e bishop, "would be apt to cause a
general discontent among the inhabitants of both places, by either
thinking themselves slighted, being only served alternately or
neglected in the duty, or attributing it to covetousness; all of which
occasions of murmuring I would willingly avoid."

Mr. Wordsworth, to whom we are indebted for this letter, mentions that,
in addition to his other gifts and graces, he had a "beautiful
handwriting."

This admirable man continued to serve his little parish for nearly
sixty-eight years. His children grew up about him. Two of his sons
became clergymen of the Church of England; one learned the trade of a
tanner; four of his daughters were happily married; and, occasionally,
all the children and grandchildren, a great company of healthy and happy
people, spent Christmas together, and went to church, and partook of the
communion together, this one family filling the whole altar.

The good old wife died first. At her funeral the venerable man, past
ninety years of age, had the body borne to the grave by three of her
daughters and one granddaughter. When the corpse was lifted, he insisted
upon lending a hand, and he felt about (for he was almost blind) until
he got held of a cloth that was fastened to the coffin; and thus, as one
of the bearers of the body, he entered the church where she was to be
buried.

The old man, who had preached with much vigor and great clearness until
then sensibly drooped after the loss of his wife. His voice faltered as
he preached; he kept looking at the seat in which she had sat, where he
had watched her kind and beautiful face for more than sixty years. He
could not pass her grave without tears. But though sad and melancholy
when alone, he resumed his cheerfulness and good-humor when friends were
about him. One night, in his ninety-fourth year, he tottered upon his
daughter's arm, as his custom was, to the door, to look out for a moment
upon the sky.

"How clear," said he, "the moon shines to-night."

In the course of that night he passed peacefully away. At six the next
morning he was found dead upon the couch where his daughter had left
him. Of all the men of whom I have ever read, this man, I think, was the
most virtuous and the most fortunate.

SIR CHRISTOPHER WREN.

Of the out-of-door sights of London, none makes upon the stranger's mind
so lasting an impression as huge St. Paul's, the great black dome of
which often seems to hang over the ci