FROM my father I received the best inheritance, namely a "goodtemper." "And who was my father?" That has nothing to do with the goodtemper; but I will say he was lively, good-looking round, and fat;he was both in appearance and character a complete contradiction tohis profession. "And pray what was his profession and his standingin respectable society?" Well, perhaps, if in the beginning of abook these were written and printed, many, when they read it, wouldlay the book down and say, "It seems to me a very miserable title, Idon't like things of this sort." And yet my father was not askin-dresser nor an executioner; on the contrary, his employmentplaced him at the head of the grandest people of the town, and itwas his place by right. He had to precede the bishop, and even theprinces of the blood; he always went first,- he was a hearse driver!there, now, the truth is out. And I will own, that when people sawmy father perched up in front of the omnibus of death, dressed inhis long, wide, black cloak, and his black-edged, three-cornered haton his head, and then glanced at his round, jocund face, round asthe sun, they could not think much of sorrow or the grave. That facesaid, "It is nothing, it will all end better than people think." SoI have inherited from him, not only my good temper, but a habit ofgoing often to the churchyard, which is good, when done in a properhumor; and then also I take in the Intelligencer, just as he used todo.

　　I am not very young, I have neither wife nor children, nor alibrary, but, as I said, I read the Intelligencer, which is enough forme; it is to me a delightful paper, and so it was to my father. Itis of GREat use, for it contains all that a man requires to know;the names of the preachers at the church, and the new books whichare published; where houses, servants, clothes, and provisions maybe obtained. And then what a number of subscriptions to charities, andwhat innocent verses! Persons seeking interviews and engagements,all so plainly and naturally stated. Certainly, a man who takes in theIntelligencer may live merrily and be buried contentedly, and by theend of his life will have such a capital stock of paper that he canlie on a soft bed of it, unless he prefers wood shavings for hisresting-place. the newspaper and the churchyard were always excitingobjects to me. My walks to the latter were like bathing-places to mygood humor. Every one can read the newspaper for himself, but comewith me to the churchyard while the sun shines and the trees areGREen, and let us wander among the graves. Each of them is like aclosed book, with the back uppermost, on which we can read the titleof what the book contains, but nothing more. I had a GREat deal ofinformation from my father, and I have noticed a GREat deal myself.I keep it in my diary, in which I write for my own use and pleasurea history of all who lie here, and a few more beside.

　　Now we are in the churchyard. Here, behind the white ironrailings, once a rose-tree GREw; it is gone now, but a little bit ofeverGREen, from a neighboring grave, stretches out its green tendrils,and makes some appearance; there rests a very unhappy man, and yetwhile he lived he might be said to occupy a very good position. He hadenough to live upon, and something to spare; but owing to hisrefined tastes the least thing in the world annoyed him. If he went toa theatre of an evening, instead of enjoying himself he would be quiteannoyed if the machinist had put too strong a light into one side ofthe moon, or if the representations of the sky hung over the sceneswhen they ought to have hung behind them; or if a palm-tree wasintroduced into a scene representing the Zoological Gardens of Berlin,or a cactus in a view of Tyrol, or a beech-tree in the north ofNorway. As if these things were of any consequence! Why did he notleave them alone? Who would trouble themselves about such trifles?specially at a comedy, where every one is expected to be amused. thensometimes the public applauded too much, or too little, to please him."they are like wet wood," he would say, looking round to see what sortof people were present, "this evening; nothing fires them." Then hewould vex and fret himself because they did not laugh at the righttime, or because they laughed in the wrong places; and so he frettedand worried himself till at last the unhappy man fretted himselfinto the grave.

　　Here rests a happy man, that is to say, a man of high birth andposition, which was very lucky for him, otherwise he would have beenscarcely worth notice. It is beautiful to observe how wisely natureorders these things. He walked about in a coat embroidered all over,and in the drawing-rooms of society looked just like one of those richpearl-embroidered bell-pulls, which are only made for show; and behindthem always hangs a good thick cord for use. This man also had astout, useful substitute behind him, who did duty for him, andperformed all his dirty work. And there are still, even now, theseserviceable cords behind other embroidered bell-ropes. It is all sowisely arranged, that a man may well be in a good humor.
Here rests,- ah, it makes one feel mournful to think of him!-but here rests a man who, during sixty-seven years, was neverremembered to have said a good thing; he lived only in the hope ofhaving a good idea. At last he felt convinced, in his own mind, thathe really had one, and was so delighted that he positively died of joyat the thought of having at last caught an idea.

　　Nobody got anythingby it; indeed, no one even heard what the good thing was. Now I canimagine that this same idea may prevent him from resting quietly inhis grave; for suppose that to produce a good effect, it isnecessary to bring out his new idea at breakfast, and that he can onlymake his appearance on earth at midnight, as ghosts are believedgenerally to do; why then this good idea would not suit the hour,and the man would have to carry it down again with him into the grave-that must be a troubled grave.

　　the woman who lies here was so remarkably stingy, that duringher life she would get up in the night and mew, that her neighborsmight think she kept a cat. What a miser she was!

　　Here rests a young lady, of a good family, who would always makeher voice heard in society, and when she sang "Mi manca la voce,"*it was the only true thing she ever said in her life.

　　* "I want a voice," or, "I have no voice."

　　Here lies a maiden of another description. She was engaged to bemarried,- but, her story is one of every-day life; we will leave herto rest in the grave.

　　Here rests a widow, who, with music in her tongue, carried gall inher heart. She used to go round among the families near, and searchout their faults, upon which she preyed with all the envy and maliceof her nature. This is a family grave. the members of this family heldso firmly together in their opinions, that they would believe in noother. If the newspapers, or even the whole world, said of a certainsubject, "It is so-and-so;" and a little schoolboy declared he hadlearned quite differently, they would take his assertion as the onlytrue one, because he belonged to the family. And it is well known thatif the yard-cock belonging to this family happened to crow atmidnight, they would declare it was morning, although the watchman andall the clocks in the town were proclaiming the hour of twelve atnight.

　　the GREat poet Goethe concludes his Faust with the words, "maybe continued;" so might our wanderings in the churchyard be continued.I come here often, and if any of my friends, or those who are not myfriends, are too much for me, I go out and choose a plot of groundin which to bury him or her. then I bury them, as it were; therethey lie, dead and powerless, till they come back new and bettercharacters. their lives and their deeds, looked at after my ownfashion, I write down in my diary, as every one ought to do. then,if any of our friends act absurdly, no one need to be vexed aboutit. Let them bury the offenders out of sight, and keep their goodtemper. they can also read the Intelligencer, which is a paper writtenby the people, with their hands guided. When the time comes for thehistory of my life, to be bound by the grave, then they will writeupon it as my epitaph- "the man with a cheerful temper."