FRIENDS AND NEIGHBOURS;

OR, Two Ways of Living in the World. 

EDITED BY T. S. ARTHUR. 

PHILADELPHIA:

1856

PREFACE. 

WE were about preparing a few words of introduction to this volume, the materials for which have been culled from the highways andbyways of literature, where our eyes fell upon these fittingsentiments, the authorship of which we are unable to give. Theyexpress clearly and beautifully what was in our own mind:--

"If we would only bring ourselves to look at the subjects thatsurround as in their true flight, we should see beauty where nowappears deformity, and listen to harmony where we hear nothing butdiscord. To be sure there is a great deal of vexation and anxiety inthe world; we cannot sail upon a summer sea for ever; yet if wepreserve a calm eye and a steady hand, we can so trim our sails andmanage our helm, as to avoid the quicksands, and weather the stormsthat threaten shipwreck. We are members of one great family; we aretravelling the same road, and shall arrive at the same goal. Webreathe the same air, are subject to the same bounty, and we shall, each lie down upon the bosom of our common mother. It is notbecoming, then, that brother should hate brother; it is not properthat friend should deceive friend; it is not right that neighbourshould deceive neighbour. We pity that man who can harbour enmityagainst his fellow; he loses half the enjoyment of life; heembitters his own existence. Let us tear from our eyes the colouredmedium that invests every object with the green hue of jealousy andsuspicion; turn, a deal ear to scandal; breathe the spirit ofcharity from our hearts; let the rich gushings of human kindnessswell up as a fountain, so that the golden age will become nofiction and islands of the blessed bloom in more than Hyperianbeauty. "

It is thus that friends and neighbours should live. This is theright way. To aid in the creation of such true harmony among men, has the book now in your hand, reader, been compiled. May the truthsthat glisten on its pages be clearly reflected in your mind; and theerrors it points out be shunned as the foes of yourself andhumanity. 

CONTENTS. 

GOOD IN ALLHUMAN PROGRESSMY WASHERWOMANFORGIVE AND FORGETOWE NO MAN ANYTHINGRETURNING GOOD FOR EVILPUTTING YOUR HAND IN YOUR NEIGHBOUR'S POCKETKIND WORDSNEIGHBOURS' QUARRELSGOOD WE MIGHT DOTHE TOWN LOTTHE SUNBEAM AND THE RAINDROPA PLEA FOR SOFT WORDSMR. QUERY'S INVESTIGATIONSROOM IN THE WORLDWORDSTHE THANKLESS OFFICE. LOVE"EVERY LITTLE HELPS"LITTLE THINGSCARELESS WORDSHOW TO BE HAPPYCHARITY--ITS OBJECTSTHE VISION OF BOATSREGULATION OF THE TEMPERMANLY GENTLENESSSILENT INFLUENCEANTIDOTE FOR MELANCHOLYTHE SORROWS OF A WEALTHY CITIZEN"WE'VE ALL OUR ANGEL SIDE"BLIND JAMESDEPENDENCETWO RIDES WITH THE DOCTORKEEP IN STEPJOHNNY COLETHE THIEF AND HIS BENEFACTORJOHN AND MARGARET GREYLSTONTHE WORLD WOULD BE THE BETTER FOR ITTWO SIDES TO A STORYLITTLE KINDNESSESLEAVING OFF CONTENTION BEFORE IT BE MEDDLED WITH"ALL THE DAY IDLE"THE BUSHEL OF CORNTHE ACCOUNTCONTENTMENT BETTER THAN WEALTHRAINBOWS EVERYWHERE

FRIENDS AND NEIGHBOURS. 

GOOD IN ALL. 

THERE IS GOOD IN ALL. Yes! we all believe it: not a man in the depthof his vanity but will yield assent. But do you not all, inpractice, daily, hourly deny it? A beggar passes you in the street:dirty, ragged, importunate. "Ah! he has a _bad_ look, " and yourpocket is safe. He starves--and he steals. "I thought he was _bad_. "You educate him in the State Prison. He does not improve even inthis excellent school. "He is, " says the gaoler, "thoroughly _bad_. "He continues his course of crime. All that is bad in him having bythis time been made apparent to himself, his friends, and the world, he has only to confirm the decision, and at length we hear when hehas reached his last step. "Ah! no wonder--there was never any_Good_ in him. Hang him!"

Now much, if not all this, may be checked by a word. 

If you believe in Good, _always appeal to it. _ Be sure whateverthere is of Good--is of God. There is never an utter want ofresemblance to the common Father. "God made man in His own image. ""What! yon reeling, blaspheming creature; yon heartless cynic; yoncrafty trader; yon false statesman?" Yes! All. In every nature thereis a germ of eternal happiness, of undying Good. In the drunkard'sheart there is a memory of something better--slight, dim: butflickering still; why should you not by the warmth of your charity, give growth to the Good that is in him? The cynic, the miser, is notall self. There is a note in that sullen instrument to make allharmony yet; but it wants a patient and gentle master to touch thestrings. 

