the sentimentalism of his views. Because it
pleased him to write verses to Delia and
Odes on Immortality, he took it into his head
that that was his sole business in life, and that
this rough toiling hard-handed world of ours
was bound to stop, and hear him pipe, and
reward him for his piping. Society, on the
other hand, made the mistake of regarding the
literary man as a sort of pleasant superfluity
—an intellectual gipsy, to be played with on
holiday occasions, but to be kept studiously
apart from respectability and its ways.
Unfortunately, the literary man gave too much colour
to the prejudice by his loose and wandering
life.

The vast development of the newspaper press
of late years has put an end to many of these
evils. Journalism has made literature a business
—no small recommendation in a business land.
An immense field is open for all kinds and
degrees of authorship; and this is not confined
to London, but is to be found in Edinburgh,
Dublin, and the large provincial towns of England.
The literary man is now a workman, in
the best sense of the word. And, as if to show
how well imagination harmonises with prosaic
toil, this resort to steady working habits on the
part of our pen-men has been accompanied by a
development of the poetical faculty of which
the Boyses and the Chattertons had but the
feeblest glimpse.

GOD'S-ACRE.

QUIET and peaceful on this starry eve
The Dead lie here and take their solemn rest,
With coronals and wreaths of blooming flowers
Placed on their breast.

The great green branches of the beech and aspen
Entwining overhead,
Form avenues, like aisles of a cathedral,
Built for the Dead.

They do not lie in stately splendour, only
Thought of as monuments of former fame;
But each grave has its little crown of flowers
Hung o'er its name.

They do not grimly lie, locked up and mouldering
In jails of stone;
Where, through a crevice, a stray beam of sunshine,
Creeps in alone:

There are no trophies of sepulchral splendour,
Containing crypts of dust,
Behind which, in the shadow dark as midnight,
They rot and rust.

Here spring upon the graves, with blooming flowers,
Bright banks of moss,
On which the pitying midnight Angel rests
Beside a cross.

This is a grand cathedral, and the shimmering
Of aspens overhead,
Sounds ever like a whispered burial service
By spirits said.

The storm wind swaying leaf and branch together
With his wild moans,
Sounds like the prelude of an unseen organ's
Gigantic tones!

'Tis as if spirits far above were chanting
The De Profundis,
Which the cathedral's vaulted aisles for ever
Echo around us!

Quiet and peaceful on this starry eve
The dead lie here, and take their solemn rest,
With coronals and wreaths of summer flowers
Placed on their breast.

Daily the Germans tend these sacred temples—
Their dead but sleep;
And kindly the kindly-hearted watchers ever
A vigil keep!

They come at morning and at eve, with roses,
Cut fresh and rare,
And place them by the graves of those they loved
With wondrous care!

They come with footsteps, so subdued and solemn
As if a sound
Would break the slumber of the quiet sleepers,
In sacred ground!

The flowers they bring with prayers of hope are
hallowed,
Unloving fingers
Touch not those bright mementoes, where heart-love
For ever lingers.

This is indeed a cloister for the weary
And broken-hearted:
A refuge for the lonely, whose world-treasures
Have all departed.

Here, heartaches cease, and farewells to the dying
Are heard no more:
These graves are but the boats that bear the spirit
To the eternal shore!

I too would lie within this grand cathedral,
And take my rest,
If the two tiny hands I love so dearly
Placed flowers upon my breast.

UNION IS STRENGTH?

OUR Union is built on a clearing of half a
dozen acres, or thereabouts, of ancient woodland,
on the hill which commands a magnificent view
of fertile country, wood, mountain, valley,
churches, villages, and country-seats; a feudal
stronghold, abbey ruins, and, in the far distance,
cathedral and castle, in close company, on the
brink of a noble river. The hill commands that
view, but the Union-house doesn't, for that is
necessarily enclosed by a high wall. But in
winter-time, when the foliage is dead, there is a
prospect from the highest tier of windows.
Whether there be or not, what matters? Nature's
nothing. Three or four hundred paupers
are not brought here to enjoy scenery. The more
we brick out nature, the better for our system.

The garden fronts the house, and is large and
well cultivated. Two stunted firs stand like
sentinels, one on each side of the gate, at the
entrance of the premises, and a few common
flowers fringe the path which divides the garden
into equal parts, and leads straight to the entrance.
Eight or ten decrepid representatives
of the first gardener go on leisurely with their
occupation, and take no note of any of the