"Laden with age my years they flew-- The Lord is holy, just, and trew." And on the slab, over a child of three years old, the following pithy observation:-- "If life and care could death p_er_vent, My days would not so soon been spent." The sculptor, in many instances, (being tired probably of chiselling the same words over and over,) had attempted an improvement by altering the arrangement of the lines,--an ingenious device on his part, and a pleasing puzzle to the spectator:-- "A tender husband and a father dear, a faithful friend lies buried hear, he was true and just in all his ways, he do deserve this worthey praise." To the memory of Margaret, wife of John Hall, appeared some lines of a superior kind, with which we never met elsewhere:-- "You see around me richer neighbours lie As deep and still in this cold ground as I; From ease and plenty they were called away-- Could I in lingering sickness wish to stay? When faith supports the body worn with pain, To live is nothing but to die is gain." But as if to show that the muse had made a very flying visit to the hamlet, and had left the mason, on the next occasion, to his own unassisted genius, the epitaph on two other members of the same family runs thus:-- "When in the world we did remain, Our latter days was grief and pain, But God above he thought it best To take _we_ to a place of rest." What can it be that induces people, who were probably as unpoetical as Audrey in their lives, to wish the ornament of verse upon their tombstones? The effect must be almost ludicrous upon those who were acquainted with the living individual, to hear "the long resounding march and energy divine" of heroics and Alexandrines proceeding from him, now he is dead. Philosophy put by the epitaph-writer in the mouths of a chaw-bacon--moral reflections on the loveliness of virtue in the mouth of a poor-law overseer--and noble incitements to follow a good example in the mouth of the bully or drunkard of the parish, must be far from useful to the surviving generation. We therefore highly approve of the remarks of a sententious gentleman in this churchyard, who seems to lay no great claim to extraordinary merit himself, but favours his co-parishioners with very useful advice:-- "Farewell, vain world, I've seen enough of thee, And now am careless what thou say'st of me,-- Thy smiles I court not, nor thy frowns I fear; My cares are past; my head lies quiet here-- What faults thou see'st in me take care to shun-- Look well at home; enough there's to be done." By the time we had transferred these and other inscriptions to our note-book, the party were refreshed and ready for the homeward walk. We got over the same stiles and underwent the same dangers as before, and happily completed our voyage of discovery to the beautiful churchyard of Llanvair.