You point to the words "There is _none_ good. " The truths do notoppose each other. "There is none good--_save one. _" And He breathesin all. In our earthliness, our fleshly will, our moral grasp, weare helpless, mean, vile. But there is a lamp ever burning in theheart: a guide to the source of Light, or an instrument of torture. We can make it either. If it burn in an atmosphere of purity, itwill warm, guide, cheer us. If in the midst of selfishness, or underthe pressure of pride, its flame will be unsteady, and we shall soonhave good reason to trim our light, and find new oil for it. 

There is Good in All--the impress of the Deity. He who believes notin the image of God in man, is an infidel to himself and his race. There is no difficulty about discovering it. You have only to appealto it. Seek in every one the _best_ features: mark, encourage, educate _them. _ There is no man to whom some circumstance will notbe an argument. 

And how glorious in practice, this faith! How easy, henceforth, allthe labours of our law-makers, and how delightful, how practical thetheories of our philanthropists! To educate the _Good_--the good in_All_: to raise every man in his own opinion, and yet to stifle allarrogance, by showing that all possess this Good. _In_ themselves, but not _of_ themselves. Had we but faith in this truth, how soonshould we all be digging through the darkness, for this Gold ofLove--this universal Good. A Howard, and a Fry, cleansed andhumanized our prisons, to find this Good; and in the chambers of allour hearts it is to be found, by labouring eyes and loving hands. 

Why all our harsh enactments? Is it from experience of the strengthof vice in ourselves that we cage, chain, torture, and hang men? Arenone of us indebted to friendly hands, careful advisers; to thegenerous, trusting guidance, solace, of some gentler being, who hasloved us, despite the evil that is in _us_--for our little Good, andhas nurtured that Good with smiles and tears and prayers? O, we knownot how like we are to those whom we despise! We know not how manymemories of kith and kin the murderer carries to the gallows--howmuch honesty of heart the felon drags with him to the hulks. 

There is Good in All. Dodd, the forger, was a better man than mostof us: Eugene Aram, the homicide, would turn his foot from a worm. Do not mistake us. Society demands, requires that these madmenshould be rendered harmless. There is no nature dead to all Good. Lady Macbeth would have slain the old king, Had he not resembled herfather as he slept. 

It is a frequent thought, but a careless and worthless one, becausenever acted on, that the same energies, the same will to greatvices, had given force to great virtues. Do we provide theopportunity? Do we _believe_ in Good? If we are ourselves deceivedin any one, is not all, thenceforth, deceit? if treated withcontempt, is not the whole world clouded with scorn? if visited withmeanness, are not all selfish? And if from one of our frailerfellow-creatures we receive the blow, we cease to believe in women. Not the breast at which we have drank life--not the sisterly handsthat have guided ours--not the one voice that has so often soothedus in our darker hours, will save the sex: All are massed in onecommon sentence: all bad. There may be Delilahs: there are manyRuths. We should not lightly give them up. Napoleon lost France whenhe lost Josephine. The one light in Rembrandt's gloomy life was hissister. 

And all are to be approached at some point. The proudest bends tosome feeling--Coriolanus conquered Rome: but the husband conqueredthe hero. The money-maker has influences beyond his gold--Reynoldsmade an exhibition of his carriage, but he was generous toNorthcote, and had time to think of the poor Plymptonschoolmistress. The cold are not all ice. Elizabeth slew Essex--thequeen triumphed; the woman _died. _

There is Good in All. Let us show our faith in it. When the lazywhine of the mendicant jars on your ears, think of his unaided, unschooled childhood; think that his lean cheeks never knew thebaby-roundness of content that ours have worn; that his eye knew noyouth of fire--no manhood of expectancy. Pity, help, teach him. Whenyou see the trader, without any pride of vocation, seeking how hecan best cheat you, and degrade himself, glance into the room behindhis shop and see there his pale wife and his thin children, andthink how cheerfully he meets that circle in the only hour he hasout of the twenty-four. Pity his narrowness of mind; his want ofreliance upon the God of Good; but remember there have beenGreshams, and Heriots, and Whittingtons; and remember, too, that inour happy land there are thousands of almshouses, built by the menof trade alone. And when you are discontented with the great, andmurmur, repiningly, of Marvel in his garret, or Milton in hishiding-place, turn in justice to the Good among the great. Read howJohn of Lancaster loved Chaucer and sheltered Wicliff. There havebeen Burkes as well as Walpoles. Russell remembered Banim's widow, and Peel forgot not Haydn. 

Once more: believe that in every class there is Good; in every man, Good. That in the highest and most tempted, as well as in thelowest, there is often a higher nobility than of rank. Pericles andAlexander had great, but different virtues, and although therefinement of the one may have resulted in effeminacy, and thehardihood of the other in brutality, we ought to pause ere wecondemn where we should all have fallen. 

