to see the vicar,) and then he sent him out to India. And they say he has come home with a great deal of money, and bought a great deal of land, and built a fine house. But he deserves it all, for he was very grateful to the vicar, and kind to the poor of the parish. Last winter, when the cold lasted so long, he sent fifty pounds to be given away in coals, and ordered that the poor widow should get double quantity.'

No one seemed disposed either to interrupt, or make comments on the good woman's narrative; so she continued, 'But you see, we must all have some cross or other, and by all accounts he is not without his. Stupid fellow that he was, he had money enough to have asked any lady in the land; and instead of that, he went away and married a poor tailor's daughter, a dressed-up London Miss, with never a sixpence in her pocket; and what's worse, they say she has a very bad temper, and is as proud as Lucifer.'

This was too much for Lord John; he threw himself half out of the window, and shook with laughter, in which, though I really pitied the poor crest-fallen dame, I could scarcely help joining.

It was a relief when the other gentlemen entered the coach. The old woman was not long of announcing herself to, Mr. Burton as Nanny Pocock; and though a slight colour suffused his face at her first recognition, he soon recovered himself, shook hands with her very warmly, and inquired after sundry Peggies, Toms, and Jacks, the companions of his early days. The good sense of the husband formed a striking contrast to the folly of the wife, and seemed to pre-possess both the other gentlemen in his favour.

The conversation soon turned upon India, with many parts of which the military man appeared to be well acquainted. Many interesting accounts of the natives in remote quarters of that vast continent, were given by both; Mr. Burton was acquainted with several of the missionaries in different stations, and gave some pleasing instances of their usefulness among their own countrymen, in the British and native regiments. And thus a ride, which promised nothing but annoyances at the outset, passed most pleasantly in interesting and useful conversation.

Poor Mrs. Burton never raised her eyes from her reticule, which she seemed diligently to contemplate from the moment Mrs. Nanny had made her pedigree known. I could not help regretting that the domestic comfort of a man apparently so amiable and well-disposed, should be marred by the folly of such a help-mate; but could only conclude, with Nanny Pocock, that 'we must all have some cross ;' and, if I mistake not, Mr. Burton feels his to be no light one.

MARTHA MARKWELL.

SABBATH MUSINGS.

No. VI.

"GLORY be to God!" is an expression familiar to the ears of those conversant with the Irish peasantry; and though with the latter it is too often rather the language of the lips than of the heart, still the recurrence of it is calculated to strike home feelings,it may be of self-reproach,-upon the hearers.

'This is a fine day, glory be to God!' or 'He's getting strong again and able to work, after the fit of sickness, glory be to the great God!' are every day expressions. Nor are such confined to occasions calculated to draw forth praise alone. Some time since, a poor woman, in a state of abject poverty, presented herself at our hall door.

'My two children,' she said, 'a boy and a girl, have been lying down these three weeks in the influenza, and one of them died upon me last night,— glory be to God! I come to ask for something to put about the corpse, and a couple of candles; for I have nothing this day in the wide world for either living or dead, and no means to provide it.'

The big tears were rolling slowly down her pale cheeks as she spoke, and there was something very touching in her quiet, silent grief, and the meek and resigned tones of her voice. After a few words of consolation on the loss of her child, to which she

assented with a heavy sigh, I accidentally touched a chord which at that moment was, perhaps, the only one calculated to give her any comfort. Is it,' I asked,' the boy or the girl who has died?'

Now it should be known that among the lower ranks in Ireland, as in other countries in a backward state of civilization, the weaker sex are not held in particularly high esteem. Indeed in many cases the female part of the family does not count at all; and if you ask a man with perhaps a dozen children, the number of his progeny, he will say four or six, according as the arrows in the quiver happen to be of the valuable sex. 'He never had a son, good nor bad, only all girls, God help him!' is an undisputed ground for sympathy.

When I asked the question, the poor woman's eyes, so dim with weeping and want of sleep,—for, as she said, she had not 'quenched a candle upon her sick children for a week,' brightened in a moment. 'Oh,' she exclaimed, looking up and clasping her hands fervently, 'glory be to his holy name, he hasn't taken the boy!'

About a fortnight after, one cheerless day when the clouds hung low and cold drizzling rain was falling, the same forlorn looking figure appeared on the steps. 'The boy is gone now, glory be to God!' she said, and said no more. There was no need in truth to enlarge upon the tale. The utter wretchedness depicted in her countenance, her manner, calm and quiet as before, but still so eloquent of hopeless, bitter grief, the smothered sighs that burst from her, all shewed that now, indeed, the iron had entered into her soul. After a pause I took up her last words: 'Yes, glory be to God, he has taken your

children to that happy place where there is neither sin nor sorrow: they are well provided for now.'

"Ah! I hope so,' she answered, but I didn't think he'd leave me here alone entirely. If I had but one itself left, I wouldn't mind: I'm as poor an object as walks the ground this day; but ever so poor, them that has children would rather struggle on any way with them, than lose them.'

The tears flowed thicker and faster down her poor thin cheeks at these words, and I had not courage to say any more. Indeed sympathy is the only balm that can soothe the first keen and wayward moments of bereavement. Every thing else is worse than useless; and many a smarting sufferer can tell how they have turned away in utter sickness of heart from

The busy hand

Of consolation, fretting the sore wound
It vainly sought to heal.

After all it seemed cruel to urge her poverty as a reason why this afflicted creature should be comforted. Was not the mother's heart that swelled beneath those rags as wrung as if her little ones had been cradled in wealth and luxury? Were those she wept less precious because instead of purple, and fine linen, and sumptuous daily fare, they were born to the rags and the crumbs of the beggar?

Nevertheless, I could not avoid inwardly re-echoing the ejaculation, which unconsciously and mechanically she kept on muttering,." Glory be to God!" My thoughts followed the glorified spirits in their happy flight to that world of light, and love, and melody, where sorrow and sighing flee away before the Saviour's face: and then I turned my eyes upon