is as it was in that little household; and that it may
long continue, is our warmest wish.

CONCLUSION.

Mr. Stites' manuscript was written at different times, and in different
hands. The little man was evidently troubled with a defective memory,
(although I would not tell him so for the world,) and has permitted many
strange mistakes and anachronisms to creep into his tale, which inclines
me to think that the whole matter is not so authentic as he pretends, but
has been gleaned in various parcels from the regions of romance. But as he
is not a little tetchy on the score of his veracity, I can only suggest
that the tale be regarded by his good natured readers rather as a fiction
than sober truth.

From beginning to end, strong disapprobation has been expressed by Mr.
Snagg, who says that 'that d--d dog is enough to kill any story, and that
for his part, he doesn't think much of Stites; never did, and never will;
and that a single hair of Slaughter's tail was worth Stites' marrow, fat
and kidneys, all done up together.'

It is useless to argue with him; and I find the most judicious mode of
disposing of the matter is to let the question remain unanswered; by which
means he soon comes round, begins to discover a few merits in the
manuscript, and finally concludes with a warm panegyric upon Mr. STITES
himself, always however with a reservation as to the dog, whom he swears
'he never shall be able to stomach.'

In all respects, my quiet old home remains as it was. The same mystery
hangs about it as formerly. The interest which for a time was excited
respecting it, when I gave an account of the murder which had left it
shunned and tenantless, has died away; and with the exception of Mr.
Snagg, Mr. Stites, and my dog, I have few visiters. Perhaps it is best
that it should be so; for I have the spectres of no hard feelings nor
bitter thoughts, nor painful recollections to haunt me, requiring
excitement and bustle to drive them off; and old age demands time for
solemn thought and serious meditation, to enable it to wean itself from
the past, and look cheerfully forward to the future.

But no more of myself. My task is ended; and I now bid you farewell!

JOHN QUOD.

THE PAST.

I.

Despair not, though thy course is drear,
The past has pleasures for us all;
Bright scenes and things to hearts most dear,
And those how fondly we recall.