Look only for the Good. It will make you welcome everywhere, andeverywhere it will make you an instrument to good. The lantern ofDiogenes is a poor guide when compared with the Light God hath setin the heavens; a Light which shines into the solitary cottage andthe squalid alley, where the children of many vices are hourlyexchanging deeds of kindness; a Light shining into the rooms ofdingy warehousemen and thrifty clerks, whose hard labour and hoardedcoins are for wife and child and friend; shining into prison andworkhouse, where sin and sorrow glimmer with sad eyes through rustybars into distant homes and mourning hearths; shining through heavycurtains, and round sumptuous tables, where the heart throbs audiblythrough velvet mantle and silken vest, and where eye meets eye withaffection and sympathy; shining everywhere upon God's creatures, andwith its broad beams lighting up a virtue wherever it falls, andtelling the proud, the wronged, the merciless, or the despairing, that there is "Good in All. "

HUMAN PROGRESS. 

WE are told to look through nature Upward unto Nature's God;We are told there is a scripture Written on the meanest sod;That the simplest flower created Is a key to hidden things;But, immortal over nature, Mind, the lord of nature, springs!

Through _Humanity_ look upward, -- Alter ye the olden plan, --Look through man to the Creator, Maker, Father, God of Man!Shall imperishable spirit Yield to perishable clay?No! sublime o'er Alpine mountains Soars the Mind its heavenward way!

Deeper than the vast Atlantic Rolls the tide of human thought;Farther speeds that mental ocean Than the world of waves o'er sought!Mind, sublime in its own essence Its sublimity can lendTo the rocks, and mounts, and torrents, And, at will, their features bend!

Some within the humblest _floweret_ "Thoughts too deep for tears" can see;Oh, the humblest man existing Is a sadder theme to me!Thus I take the mightier labour Of the great Almighty hand;And, through man to the Creator, Upward look, and weeping stand. 

Thus I take the mightier labour, --Crowning glory of _His_ will;And believe that in the meanest Lives a spark of Godhead still:Something that, by Truth expanded, Might be fostered into worth;Something struggling through the darkness, Owning an immortal birth!

From the Genesis of being Unto this imperfect day, Hath Humanity held onward, Praying God to aid its way!And Man's progress had been swifter, Had he never turned aside, To the worship of a symbol, Not the spirit signified!

And Man's progress had been higher, Had he owned his brother man, Left his narrow, selfish circle, For a world-embracing plan!There are some for ever craving, Ever discontent with place, In the eternal would find briefness, In the infinite want space. 

If through man unto his Maker We the source of truth would find, It must be through man enlightened, Educated, raised, refined:That which the Divine hath fashioned Ignorance hath oft effaced;Never may we see God's image In man darkened--man debased!

Something yield to Recreation, Something to Improvement give;There's a Spiritual kingdom Where the Spirit hopes to live!There's a mental world of grandeur, Which the mind inspires to know;Founts of everlasting beauty That, for those who seek them, flow!

Shores where Genius breathes immortal-- Where the very winds conveyGlorious thoughts of Education, Holding universal sway!Glorious hopes of Human Freedom, Freedom of the noblest kind;That which springs from Cultivation, Cheers and elevates the mind!

Let us hope for Better Prospects, Strong to struggle for the night, We appeal to Truth, and ever Truth's omnipotent in might;Hasten, then, the People's Progress, Ere their last faint hope be gone;Teach the Nations that their interest And the People's good, ARE ONE. 

MY WASHERWOMAN. 

SOME people have a singular reluctance to part with money. If waitedon for a bill, they say, almost involuntarily, "Call to-morrow, "even though their pockets are far from being empty. 

I once fell into this bad habit myself; but a little incident, whichI will relate, cured me. Not many years after I had attained mymajority, a poor widow, named Blake, did my washing and ironing. Shewas the mother of two or three little children, whose soledependence for food and raiment was on the labour of her hands. 

Punctually, every Thursday morning, Mrs. Blake appeared with myclothes, "white as the driven snow;" but not always, as punctually, did I pay the pittance she had earned by hard labour. 

"Mrs. Blake is down stairs, " said a servant, tapping at my room-doorone morning, while I was in the act of dressing myself. 

"Oh, very well, " I replied. "Tell her to leave my clothes. I willget them when I come down. "

The thought of paying the seventy-five cents, her due, crossed mymind. But I said to myself, --"It's but a small matter, and will doas well when she comes again. "

There was in this a certain reluctance to part with money. My fundswere low, and I might need what change I had during the day. And soit proved. As I went to the office in which I was engaged, somesmall article of ornament caught my eye in a shop window. 

"Beautiful!" said I, as I stood looking at it. Admiration quicklychanged into the desire for possession; and so I stepped in to askthe price. It was just two dollars. 

"Cheap enough, " thought I. And this very cheapness was a furthertemptation. 

So I turned out the contents of my pockets, counted them over, andfound the amount to be two dollars and a quarter. 

"I guess I'll take it, " said I, laying the money on the shopkeeper'scounter. 

"I'd better have paid Mrs. Blake. " This thought crossed my mind, anhour afterwards, by which time the little ornament had lost itspower of pleasing. "So much would at least have been saved. "

I was leaving the table, after tea, on the evening that followed, when the waiter said to me, "Mrs. Blake is at the door, and wishes to see you. "

I felt a little worried at hearing this; for I had no change in mypockets, and the poor washerwoman had, of course, come for hermoney. 

