church door was a puzzle, and yet he was so obstinately resolute that he could not pluck up courage enough to ask why or wherefore. He was taken into custody as a spy, and brought before the commanding officer.

He partially imagined it was for his earthly sins that he was now undergoing penance; he may have thought he used his pole too freely in awaking sinners, or that his ar rests were inconsiderate and unjust. He smelt no sulphuric smell, as he had often been told those regions did smell; it was the plain unadulterated air of heaven that he had been in the habit of breathing, and breathing freely; but the officer to him looked as if he might be the devil as well as anybody else he was savage and mustachoed, in all conscience, enough to make a well-shaved gentleman like Hans dread so hairy a figure.

The officer in a rough tone asked Hans if he was a spy; he ignorant of the term could not reply the Dutch age never knew what a spy was, so if he could have understood the term aright, he would have answered as becometh a plain, undisguised christian. The officer getting impatient at his silence, which he construed into obstinacy, ordered him to be locked up with the choking intelligence that he was to die point blank, on the morrow.

Hans was dead already with the news; the idea of burying himself was awful. Indeed how could he? how could he lay out that short and squat form, and stare all that was left of him, in the countenance? how could he gaze upon himself as he lay dressed out ready for his natural bed, in the white robes of the second journey, prepared for the startIn his loneliness he gravely contemplated with himself how wicked he had been, and he must score up now, if he intended to die with honors-like most mortal men, willing to go through life, reckless and indifferent how much

sin they commit if they can leave the world with a clean ledger, imagining that a sigh or a tear, cast over fifty or sixty years sins, will blot all out, never to be again mentioned to them.

Here Hans was evidently in a puzzle. He may have thought to himself its no use to repent, for I may get out; and if I am to be dead to-morrow, of course I ought to die true. I would not suppose in my own mind, that this was solemnly his thought, for I don't believe he ever committed any greater mortal sin than the drinking of schnap. That however has been fully cancelled, from the fact that it was allowable as part of the Dutch creed.

His morning potation of cold spring water and biscuit obstinately hard with age, was brought him by one of the red coats. He asked for schnap and gingerbread, and he wanted also to see his wife. The only grace was a few oaths in Dutch, handsomely dispersed between every swallow; and there was great difficulty for some of the soldiers to understand him. He was in a pretty fix, confined within very narrow limits, no chance of escape. What could he do? scream he could not, or if he could dared not for fear of punishment; at last the sergeant-at-arms opened his cell and summoned him to execution. The drums beat slowly, the fife played a minor air, and the soul of Hans shrunk as he walked, from his finger and toe's ends to his throat, ready to jump at a moment's warning of danger. His eyes were bandaged; he halted, hesitated, stumbled, fell. He heard the word fire; the muskets echoed a terrible revelry, and he was shot. On opening his eyes to see in reality if he were dead, he beheld a strange gentleman, with a smiling countenance, who, seeing that he was a stranger, offered to conduct him through the old church and show him about the great city.

! Hans felt relieved at the narrow escape he had made,

and being informed by his conductor that he was on the new ground of old "Amsterdam," his eyes beamed with delight, though the sequel shows he was somewhat disappointed. The reader, if not fagged out, is advised to wade on, for

Should you--" wade no more,

Returning were as tedious as go o'er."

Hans had "strange things in his head," but, fortunately for the world they are out, and in a book.

Hans had not left the Reformed Dutch Post Office many moments ere his eyes lighted upon an undertaker's shop, which kindled within him certain reflections about the old sexton, and he surmised as follows.

Death leads, and the undertaker brings up the rear. Poets look upon both as bona fide personages, realities, mortal men, and bed-fellows. The duties of the sexton (we will call him so) are simple Sunday matters. He opens and shuts the church; he adjusts the pew doors; he illumins and extinguishes; in fine, there can be no church without a sexton, and no sexton without a church; they are co-existent, and stand and fall together. The sexton, unlike other men of feeling, is happy in the misery of others. His dark, hanging, lantern jaws rebound at the utterance of melancholy news, and with the utmost indifference and cold-heartedness, he complains to you of dull business. While men live happily and heartily, he is dying and miserable. He is on the opposite side to long life and health. He curries favor with sickness, diseases and plagues. He

barters with pestilence, and shows it about at noon-day. Let him see you in a declining sickness and he is the flower of the age for politeness-full of smiles and obeisance. Have a live-forever look about you, that frowns down coffins, shrouds, hearses, and even him—he never sees you-he is intent upon some worldly matter, or going about his business.

In old times, men were content first to die, and have subsequent matters afterwards adjusted. Now, you begaping wide in All men are

hold in every street the polished casement, anticipation of the downfall of "Dust." mortal we know, and must dissolve; but the idea that a man should carry his bottle in his hands to catch his dis. solving spirit, is barbarous ! Who does not detest these

hasteners on or wishers for death? The Dutchmen were not such anticipators of afflictions-content, quiet, oldfashioned souls, to go on their long journey after death, without warning. Their accounts with this wicked world were always square; and they knew they lived here but to prepare for the hereafter. The world to them had no allurements, no temptations. They walked straight on, and when they departed they left an example behind them worthy to be followed.

soleums and cenotaphs?

for damp air and wind!

What to them were mauVanity and marble! Houses

To be sure the "old Dutch" had a sexton. He, however, had nothing in his windows to induce one to die; no show of beauty, no silver plate. Kind gentleman, he never dreamed of them; but when men were ready, so was he. When they had done with the world, he took

them up. When life had ceased its romance, he assumed its reality-in fine, when men died he buried them.

He never thought of death's doings till he was sent for. The sexton of this age is on his knees (in his heart,) morn

ing and evening, for the prosperity of his business. He cannot be else. Well, say the world-would you have his family starve? No! But would you have him do as the

worms do?

Men are not despised for what they do well. The misfortunes and afflictions of this world are not matters of speculation-and therefore grave-attire ought not to be exhibited to a gaping and dying world.

The sexton is less excusable for his open view, because he has a certain trade. His articles are staple; they suffer no deterioration in value, no lack of sale, no sudden fluctuation. He relies on the frailty of mortality for wealth; as that decays he rises. He finds himself uppermost on the plank as his fellow falls.

He is an humble man in his way. By burying the dead, he is therefore dead himself. "Let the dead bury their dead.” He weeps with them who weep, but the bill accounts for the rivers of waters; he makes you Dr. "To tears shed."

There are other duties the sexton of this day performs which may not have been the custom with our fathers. They open the church to close a private contract of universal interest. In this though they have no direct hand, they often do much mischief. The contractors in the presence of a curious multitude, take each other for better or worse. 'Tis their own fault; the sexton is silent; he does not open his mouth in the matter, save to taste the bridal cake; but he is an important instrument in the happy union, for he keeps the keys of the church; and without his wit the ceremony could not go on, for if he will not lend his aid, nobody can perform. Let no man quarrel with the sexton. He is a dangerous enemy. Encourage him with smiles, lean looks, hacking coughs, hysterics, and rheumatics, for the houses he builds last 'till doom's day, and if they be not well constructed by the architect, beware! or he may make your bed