Litchfield enquirer., 1875-02-18
OUT THE WATERS.

OUT OF THE WATERS. | A few years ago I found myself one summertime upon an island. Searching in my memory for the name of some quiet place where could take my children by I the sea, Brightland suddenly presented it. l self to my mind, and thither we soon vent 1 The island lies so close to the mainland that at low tide there is nothing to sepa- 1 rate the two but wide stretch of mud and sand, across which an artifical road way has been made within the last half century, joining the island to the wider coast. Dulcie shrieked as we went over this narrow roadway for the first time, and cried out that the water rippling up against the wooden piles on either side would come over and drown us; but the | man who drove us said such thing had 1 only happenend three or four times since the thew bank" had been made, so the little lass needn't be daunted.
 The bank grew familiar enough to us afterward, fdr we staid three months upon the island, and crossed it many times on our journeys to and from the mainland. Dulcie and John used to get into the little creeks after samphire and young crabs whenever they could tempt me and nurse
 
 they rather preferred the charms of mud expeditions, as called them, to the long days by the waves, which liked best. It was three years since had seen my child ren's father, and as sat hour after hour watching the restless water, I used to count the days till his return. I hated the sea which parted us, and yet always had carving to be near 1t because he was upon 1t, I suppose; but, for all its glory and beauty, sometimes I could not look at it's great rolling crested pillows without wondering whether they were helping to bring him home again, or whether, miles and miles away. they had perhaps gone over him.
 That was in the evening, though, after l have seen Dulcie safe asleep, and used to sit at my window all alone. Once, to drive away my faneies. left my pretty rose-oov- cred balcony, and strolled, not along the shore, but up the hill inland, where, from the still church-yard, could see on the one side the narrow channel and the rob- bin-like roadway, and. beyond, misty panorama of sloping fields and clustering woods, all lying under the tender light of sunset; and the other. the broad stretch of waters fading slowly into that wonder full gray eternity. as it seems, under the solemn eye of some bright early stars.
 The church was old. Somo one said there were Saxton arches in it; and there were ancient tombs within its aisles-so very ancient that nothing was left of the inscriptions to tell who slept beneath the weight of stone without. A very mighty lord or count of the island slept in mar ble. with all his fingers broken of. and his most noble face so chipped and dis Ixy% &ho of time, that one almost felt to pity the mu- tilated stone. Close by the great-grand- son of the same noble lord lay in much pomp of marble and heraldry upon long granite slab. and under the armor-clad figure knelt the doll-like effgies of his eight children, holding the shield on which was told, in scholarly Latin, how good, how excellent, how great and noble, and before all men exceedingly virtuous and pious, mad been the honorable noble man whose untimely death (setat. 59) his lamenting off spring deplored! The leg end in the island afterward found to be that this pattern of manly virtue had been so entirely given over to bad living and lusts of the flesh that an evil spirit, ieal- ous that the earth should keep it's brother from it. had visibly presented itself and carried off the .smost excellent of men" to darker world, and that beneath the magnifcence of stone and the vain glory of quarterings and shields there lay only an empty coffin.
 Another tablet, much more modern, us- ed to take my attention too-"Sacred to the memory of Mrs. Hannah Thorrold, who died. at the age of S9, in the parish. D Then followed list of virtues-in Eng fish this time-in the midst of which, and in very large letters, appeared the an- nouncement that she was ''co-heiress of the late Rogers Thorrold, of the city of London. merchant" and the whole wound up with the information that the monu- ment had been erected by her sorrowing nephews and nieces--a finale that, very improperly perhaps, struck me as inex- pressibly droll.
 After mary hours spent in the church and church yard one evening, I stopped before grave I had not noticed before. It was good deal away from the rest-at least there were. two graves, but the head stone jolned them together, and on it was told how ''John Hepburn lay beneath 1850; and how by his side lay buried his wife, Rhoda, also their infant daughter, which two had died on the 9th day of July, 1850. The mans age was thirty, his wife's twenty-oue. and the babys only three short months.
 'How youngi" I said to myself, half aloud; 'and how very sadi"
 "Ay sadder than you'd think, too, said 8 voice beside me; and turning, saw an old man who I had noticed on other evenings lingering about the church-yard I He was dressed after the fashion of all the Brightland people, and would have look ed very giant among fishermen had his figure not been bent and crippled with rheumatism.
 He stated at me with eyes that I fanc- jed had wistful look in them.
 That look, and the quick glance back at the head-stone, prompted my question: Can you tell me anything about them?'
 What do you want to know aught about them for?" be answered; and I felt taken aback, he looked so suddenly sus- picious of me.
 "Only because they seem to have been so young. l am quite a stranger here, and thought perhaps some great alamity or accident had overtaken the family. | had no other reason in asking"
 "Na," said the man, s'tweren't no call amity, as you call it; twerc just Provi- denoeas overlook 'em-a Providence" he reltrated, with some yehemence; ''and talnt no use a.ginin' on ir no other name ''