Evening star. [volume] (Washington, D.C.) 1854-1972, 1860-03-23

As he DIVORCES 10 the gate of entrance into
this lone battle-ground, q middle-sged gentle.
man comes towards it, from the rear of the
small thatched church, and striving to undo
the latch, cannot; his fingers may be cold
lie may have entered the graveyard by some
O.ne. pain: For days possibly there has been
NJ passer-in. Be this as it may, the gentleman
cannot make egress. Gray hurries forward,
and from his side undoes the latch.
"Thank you" says the gentleman, raising
his hat, "a courtesy is always pleasant, even
on lonely Yorkshire moor. I thank you-a
happy Chrstmas-a good day" He is a
handsome, thoughtful man of middle age; his
hair Just touched with grey, his manner
prompt, his words curt, like one whose deal
ings are many with men and the world. Per-
haps he is a Yorkshire manufacturer-many
have factories in the hollOws Of these moors-
rich, exact, earnest men-gathering whole
populations around them, and making steam
their willing slave.
When the stranger is out of sight, Gray
passes in, and, following the footsteps in the
snow, they lead him to simple gravestone at
the rear of the church, off which the snow has
been recently brushed on it is recorded the
death of two old persons-man and wife-whO
died some five years before. Their names
were Fielding; their married life long one,
considering the years they lived.
. thought as much, says Gray to himself
spinner, and this the grave of his father and
mother. l have heard that he was as noble a
SON as he is a noble father, husband, master,
and man. Yes thought there was likeness
In his face to the boys that came to Tubb's, to
be taught drawing, half year ago. How
often does the prosaic hide the depths of po-
etic nature This is his visit to his parents
grave, on the anniversary of the death; and
who knows of what worth such visitation and
self-commuDion may be? The virtues of a
year mag be sown thus in a single hourn'
Gray passes on to the schoolboy's solitary
grave. No reverent feet have visited it, no
reverent feet have scraped off the dazzling
snow. The marks where the little redbreasts
have hoped across it are plainly visible, and
yet it is not solitary the wind sings dirge,
the snow presses dOwnily, and at night the
moonlight sweeps over II and sitvers it with
glory. Under the arch of Heaven no single
thing but what has some hymn sung to it
some tears wept over it by Nature.
The poor usher resumes bis walk presently,
for he has far to 60. The cold is benum bing,
the snow deeper, yet he presses on; and be
stops to find a small flask in the pocket of his
outer coat; from this he sips drop of brandy.
Gt holds but very little,) and then plods on
The day begins to fade-the distance is vet
considerable-he grows anxious.
AT length the moon dips downward into the
valley, and beyond this is the higher, bleaker
lOnelier moor, across which lies thestation he
wishes to reach; through the valley sweeps a
vast water-power, and here stands tie wondrous
mill, in which daily work three thousand peo-
pie, employed by John Fielding, the great cot
ton lord. But the mighty giant of spindle and
mule sleeps to-day, the fires are low, and labor
rests her hands, Some mile from the mill the
mansion Of the cotton lord stands embosomed
in woods and here at the foot of the fell is a
cluster Of cottages.
TO BE CONTINUED