"She's in a great hurry, " I muttered to myself, as I descended tothe door. 

"You'll have to wait until you bring home my clothes next week, Mrs. Blake. I haven't any change, this evening. "

The expression of the poor woman's face, as she turned slowly away, without speaking, rather softened my feelings. 

"I'm sorry, " said I, "but it can't be helped now. I wish you hadsaid, this morning, that you wanted money. I could have paid youthen. "

She paused, and turned partly towards me, as I said this. Then shemoved off, with something so sad in her manner, that I was touchedsensibly. 

"I ought to have paid her this morning, when I had the change aboutme. And I wish I had done so. Why didn't she ask for her money, ifshe wanted it so badly?"

I felt, of course, rather ill at ease. A little while afterwards Imet the lady with whom I was boarding. 

"Do you know anything about this Mrs. Blake, who washes for me?" Iinquired. 

"Not much; except that she is very poor, and has three children tofeed and clothe. And what is worst of all, she is in bad health. Ithink she told me, this morning, that one of her little ones wasvery sick. "

I was smitten with a feeling of self-condemnation, and soon afterleft the room. It was too late to remedy the evil, for I had only asixpence in my pocket; and, moreover, did not know where to findMrs. Blake. 

Having purposed to make a call upon some young ladies that evening, I now went up into my room to dress. Upon my bed lay the spotlesslinen brought home by Mrs. Blake in the morning. The sight of itrebuked me; and I had to conquer, with some force, an instinctivereluctance, before I could compel myself to put on a clean shirt, and snow-white vest, too recently from the hand of my unpaidwasherwoman. 

One of the young ladies upon whom I called was more to me than amere pleasant acquaintance. My heart had, in fact, been warmingtowards her for some time; and I was particularly anxious to findfavour in her eyes. On this evening she was lovelier and moreattractive than ever, and new bonds of affection entwined themselvesaround my heart. 

Judge, then, of the effect produced upon me by the entrance of hermother--at the very moment when my heart was all a-glow with love, who said, as she came in--

"Oh, dear! This is a strange world!"

"What new feature have you discovered now, mother?" asked one of herdaughters, smiling. 

"No new one, child; but an old one that looks more repulsive thanever, " was replied. "Poor Mrs. Blake came to see me just now, ingreat trouble. "

"What about, mother?" All the young ladies at once manifestedunusual interest. 

Tell-tale blushes came instantly to my countenance, upon which theeyes of the mother turned themselves, as I felt, with a severescrutiny. 

"The old story, in cases like hers, " was answered. "Can't get hermoney when earned, although for daily bread she is dependent on herdaily labour. With no food in the house, or money to buy medicinefor her sick child, she was compelled to seek me to-night, and tohumble her spirit, which is an independent one, so low as to askbread for her little ones, and the loan of a pittance with which toget what the doctor has ordered her feeble sufferer at home. "

"Oh, what a shame!" fell from the lips of Ellen, the one in whom myheart felt more than a passing interest; and she looked at meearnestly as she spoke. 

"She fully expected, " said the mother, "to get a trifle that was dueher from a young man who boards with Mrs. Corwin; and she went tosee him this evening. But he put her off with some excuse. Howstrange that any one should be so thoughtless as to withhold fromthe poor their hard-earned pittance! It is but a small sum at best, that the toiling seamstress or washerwoman can gain by her wearyinglabour. That, at least, should be promptly paid. To withhold it anhour is to do, in many cases, a great wrong. "

For some minutes after this was said, there ensued a dead silence. Ifelt that the thoughts of all were turned upon me as the one who hadwithheld from poor Mrs. Blake the trifling sum due her for washing. What my feelings were, it is impossible for me to describe; anddifficult for any one, never himself placed in so unpleasant aposition, to imagine. 

My relief was great when the conversation flowed on again, and inanother channel; for I then perceived that suspicion did not restupon me. You may be sure that Mrs. Blake had her money before teno'clock on the next day, and that I never again fell into the errorof neglecting, for a single week, my poor washerwoman. 

FORGIVE AND FORGET. 

THERE'S a secret in living, if folks only knew;An Alchymy precious, and golden, and true, More precious than "gold dust, " though pure and refined, For its mint is the heart, and its storehouse the mind;Do you guess what I mean--for as true as I liveThat dear little secret's--forget and forgive!

When hearts that have loved have grown cold and estranged, And looks that beamed fondness are clouded and changed, And words hotly spoken and grieved for with tearsHave broken the trust and the friendship of years--Oh! think 'mid thy pride and thy secret regret, The balm for the wound is--forgive and forget!

Yes! look in thy spirit, for love may returnAnd kindle the embers that still feebly burn;And let this true whisper breathe high in thy heart, _'Tis better to love than thus suffer apart_--

Let the Past teach the Future more wisely than yet, For the friendship that's true can forgive and forget. 

And now, an adieu! if you list to my layMay each in your thoughts bear my motto away, 'Tis a crude, simple ryhme, but its truth may impartA joy to the gentle and loving of heart;And an end I would claim far more practical yetIn behalf of the Rhymer--_forgive and forget!_

OWE NO MAN ANYTHING. 

