'Twas just a womanly presence, An influence unexprest,-- But a rose she had worn on my grave-sod Were more than long life with the rest! 'Twas a smile, 'twas a garment's rustle, 'Twas nothing that I can phrase,-- But the whole dumb dwelling grew conscious, And put on her looks and ways. Were it mine, I would close the shutters, Like lids when the life is fled, And the funeral fire should wind it, This corpse of a home that is dead. For it died that autumn morning When she, its soul, was borne To lie all dark on the hillside That looks over woodland and corn. * * * * * THE AUTOCRAT OF THE BREAKFAST-TABLE. EVERY MAN HIS OWN BOSWELL. [I did not think it probable that I should have a great many more talks with our company, and therefore I was anxious to get as much as I could into every conversation. That is the reason why you will find some odd, miscellaneous facts here, which I wished to tell at least once, as I should not have a chance to tell them habitually, at our breakfast-table.--We're very free and easy, you know; we don't read what we don't like. Our parish is so large, one can't pretend to preach to all the pews at once. Besides, one can't be all the time trying to do the best of one's best; if a company works a steam fire-engine, the firemen needn't be straining themselves all day to squirt over the top of the flagstaff. Let them wash some of those lower-story windows a little. Besides, there is no use in our quarrelling now, as you will find out when you get through this paper.]