VILLAGE SCHOOLMASTER. By experience stern, to learning prone, a foe to disobedience, a friend to emulation, assiduous in his avocations, regular as the coming morn; by many disapproved, by many loved. Such the man whose daily cares were to learning given; and it is a pity his cares are not more gratefully owned. THE HUNTSMAN. Though scanty his domain he kept two hounds, that like their master well knew where the timid hare to find-true in the pursuit the woods re-echoed with their deep-toned music. Murray was old—had seen. better days-but still his heart beat for the chace; and oft have I seen him, with his crutch, following and cheering his trusty Ringwood and Juno. Alas! the old sportsman's tuneful voice is heard no more; he lies in the green church-yard, and his grave-stone bears this inscription: Sylvan youth, whene'er thou tread'st this spot, Peace to thy memory, plain simple sportsman! Cold are the selfish hearts that would controul THE VILLAGE CURATE. "You speak, my young friend, of religion," said the good man, and I give you credit for your "Yes, venerable anxiety in the cause of virtue." sire," said I, "virtue ought to be spoken of with Young man," reverence, and religion with awe." " said the village curate, " I have long officiated at the altar—have long administered serious advice to "And they have profited by my parishioners." "" your advice," said I. Happy am I that they have," said the venerable man." "I am beloved by them, and they are worthy my parental care— they are kind to each other, hospitable to strangers, "Yes, reand faithful servants to their God." verend sir," said I, "I well know how kind are your swains, and I well know that their kindness, their virtue, may be traced to that serenity which a well spent life alone can give, and which a wellspent life alone can insure." THE WOODMAN. "I had reclined me under a shady tree; I was thinking on Cowper; I was ruminating on his many impressive sentiments-on his many striking passages; and is yon man in the glen," said I, "his woodman? No; too gently do the zephyrs waft their fragrance—it is summer. See with what patience he strikes the sturdy oak;-it seems to defy his ire! How incessant are the strokes-the sound reverberates! Now the mighty oak trembles for its fate. See how the huge monarch falls, and in its nestling career bids the puny man, whose labour lays it low, fly from its vengeance. But now the woodman views his shuddering victim with a kind of joy mixed with sorrow-he rejoiced to see the oak while it grew and ornamented the forest, and he is sorry it should lie prostrate. See how he rubs the sweat from off his furrowed forehead-see how he moralizes!" THE LOVE-SICK MAID. "And art thou sick, dear girl?" said I. It was the language of my heart, and the fair one accused me not for asking the question. Pale was her cheek, and languid the eye that was wont to sparkle with delight." And art thou unwell, dear Mary?" said I. "For your tender enquiry I thank you," rejoined the maid, "but my heart is far distant." "Distant!" said I. "Oh sir, you are no stranger to my grief!" She looked tenderly at me. "Have you heard from my Alonzo?" "Alonzo," said I. "Yes, and is not this letter from Alonzo?" The colour suffused her sickly cheek alternately; the dear maiden was impatient to open the seal, but scarce dared to do so. It was a tender and affecting scene to see the fair one trace over the endearing lines. "My Alonzo lives!" ejaculated the maid. F "He lives! is constant, and I shall again see him." "Heaven grant thou mayest," said I. She pressed my hand-she welcomed me at her father's, as the friend of one whom she loved. Yes, brother, curse with me that baleful hour Gave wealth to sway the mind with double force. And over fields, where scattered hamlets rose, Have we not seen, at pleasure's lordly call, GOLDSMITH. THE PEASANT BOY AND HIS DOG. A kind of tremor seemed to reiterate o'er his fullblown form, and his rolling eye darted its humid grief obliquely. There was something uncommonly engaging in his attitude, and I stopped me to view the lad more attentively. As I drew near the spot on which this young son of health was stationed, I could easily perceive the cause of his sorrow. "But why grievest thou the loss of thy dog?" said I. My heart smote me ere I had uttered the question. The dog lay prostrate in the arms of death, and the lad pitied him with a warmth that powerfully evinced an artless soul. "Then it was a faithful creature," said I, musingly. "Yes sir, it was as true and good a creature as ever lived-now it is dead," said he. "And thou regrettest his death because he was so,” said I. The lad again bent his eye on the dog, and the pale hue that overspread his cheek, spoke more feelingly than can words. Methought me on Sancho and his dapple, and on the old man and his ass, so nicely pourtrayed by Sterne. "And is there not," said my friend Eugenius, a similitude in the picture?" "Truebut see how composedly the peasant boy walks off." Poor lad, how I envied him his feelings. His were the emotions that do honor to human nature; they were the unfeigned overflowings of an honest heart, and the kindly symptoms of a head as yet unacquainted with man's duplicity. 66 CRAZY KATE. Poor creature! she was muttering her complaints, and ever and anon looking at the trees, then at the green grass, then at the bleating lambkins, then at |