One evening, returning to the hut with her usual song, she danced up to her father’s face on his rushy bed, and it was cold in death.  If she shrieked—­if she fainted—­there was but one ear that heard, one eye that saw her in her swoon.  Not now floating light like a small moving cloud unwilling to leave the flowery braes, though it be to melt in heaven, but driven along like a shroud of flying mist before the tempest, she came upon us in the midst of that dreary moss; and at the sound of our quaking voice, fell down with clasped hands at our feet—­“My father’s dead!” Had the hut put already on the strange, dim, desolate look of mortality?  For people came walking fast down the braes, and in a little while there was a group round us, and we bore her back again to her dwelling in our arms.  As for us, we had been on our way to bid the fair creature and her father farewell.  How could she have lived—­an utter orphan—­in such a world!  The holy power that is in Innocence would for ever have remained with her; but Innocence longs to be away, when her sister Joy has departed; and ’tis sorrowful to see the one on earth, when the other has gone to heaven!  This sorrow none of us had long to see; for though a flower, when withered at the root, and doomed ere eve to perish, may yet look to the careless eye the same as when it blossomed in its pride,—­its leaves, still green, are not as once they were,—­its bloom, though fair, is faded—­and at set of sun, the dews shall find it in decay, and fall unfelt on all its petals.  Ere Sabbath came, the orphan child was dead.  Methinks we see now her little funeral.  Her birth had been the humblest of the humble; and though all in life had loved her, it was thought best that none should be asked to the funeral of her and her father, but two or three friends; the old clergyman himself walked at the head of the father’s coffin—­we at the head of the daughter’s—­for this was granted unto our exceeding love;—­and thus passed away for ever the Blind Beauty of the Moor!—­Ibid.

* * * * *

THE GATHERER

  A snapper up of unconsidered trifles,
  SHAKSPEARE.

* * * * *

EPICURISM.

(For the Mirror.)

At a public dinner, Captain R. commencing a conversation with a gentleman next to him, was astonished at not being able to elicit one word in answer.  At length his silent neighbour turned to him, and said, with a look and tone suitable to the importance of the communication, “Sir, whenever you are at a venison feast, let me advise you never to speak during dinner.  In endeavouring to reply to you, I have actually at this moment swallowed entire a fine piece of fat, without tasting it!”

J.G.R.

* * * * *

An Englishman, named Drinkwater, was nearly drowned the other day off Boulogne; on hearing which, a wag observed that he had “almost taken a drop too much.”