stronger emphasis said: "James, I tell thee to sit thee down;" and this time James subsided. There was nothing more said on the occasion, and after a long silence, the meeting broke up. On another occasion, a young friend, who had aspired to become a teacher, stood up, and in that peculiar, drawling, sing-song tone which used to be a characteristic of nearly all their preachers, said: "The birds of the air have nests, the foxes have holes, but the Son of man hath not where to lay his head;" and then sat down, leaving those who heard him to enlarge and apply the text to suit themselves. There was nothing more said that day. And so my mind wandered on from one thing to another, until at length my attention was arrested by a friend who rose and took off his hat (members of the society always sit with their hats on), and gave us a short and touching discourse. I have heard some of the most telling and heart-searching addresses at Quaker meetings. On this occasion there was no attempt-- there could be none from a plain people like this--to tickle the ear with well-turned periods or rhetorical display. After the meeting was over, I walked out into the graveyard; my father and mother and two sisters lie there together, and several members of my father's family. There is a peculiarity about a Quaker burying-ground that will arrest the attention of any visitor. Other denominations are wont to mark the last resting place of loved ones by costly stones and inscriptions; but here the majority of the graves are marked with a plain board, and many of them have only the initials of the deceased, and the rank grass interlocks its spines above the humble mounds. I remember my father having some difficulty to get consent to place a plain marble slab at the head of his father and mother's grave. But were those who slumbered beneath forgotten? Far otherwise. The husband here contemplated the lowly dwelling place of the former minister to his delight. The lover recognised the place where she whose presence was all-inspiring reposed, and each knew where were interred those who had been lights to their world of love, and on which grave to shed the drop born of affection and sorrow. Although the pomp, the state, and the pageantry of love were her ransom, yet hither, in moments when surrounding objects were forgotten, had retired the afflicted, and poured forth the watery tribute that bedews the cheek of those that mourn "in spirit and in truth." Hither came those whose spirits had been bowed down beneath the burden of distress, and indulged in the melancholy occupation of silent grief, from which no man ever went forth without benefit. I thought of Falconer's lines:-- "Full oft shall memory from oblivion's veil Relieve your scenes, and sigh with grief sincere?" After lingering for some time near the resting place of the dear ones of my own family, I turned away and threaded my way thoughtfully back.