THUS says an Apostle; and if those who are able to "owe no mananything" would fully observe this divine obligation, many, verymany, whom their want of punctuality now compels to live inviolation of this precept, would then faithfully and promptly renderto every one their just dues. 

"What is the matter with you, George?" said Mrs. Allison to herhusband, as he paced the floor of their little sitting-room, with ananxious, troubled expression of countenance. 

"Oh! nothing of much consequence: only a little worry of business, "replied Mr. Allison. 

"But I know better than that, George. I know it is of consequence;you are not apt to have such a long face for nothing. Come, tell mewhat it is that troubles you. Have I not a right to share yourgriefs as well as your joys?"

"Indeed, Ellen, it is nothing but business, I assure you; and as Iam not blessed with the most even temper in the world, it does nottake much you know to upset me: but you heard me speak of that job Iwas building for Hillman?"

"Yes. I think you said it was to be five hundred dollars, did younot?"

"I did; and it was to have been cash as soon as done. Well, he tookit out two weeks ago; one week sooner than I promised it. I sent thebill with it, expecting, of course, he would send me a check for theamount; but I was disappointed. Having heard nothing from him since, I thought I would call on him this morning, when, to my surprise, Iwas told he had gone travelling with his wife and daughter, andwould not be back for six weeks or two months. I can't tell you howI felt when I was told this. "

"He is safe enough for it I suppose, isn't he, George?"

"Oh, yes; he is supposed to be worth about three hundred thousand. But what good is that to me? I was looking over my books thisafternoon, and, including this five hundred, there is just fifteenhundred dollars due me now, that I ought to have, but can't get it. To a man doing a large business it would not be much; but to onewith my limited means, it is a good deal. And this is all in thehands of five individuals, any one of whom could pay immediately, and feel not the least inconvenience from it. "

"Are you much pressed for money just now, George?"

"I have a note in bank of three hundred, which falls due to-morrow, and one of two hundred and fifty on Saturday. Twenty-five dollars atleast will be required to pay off my hands; and besides this, ourquarter's rent is due on Monday, and my shop rent next Wednesday. Then there are other little bills I wanted to settle, our own wantsto be supplied, &c. "

"Why don't you call on those persons you spoke of; perhaps theywould pay you?"

"I have sent their bills in, but if I call on them so soon I mightperhaps affront them, and cause them to take their work away; andthat I don't want to do. However, I think I shall have to do it, letthe consequence be what it may. "

"Perhaps you could borrow what you need, George, for a few days. "

"I suppose I could; but see the inconvenience and trouble it puts meto. I was so certain of getting Hillman's money to meet these twonotes, that I failed to make any other provision. "

"That would not have been enough of itself. "

"No, but I have a hundred on hand; the two together would have paidthem, and left enough for my workmen too. "

As early as practicable the next morning Mr. Allison started forthto raise the amount necessary to carry him safely through the week. He thought it better to try to collect some of the amounts owing tohim than to borrow. He first called on a wealthy merchant, whoseannual income was something near five thousand. 

"Good morning, Mr. Allison, " said he, as that individual entered hiscounting-room. "I suppose you want some money. "

"I should like a little, Mr. Chapin, if you please. "

"Well, I intended coming down to see you, but I have been so busythat I have not been able. That carriage of mine which you did up afew weeks ago does not suit me altogether. "

"What is the matter with it?"

"I don't like the style of trimming, for one thing; it has a commonlook to me. "

"It is precisely what Mrs. Chapin ordered. You told me to suit her. "

"Yes, but did she not tell you to trim it like General Spangler's?"

"I am very much mistaken, Mr. Chapin, if it is not precisely likehis. "

"Oh! no; his has a much richer look than mine. "

"The style of trimming is just the same, Mr. Chapin; but youcertainly did not suppose that a carriage trimmed with worsted lace, would look as well as one trimmed with silk lace?"

"No, of course not; but there are some other little things about itthat don't suit me. I will send my man down with it to-day, and hewill show you what they are. I would like to have it to-morrowafternoon, to take my family out in. Call up on Monday, and we willhave a settlement. "

Mr. Allison next called at the office of a young lawyer, who hadlately come into possession of an estate valued at one hundredthousand dollars. Mr. Allison's bill was three hundred dollars, which his young friend assured him he would settle immediately, onlythat there was a slight error in the way it was made out, and nothaving the bill with him, he could not now correct it. 

He would call on Mr. Allison with it, sometime during the next week, and settle it. 

A Custom-House gentleman was next sought, but his time had been somuch taken up with his official duties, that he had not yet beenable to examine the bill. He had no doubt but it was all correct;still, as he was not accustomed to doing business in a loose way, hemust claim Mr. Allison's indulgence a few days longer. 

Almost disheartened, Mr. Allison entered the store of the lastindividual who was indebted to him for any considerable amount, notdaring to hope that he would be any more successful with him thanwith the others he had called on. But he was successful; the bill, which amounted to near one hundred and fifty dollars, was promptlypaid, Mr. Allison's pocket, in consequence, that much heavier, andhis heart that much lighter. Fifty dollars was yet lacking of thesum requisite for that day. After calling on two or threeindividuals, this amount was obtained, with the promise of beingreturned by the middle of the next week. 

