d as
the sun, they could not think much of sorrow or the grave. That face
said, "It is nothing, it will all end better than people think." So
I have inherited from him, not only my good temper, but a habit of
going often to the churchyard, which is good, when done in a proper
humor; and then also I take in the Intelligencer, just as he used to
do.

I am not very young, I have neither wife nor children, nor a
library, but, as I said, I read the Intelligencer, which is enough for
me; it is to me a delightful paper, and so it was to my father. It
is of great use, for it contains all that a man requires to know;
the names of the preachers at the church, and the new books which
are published; where houses, servants, clothes, and provisions may
be obtained. And then what a number of subscriptions to charities, and
what innocent verses! Persons seeking interviews and engagements,
all so plainly and naturally stated. Certainly, a man who takes in the
Intelligencer may live merrily and be buried contentedly, and by the
end of his life will have such a capital stock of paper that he can
lie on a soft bed of it, unless he prefers wood shavings for his
resting-place. The newspaper and the churchyard were always exciting
objects to me. My walks to the latter were like bathing-places to my
good humor. Every one can read the newspaper for himself, but come
with me to the churchyard while the sun shines and the trees are
green, and let us wander among the graves. Each of them is like a
closed book, with the back uppermost, on which we can read the title
of what the book contains, but nothing more. I had a great deal of
information from my father, and I have noticed a great deal myself.
I keep it in my diary, in which I write for my own use and pleasure
a history of all who lie here, and a few more beside.

Now we are in the churchyard. Here, behind the white iron
railings, once a rose-tree grew; it is gone now, but a little bit of
evergreen, from a neighboring grave, stretches out its green tendrils,
and makes some appearance; there rests a very unhappy man, and yet
while he lived he might be said to occupy a very good position. He had
enough to live upon, and something to spare; but owing to his
refined tastes the least thing in the world annoyed him. If he went to
a theatre of an evening, instead of enjoying himself he would be quite
annoyed if the machinist had put too strong a light into one side of
the moon, or if