and wonder, Mr. Mogridge beheld such a goodly prospect. Overcome at the sight, he involuntarily fell on his knees with a fervour of feeling that was painful to him, and prayed that God in his goodness would either subdue his emotions, or give him the greater ability to sustain the enjoyment of them. In one of those impromptu pieces of rhyme of which so many are left behind him unpublished, he refers to the pleasures he found in natural objects :— A pleasant thing it is to stray Beneath a sunny sky, Where flowery fields their charms display, And brooks run bubbling by; To sit with leafy bowers o'erhung, And read in grateful mood, While heart, and mind, and eye, and tongue, Confess that God is good. The observation of character is a source of much interest to many; with Mr. Mogridge it was a cultivated habit. In those around him he found something to admire, or to disapprove, to imitate, or to avoid. He could scarcely fail to take an intelligent view of men and things as they passed before his eyes. "Every man," he once observed, "has a picture-gallery of his own, in which are hung the likenesses of those he has known. These likenesses are dependent on the point of view whence they were taken, and on the character of the mind in whose memory they are retained. A portrait depends almost as much on the painter as on the face of him whose likeness it represents; and if it be thus with sketches taken by the pencil, it is still more so with sketches of the pen." This habit enabled him to present those delineations of character in the Old Humphrey Papers which are evidently taken from life. His frequent perambulations and love of adventure brought him into contact with different interesting characters, whose peculiarities he was not slow to discern, though he was ever careful not to allow an ill-natured criticism to escape his pen. He was also fond of intercourse with those whose stores of wisdom could enrich his mind, and whose reminiscences could supply topics for profitable conversation. "From the time of my early boyhood," he observed, "I have had the habit of keeping my eyes and ears open to the busy world about me; and for many years it has been my custom to keep a commonplace book of passing thoughts and occurrences. Oh, what a strange medley of matter does it contain! Sometimes my remarks have been made hastily, as sudden impulses have called them forth; at other times, they have been written down with greater reflection and care." A habit of frequently reviewing the past materially aided in turning to practical account this faculty of observation. A tenacious memory, too, held as in a treasury the varied incidents of life as they had come under his eye, and supplied him with abundant illustration to enforce a moral or adorn a tale. His imagination was active and speculative on scenes as they arose to his view. In one of his rhyming moods, he thus notices the workings of this latter faculty: Yet deem I not the high-wrought bliss Of fancy's thrilling reign, Her thousand ardent hopes and fears,- Without these sparkling gems of thought, The human heart would be, At times, a desert far more drear Than thine, dread Araby. Many have mistaken the fervour of poetic feeling for poetic talent. It is not, then, a matter of surprise, that, after revelling in the natural and earnest thoughts of Wordsworth, or the glowing strains of Montgomery, or the rich imagery and quaint sublimities of the early poets, that they should have been sufficiently carried away to believe that they could produce stanzas which would become, to some extent, also popular. The subject of our memoir had long felt the inspiration of poetry; it was, therefore, to be supposed that he would first direct his attention to this line of authorship. Accordingly, he submitted a few pieces, as specimens of an extended series, to the editor of the "Literary Gazette," who freely expressed his approbation, but required that he should have in his possession the whole of the papers before he published any, on the ground that authors were too much in the habit of beginning with power and ending with weakness. Among his earliest works was a book of epitaphs, published under the title of "The Churchyard Lyrist." It is hoped it answered the purpose of the publisher better than it did that of the author. The price agreed on for the copyright was fifty pounds, but as it was to be received in copies, and as Mr. Mogridge gave three-fourths of the books away, his pocket was thereby but very little replenished. Like all other people, authors have to pay for their experience; and he who sets any value on his time, and is solicitous to add to his pecuniary resources, had better occupy himself in a more promising subject than verses for tombstones. The design of this volume was to give a greater variety of original epitaphs than had hitherto appeared. It was the writer's opinion that "the churchyard is a volume whose admonitions are sought when the heart is best prepared to receive them;" and hence the importance that inscriptions for the grave, when they do not consist of texts from Scripture, should be in harmony with its doctrines and precepts. It is rather remarkable that an animated and lively mind should seek recreation among old yewtrees, green hillocks, and sculptured urns. Yet these had their attractions to Mr. Mogridge, and to his frequent musings among such mournful objects are we indebted for his first useful book. "I like not," he has been known to say, "to see a troddendown grave, believing, as I do, that burial-grounds have, or ought to have, an influence on the tone and morals of society. A churchyard is a volume where the wisest of us may learn a lesson of profitable instruction; and a mind duly impressed by reflection on the dead will rarely indulge in bitterness towards the living. Pleasant is it to look on the memorials of affection that decorate the graves of the people of Wales. I want no affectation of sorrow, no unnecessary exhibition of grief, to mark the last resting-place of humanity; but I do love to see the grass-green sod look as though the mortals mouldering below were not forgotten." A few specimens from this work may not be without interest : ON A YOUNG FEMALE. She is gone to the land where the care-worn and weary Enjoy the sweet rapture of sacred repose; She has quitted forever this wilderness dreary, And bid a long farewell to time and its woes. While on earth she was loved, and we deeply deplore her: But ah! shall a murmur escape from our breast? Do you ask how she lived? She set heaven before her. Do you ask how she died? In the faith of the bless'd. |