"I shall have hard work to get through to-day, I know, " said he tohimself, as he sat at his desk on the following morning. 

"Two hundred and fifty dollars to be raised by borrowing. I don'tknow where I can get it. "

To many this would be a small sum, but Mr. Allison was peculiarlysituated. He was an honest, upright mechanic, but he was poor. Itwas with difficulty he had raised the fifty dollars on the dayprevious. Although he had never once failed in returning money atthe time promised, still, for some reason or other, everybodyappeared unwilling to lend him. It was nearly two O'clock and he wasstill a hundred dollars short. 

"Well, " said he to himself, "I have done all I could, and if Hallwon't renew the note for the balance, it will have to be protested. I'll go and ask him, though I have not much hope that he will doit. "

As he was about leaving his shop for that purpose, a gentlemanentered who wished to buy a second-hand carriage. Mr. Allison hadbut one, and that almost new, for which he asked a hundred and fortydollars. 

"It is higher than I wished to go, " remarked the gentleman. "I oughtto get a new one for that price. "

"So you can, but not like this. I can sell you a new one for ahundred and twenty-five dollars. But what did you expect to pay forone?"

"I was offered one at Holton's for seventy-five; but I did not likeit. I will give you a hundred for yours. "

"It is too little, indeed, sir: that carriage cost three hundreddollars when it was new. It was in use a very short time. I alloweda hundred and forty dollars for it myself. "

"Well, sir, I would not wish you to sell at a disadvantage, but ifyou like to, accept of my offer I'll take it. I'm prepared to paythe cash down. "

Mr. Allison did not reply for some minutes. He was undecided as towhat was best. 

"Forty dollars, " said he to himself, "is a pretty heavy discount. Iam almost tempted to refuse his offer and trust to Hall's renewingthe note. But suppose he won't--then I'm done for. I think, upon thewhole, I had better accept it. I'll put it at one hundred andtwenty-five, my good friend, " said he, addressing the customer. 

"No, sir; one hundred is all I shall give. "

"Well, I suppose you must have it, then; but indeed you have got abargain. "

"It is too bad, " muttered Allison to himself, as he left the bankafter having paid his note. "There is just forty dollars thrownaway. And why? Simply because those who are blessed with the meansof discharging their debts promptly, neglect to do so. "

"How did you make out to-day, George?" asked his wife, as they satat the tea-table that same evening. 

"I met my note, and that was all. "

"Did you give your men anything?"

"Not a cent. I had but one dollar left after paying that. I wassorry for them, but I could not help them. I am afraid Robinson'sfamily will suffer, for there has been sickness in his house almostconstantly for the last twelvemonth. His wife, he told me the otherday, had not been out; of her bed for six weeks. Poor fellow! Helooked quite dejected when I told him I had nothing for him. "

At this moment; the door-bell rang and a minute or two afterwards, ayoung girl entered the room in which Mr. And Mrs. Allison weresitting. Before introducing her to our readers, we will conduct themto the interior of an obscure dwelling, situated near the outskirtsof the city. The room is small, and scantily furnished, and answersat once for parlour, dining-room, and kitchen. Its occupants, Mrs. Perry and her daughter, have been, since the earliest dawn of day, intently occupied with their needles, barely allowing themselvestime to partake of their frugal meal. 

"Half-past three o'clock!" ejaculated the daughter, her eyesglancing, as she spoke, at the clock on the mantelpiece. "I amafraid we shall not get this work done in time for me to take ithome before dark, mother. "

"We must try hard, Laura, for you know we have not a cent in thehouse, and I told Mrs. Carr to come over to-night, and I would payher what I owe her for washing. Poor thing! I would not like todisappoint her, for I know she needs it. "

Nothing more was said for near twenty minutes, when Laura againbroke the silence. 

"Oh, dear!" she exclaimed, "what a pain I have in my side!" And fora moment she rested from her work, and straightened herself in herchair, to afford a slight relief from the uneasiness sheexperienced. "I wonder, mother, if I shall always be obliged to sitso steady?"

"I hope not, my child; but bad as our situation is, there arehundreds worse off than we. Take Annie Carr, for instance--how wouldyou like to exchange places with her?"

"Poor Annie! I was thinking of her awhile go, mother. How hard itmust be for one so young to be so afflicted as she is!"

"And yet, Laura, she never complains; although for five years shehas never left her bed, and has often suffered, I know, for want ofproper nourishment. "

"I don't think she will suffer much longer, mother. I stopped in tosee her the other day, and I was astonished at the change which hadtaken place in a short time. Her conversation, too, seems soheavenly, her faith in the Lord so strong, that I could not avoidcoming to the conclusion that a few days more, at the most, wouldterminate her wearisome life. "

"It will be a happy release for her, indeed, my daughter. Still, itwill be a sore trial for her mother. "

It was near six when Mrs. Perry and her daughter finished the workupon which they were engaged. 

