A grave had just received its “poor inhabitant the mourners had departed, and two or three busy urchins, with shovels and spades, were filling in the earth; while the sexton, a living clod, nothing loth to see his work done by proxy, looked, with open mouth and leaden eyes, carelessly on. Uncle Timothy walked slowly up the path, and pausing before the “narrow cell,” enforced silence and decency by that irresistible charm that ever accompanied his presence. His pensive, thoughtful look, almost surprised the gazers into sympathy. Who was the silent tenant? None could tell. He was a stranger in the village; but their pastor must have known something of his story; for his voice faltered whilst reading the funeral service, and he was observed to weep. Uncle Timothy passed on, and continued his peregrination among the tombs. How grossly had the dead been libelled by the flattery of the living! Here was “a tender husband, a loving father, and an honest man,” who certainly had never tumbled his wife out at window, kicked his children out of doors, or picked his neighbour's pocket in broad daylight on the King's highway; yet was he a hypocritical heartless old money-worshipper! There lay a “disconsolate widow,” the names of whose three “lamented husbands” were chiselled on her tombstone! To the more opulent of human clay, who could afford plenty of lead and stone,--perchance the emblems of their dull, cold heads and hearts,--what pompous quarries were raised above ground! what fulsome inscriptions dedicated! But the poor came meanly off. Here and there a simple flower, blooming on the raised sod, and fondly cherished, told of departed friends and kindred not yet forgotten! And who that should see a rose thus affectionately planted would let it droop and wither for want of a tear? “Ah!” thought Uncle Timothy, “may I make my last bed with the poor!-- “Let not unkind, untimely thrift These little boons deny; Nor those who love me while I live Neglect me when I die!” A monument of chaste and simple design attracted his attention. It was to the memory of a gentle spirit, whom he mourned with a brother's love. Four lines were all that had been thought essential to say; but they were sufficiently expressive. Father! thy name we bless, Thy providence adore. Earth has a mortal less, Heaven has an angel more! The “Giver of every good and perfect gift” had taken her daughter before she knew sin or sorrow. Her epitaph ran thus:-- Oh! happy they who call'd to rest Ere sorrow fades their bloom, Awhile a blessing are--and bless'd-- Then sink into the tomb. From fleeting joys and lasting woes On youthful wing they fly-- In heaven they blossom like the rose,