belong; and I know no more complete epitomes of dissolute heartlessness
and pampered inutility.

But the good "old family servant!"--The one who has always been linked,
in idea, with the home of our heart; who has led us to school in the
days of prattling childhood; who has been the confidant of our boyish
cares, and schemes, and enterprises; who has hailed us as we came home
at vacations, and been the promoter of all our holiday sports; who, when
we, in wandering manhood, have left the paternal roof, and only return
thither at intervals, will welcome us with a joy inferior only to that
of our parents; who, now grown grey and infirm with age, still totters
about the house of our fathers in fond and faithful servitude; who
claims us, in a manner, as his own; and hastens with querulous eagerness
to anticipate his fellow-domestics in waiting upon us at table; and who,
when we retire at night to the chamber that still goes by our name, will
linger about the room to have one more kind look, and one more pleasant
word about times that are past--who does not experience towards such a
being a feeling of almost filial affection?

I have met with several instances of epitaphs on the gravestones of such
valuable domestics, recorded with the simple truth of natural feeling. I
have two before me at this moment; one copied from a tombstone of a
churchyard in Warwickshire:

"Here lieth the body of Joseph Batte, confidential servant to George
Birch, Esq. of Hampstead Hall. His grateful friend and master caused
this inscription to be written in memory of his discretion, fidelity,
diligence, and continence. He died (a bachelor) aged 84, having lived
44 years in the same family."