titled multitude? What would a crowded corner in Westminster Abbey have
been, compared with this reverend pile, which seems to stand in beautiful
loneliness as his sole mausoleum! The solicitude about the grave, may be
but the offspring of an overwrought sensibility; but human nature is made
up of foibles and prejudices; and its best and tenderest affections are
mingled with these factitious feelings. He who has sought renown about the
world, and has reaped a full harvest of worldly favour, will find, after
all, there is no love, no admiration, no applause, so sweet to the soul as
that which springs up in his native place. It is there that he seeks to be
gathered in peace and honour, among his kindred and his early friends. And
when the weary heart and the failing head begin to warn him that the
evening of life is drawing on, he turns as fondly as does the infant to its
mother's arms, to sink to sleep in the bosom of the scenes of his
childhood.

How would it have cheered the spirit of the youthful bard, when, wandering
forth in disgrace upon a doubtful world, he cast back a heavy look upon his
paternal home, could he have foreseen, that, before many years, he should
return to it covered with renown; that his name would become the boast and
the glory of his native place; that his ashes would be religiously guarded
as its most precious treasure; and that its lessening spire, on which his
eyes were fixed with tearful contemplation, would one day become the
beacon, towering amidst the gentle landscape, to guide the literary pilgrim
of every nation to his tomb!

_Irving._

* * * * *

ON THE MISERIES OF HUMAN LIFE.