"Now Laura, dear, " said the mother, "get back as soon as you can, for I don't like you to be out after night, and more than that, ifMrs. Carr comes, she won't want to wait. "

About twenty minutes after the young girl had gone, Mrs. Carrcalled. "Pray, be seated, my dear friend, " said Mrs. Perry, "mydaughter has just gone to Mrs. Allison's with some work, and as soonas she returns I can pay you. "

"I think I had better call over again, Mrs. Perry, " answered thepoor woman; "Mary begged me not to stay long. "

"Is Annie any worse, then?"

"Oh, yes, a great deal; the doctor thinks she will hardly last tillmorning. "

"Well, Mrs. Carr, death can be only gain to her. "

"Very true; still, the idea of losing her seems dreadful to me. "

"How does Mary get on at Mrs. Owring's?"

"Not very well; she has been at work for her just one month to-day;and although she gave her to understand that her wages would be atleast a dollar and a quarter a week, yet to-night, when she settledwith her, she wouldn't give her but three dollars, and at the sametime told her that if she didn't choose to work for that she couldgo. "

"What do you suppose was the reason for her acting so?"

"I don't know, indeed, unless it is because she does not get therequite as early as the rest of her hands; for you see I am obliged tokeep her a little while in the morning to help me to move Anniewhile I make her bed. Even that little sum, small it was, would havebeen some help to us, but it had all to go for rent. My landlordwould take no denial. But I must go; you think I can depend onreceiving your money to-night?"

"I do. Mrs. Allison is always prompt in paying for her work as soonas it is done. I will not trouble you to come again for it, Mrs. Carr. Laura shall bring it over to you. "

Let us now turn to the young girl we left at Mr. Allison's, whom ourreaders, no doubt, recognise as Laura Perry. 

"Good evening, Laura, " said Mrs. Allison, as she entered the room;"not brought my work home already! I did not look for it till nextweek. You and your mother, I am afraid, confine yourselves tooclosely to your needles for your own good. But you have not had yourtea? sit up, and take some. "

"No, thank you, Mrs. Allison; mother will be uneasy if I stay long. "

"Well, Laura, I am sorry, but I cannot settle with you to-night. Tell your mother Mr. Allison was disappointed in collectingto-day, or she certainly should have had it. Did she say how much itwas?"

"Two dollars, ma'am. "

"Very well: I will try and let her have it next week. "

The expression of Laura's countenance told too plainly thedisappointment she felt. "I am afraid Mrs. Perry is in want of thatmoney, " remarked the husband after she had gone. 

"Not the least doubt of it, " replied his wife. "She would not havesent home work at this hour if she had not been. Poor things! whocan tell the amount of suffering and wretchedness that is caused bythe rich neglecting to pay promptly. "

"You come without money, Laura, " said her mother, as she entered thehouse. 

"How do you know that, mother?" she replied, forcing a smile. 

"I read it in your countenance. Is it not so?"

"It is: Mr. Allison was disappointed in collecting--what will we do, mother?"

"The best we can, my child. We will have to do without our beef fordinner to-morrow; but then we have plenty of bread; so we shall notstarve. "

"And I shall have to do without my new shoes. My old ones are tooshabby to go to church in; so I shall have to stay at home. "

"I am sorry for your disappointment, my child, but I care more forMrs. Carr than I do for ourselves. She has been here, and is in agreat deal of trouble. The doctor don't think Annie will live tillmorning, and Mrs. Owrings hag refused to give Mary more than threedollars for her month's work, every cent of which old Grimes tookfor rent. I told her she might depend on getting what I owed her, and that I would send you over with it when you returned. You hadbetter go at once and tell her, Laura; perhaps she may be able toget some elsewhere. "

"How much is it, mother?"

"Half a dollar. "

"It seems hard that she can't get that small sum. "

With a heavy heart Laura entered Mrs. Carr's humble abode. 

"Oh how glad I am that you have come, my dear!" exclaimed the poorwoman. "Annie has been craving some ice cream all day; it's the onlything she seems to fancy. I told her she should have it as soon asyou came. "

Mrs. Carr's eyes filled with tears as Laura told of her ill success. "I care not for myself, " she said "but for that poor sufferingchild. "

"Never mind me, mother, " replied Annie. "It was selfish in me towant it, when I know how hard you and Mary are obliged to work forevery cent you get. But I feel that I shall not bother you muchlonger; I have a strange feeling here now. " And she placed her handupon her left side. 

"Stop!" cried Laura; "I'll try and get some ice cream for youAnnie. " And off she ran to her mother's dwelling. "Mother, " saidshe, as she entered the house, "do you recollect that half dollarfather gave me the last time he went to sea?"

