1739, are rudely worked into the wall--projecting far enough
to make the design perfectly plain. When the town was burnt by the
British, 1775, only the walls of this sacred edifice were left
standing. The enemy relieved it of a very fine marble baptismal font,
and also of the communion plate, which were carried to Scotland. On
the gable end of the building, still fast in the wall, may be seen a
cannon ball which was fired from the British ship, Liverpool. The
church stands in the customary grave yard of those days, and contains
the remains of persons interred as early as 1700. Near the door stands
the tomb-stone of Col. Samuel Boush, who gave the land on which this
house of worship stands. Many of his relatives also rest there. Some
of the stones, marking places of interment, are covered with mosses
and creeping plants; the inscriptions on others are almost obliterated
by the ravages of time; still others have fallen or been broken, and
now lean in every direction over the last earthly resting-place of
those who thought to tell coming generations who reposed beneath. This
is one of the weaknesses of mankind, but it is vain.

Let them pile up costly and lofty monuments--reaching heavenward; let
the artist cut their names and virtues deep into the enduring granite;
let the mechanic, with all his skill, set the foundations, yet the
lettering will perish and the stone will crumble. Parasitic plants
will fasten upon them; beneath their destroying grasp names and dates
will disappear, and generations yet to come will be unable to tell
whether they look upon the grave of a prince or upon that of a
peddler--the narrow house of him who retired to the straw pallet of
poverty, will not then be known from that of him who reclined upon the
silken couch of affluence--

"Death levels all ranks,
And lays the shepherd's crook beside the sceptre."

[Illustration: ST. PAUL'S CHURCH, 1878.]

"On it, time his mark has hung;
On it, hostile bells have rung;
On it, green old moss has clung;
On it, winds their dirge have sung;
Let us still adore thy walls,
Sacred temple, Old St. Paul's."

Our party assemble, and we find the little steamer Cygnet at her
wharf, looking as neat and trim as the graceful bird after which she
is named. Newly painted, she was about to start on the first trip of
the season.

Half-past six was the hour of departure, but a heavy wet fog hung over
this city by the sea, and we wer