uld my young
ambition for fame relax in its strength because my mother was old and
weak?"

"Is this indeed our son?" says the father, bending in agony over the
grave of his beloved.

"I can well believe I am not;" exclaimeth the youth. "It is well
that you have brought me here to say so. Our natures are unlike; our
courses must be opposite. Your way lieth here--mine yonder!"

So the son left the father kneeling by the grave.

Again a few years are passed. It is winter, with a roaring wind and a
thick gray fog. The graves in the Church-yard are covered with snow,
and there are great icicles in the Church-yard. The wind now carries
a swathe of snow along the tops of the graves as though the "sheeted
dead" were at some melancholy play; and hark! the icicles fall with
a crash and jingle, like a solemn mockery of the echo of the unseemly
mirth of one who is now coming to his final rest.

There are two graves near the old yew tree; and the grass has
overgrown them. A third is close by; and the dark earth at each side
has just been thrown up. The bearers come; with a heavy pace they
move along; the coffin heaveth up and down, as they step over the
intervening graves.

Grief and old age had seized upon the father, and worn out his life;
and premature decay soon seized upon the son, and gnawed away his vain
ambition, and his useless strength, till he prayed to be borne, not
the way yonder that was most opposite to his father and his mother,
but even the same way they had gone--the way which leads to the Old
Churchyard Tree.

* * * * *

In dreamy hours the dormant imagination looks out and sees vague
significances in things which it feels can at an after time be vividly
conceived and expressed; the most familiar objects have a strange
double meaning in their aspects; the very chair seems to be
patiently awaiting there the expounder of its silent, symbolical
language.--_Boston Morning Post_.

* * * * *

[FROM BENTLEY'S MISCELLANY.]

GREECE AND TURKEY.[2]

Whatever Mr. AUBREY DE VERE sees, he picturesquely describes; and
so far as words can do so, he makes pictures of all the subjects he
writes upon; and had he painted as he has written, or used his pencil
equally well with his pen, two more delightful volumes, to any lover
of Greece, it would be difficult to name. With an evidently refined
taste, and a perfect acquaintance with the ancient history of th