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what he had always thought ministers had
better do, leave the pulpit before they were
worn outbefore anybody had begun to look
for their wearing out. The "dear child," as
he still calls the father of his grandchildren,
early persuaded his father to take advantage
of that modern improvement by which
his life insurance can be commuted into an
annuity at sixty years of age, if he should
attain it, or receivable in full, if that method
should be preferred. A small independence
being thus secured, if he lives to leave the
pulpit at sixty, and a legacy to his son, if he
dies before that time, Mr. Ellison feels more
free from worldly cares than is often the case
with dissenting ministers who begin the world
without fortune, and with thoughts far above
the lucre of gain.

No one wonders that he never seemed to
think of marrying again. Before his removal,
the name of his "dear Joanna" was often
on his lips. After his removal, it was never
again heard, except on the rare occasions of
his meeting old friends. He did not speak
of her to those who had never known her;
but not the less was her image understood to
be ever in his thoughts.


  THE eye that sparkles with a flash of mirth
       Is quench'd ere long in swelling streams of sorrow;
   Tears flood the source where laughter had its birth;
       To-day we smilewe melt in woe to-morrow.

  The traits and lineaments we hold so dear,
       Harden and stiffen in a marble slumber;
   We look our last upon the funeral gear,
       And add one sleeper to a countless number.

  But love is changeless in the changeless soul,
       Though born of earth, and rear'd in homes that perish:
  Buoy'd on the wings of ages as they roll,
       It clings to memories it was wont to cherish.

  Amidst the glories of yon radiant skies,
       Transplanted thither from its mortal dwelling,
   It dreams of those for whom in fleshly guise
       With tenderest thoughts its faithful breast was swelling.

  Oh! fondly nurture in thy heart of hearts
       The precious germ whose produce blossoms ever!
   And when thy spirit from the body parts,
       Life's sacred ties e'en death will fail to sever!

            A DAY AT WATERLOO.

IN less than twenty-four hours from the
time that one conceives the idea, it is possible
to be standing on the spot where Wellington
saw the Imperial Guard give way before his
troops, and felt that the great contest of the
age was decided.

At two o'clock, on a fine summer morning,
we walked on board of the Antwerp steamer,
and, at the same hour the next morning,
having spent some hours in Antwerp on the
way, and visited most of its remarkable
objects, we were proceeding from Brussels to
Waterloo. M. Gozlan, a French gentleman,
who has just published a very curious account
of the battle, after having recently visited
the ground, tells us that "it is necessary to
pass a whole day at Brussels in the endeavour
to procure, at a reasonable charge, a carriage
capable of transporting the visitor to Waterloo!"
In exactly five minutes after we
arrived at the H├┤tel de l'Europe, we were at
the stables of Mr. Suffield, an Englishman,
in the Rue de la Montagne, where we saw
abundance of carriages at our service; but, by
the advice of our worthy countryman, selected
an English gigthere being but two of us
and thus were independent of drivers. In
ten minutes more, and at the not unreasonable
charge of twelve francs for the horse
and gig for the day, we were passing our
hotel in the Place Royale, on the way to
Waterloo. The distance is twelve miles;
the road nearly as straight as a line, but,
to our annoyance, a paved road, such as you
used to rattle over in Lancashire, and, as you
still are jolted over in France. With this
one exception, and to this there was often
the alleviation of the unpaved sides of the
road, all was very charming, The sun shone
in a clear sky; a fresh breeze blew over the
landscape; the extended masses of the houses
of Brussels lay below us to our right; and,
before us, green corn-fields and quiet villages
saluted our approach. Our horse was our
guide on the way, for he was accustomed to
traverse it daily; but, just for this very
reason, he was not the best possible guide.
He would much rather have gone any other
way. Anon, however, the great forest of
Soigne showed itself, and here, according
to our previous information, we allowed the
horse to turn into its verdant shades. For
seven miles the path runs through this
fine wood; not, however, the direct path;
for that which, at the time of the battle, ran
through the wood, now runs along the side
of it; for the wood all along the right-hand
of the road has been cut down, and the land
thrown into cultivation. It is impossible to
traverse this road without recollecting the
expressive stanza of "Childe Harold:"—

    "And Ardennes waves above them her green leaves,
     Dewy with nature's dew-drops, as they pass,
     Grieving, if aught inanimate e'er grieves,
     Over the unreturning brave,—alas!
     Ere evening to be trodden like the grass,
     Which now beneath them, but above shall grow,
     In its next verdure, when this fiery mass
     Of living valour, rolling on the foe,
And burning with high hope, shall moulder cold and low."

Not the less vividly occurs to the mind the
image of the Duke of Brunswick during a
halt in this forest, dismounting, and with his
aide-de-camp, seating himself on a bank on

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