mortality. Leaning upon a tomb-stone near the fresh dug grave, I had awaited its arrival. The bier was placed upon the ground—the coffin-lid was thrown open, and friends looked for the last time upon the beautiful face, pallid and sharp in death. Her dark hair was parted upon her forehead,—but the dampness of death had deprived it of its lustre, and her soft eyes were closed in the slumber from whence they were never again to wake. I gazed long and painfully upon that face which appeared to repose only in serene and tranquil sleep, while the sobbing group reached forward to catch a last and parting glimpse of it in its loveliness. Oh! I could not realize that the lovely form was still forever—that those lips were to remain closed, till the day, when amid whirlwinds and fire, they were to plead her cause before the Almighty. The coffin-lid was replaced in silence—a suppressed whisper from the sexton—a harsh grating of the cords, and the gaping pit received its prey. While the clergyman in his deep and gloomy voice, was pronouncing the burial service of the dead, I looked around upon the uncovered group,—the mother and sister in unrestrained sobs, gave vent to their anguish, but the husband stood, his eyes fixed upon the grave in deep and silent agony. He moved not, but when the dead heavy clamp of earth and stones fell upon the coffin, which contained the remains of all that was dear to him, he gave a gasp, as if he had received a death wound—but that was all;—the thick, convulsive breathing, and the swollen arteries upon his temples, showed that his was the bitterness of despair. Ere long, his wasted form beneath its own green hillock, rested at her side.