"Yes, dear. "

"Well, I think I had better take it and pay Mrs. Carr. Annie is verybad, and her mother says she has been wanting some ice cream allday. "

"It is yours, Laura, do as you like about it. "

"It goes hard with me to part with it, mother, for I had determinedto keep it in remembrance of my father. It is just twelve yearsto-day since he went away. But poor Annie--yes, mother, I will takeit. "

So saying, Laura went to unlock the box which contained hertreasure, but unfortunately her key was not where she had supposedit was. After a half hour's search she succeeded in finding it. Tears coursed down her cheeks like rain as she removed from thecorner of the little box, where it had lain for so many years, thisprecious relic of a dear father, who in all probability, was buriedbeneath the ocean. Dashing them hastily away, she started again forMrs. Carr's. The ice cream was procured on the way, and, just as theclock struck eight, she arrived at the door. One hour has elapsedsince she left. But why does she linger on the threshold? Why butbecause the sounds of weeping and mourning have reached her ears, and she fears that all is over with her poor friend, Her fears areindeed true, for the pure spirit of the young sufferer has taken itsflight to that blest land where hunger and thirst are known no more. Poor Annie! thy last earthly wish, a simple glass of ice-cream, wasdenied thee--and why? We need not pause to answer: ye who have anabundance of this world's goods, think, when ye are about to turnfrom your doors the poor seamstress or washerwoman, or even thoseless destitute than they, without a just recompense for theirlabour, whether the sufferings and privations of some poor creatureswill not be increased thereby. 

RETURNING GOOD FOR EVIL. 

OBADIAH LAWSON and Watt Dood were neighbours; that is, they livedwithin a half mile of each other, and no person lived between theirrespective farms, which would have joined, had not a little strip ofprairie land extended itself sufficiently to keep them separated. Dood was the oldest settler, and from his youth up had entertained asingular hatred against Quakers; therefore, when he was informedthat Lawson, a regular disciple of that class of people hadpurchased the next farm to his, he declared he would make him gladto move away again. Accordingly, a system of petty annoyances wascommenced by him, and every time one of Lawson's hogs chanced tostray upon Dood's place, he was beset by men and dogs, and mostsavagely abused. Things progressed thus for nearly a year, and theQuaker, a man of decidedly peace principles, appeared in no way toresent the injuries received at the hands of his spiteful neighbour. But matters were drawing to a crisis; for Dood, more enraged thanever at the quiet of Obadiah, made oath that he would do somethingbefore long to wake up the spunk of Lawson. Chance favoured hisdesign. The Quaker had a high-blooded filly, which he had been verycareful in raising, and which was just four years old. Lawson tookgreat pride in this animal, and had refused a large sum of money forher. 

One evening, a little after sunset, as Watt Dood was passing aroundhis cornfield, he discovered the filly feeding in the little stripof prairie land that separated the two farms, and he conceived thehellish design of throwing off two or three rails of his fence, thatthe horse might get into his corn during the night. He did so, andthe next morning, bright and early, he shouldered his rifle and leftthe house. Not long after his absence, a hired man, whom he hadrecently employed, heard the echo of his gun, and in a few minutesDood, considerably excited and out of breath, came hurrying to thehouse, where he stated that he had shot at and wounded a buck; thatthe deer attacked him, and he hardly escaped with his life. 

This story was credited by all but the newly employed hand, who hadtaken a dislike to Watt, and, from his manner, suspected thatsomething was wrong. He therefore slipped quietly away from thehouse, and going through the field in the direction of the shot, hesuddenly came upon Lawson's filly, stretched upon the earth, with abullet hole through the head, from which the warm blood was stilloozing. 

The animal was warm, and could not have been killed an hour. Hehastened back to the dwelling of Dood, who met him in the yard, anddemanded, somewhat roughly, where he had been. 

"I've been to see if your bullet made sure work of Mr. Lawson'sfilly, " was the instant retort. 

Watt paled for a moment, but collecting himself, he fiercelyshouted, "Do you dare to say I killed her?"

"How do you know she is dead?" replied the man. 

Dood bit his lip, hesitated a moment, and then turning, walked intothe house. 

A couple of days passed by, and the morning of the third one hadbroken, as the hired man met friend Lawson, riding in search of hisfilly. 

A few words of explanation ensued, when, with a heavy heart, theQuaker turned his horse and rode home, where he informed the peopleof the fate of his filly. No threat of recrimination escaped him; hedid not even go to law to recover damages; but calmly awaited hisplan and hour of revenge. It came at last. 

Watt Dood had a Durham heifer, for which he had paid a heavy price, and upon which he counted to make great gains. 

One morning, just as Obadiah was sitting down, his eldest son camein with the information that neighbour Dood's heifer had broken downthe fence, entered the yard, and after eating most of the cabbages, had trampled the well-made beds and the vegetables they contained, out of all shape--a mischief impossible to repair. 

"And what did thee do with her, Jacob?" quietly asked Obadiah. 

"I put her in the farm-yard. "

"Did thee beat her?"

"I never struck her a blow. "

"Right, Jacob, right; sit down to thy breakfast, and when doneeating I will attend to the heifer. "

Shortly after he had finished his repast, Lawson mounted a horse, and rode over to Dood's, who was sitting under the porch in front ofhis house, and who, as he beheld the Quaker dismount, supposed hewas coming to demand pay for his filly, and secretly swore he wouldhave to law for it if he did. 

"Good morning, neighbour Dood; how is thy family?" exclaimedObadiah, as he mounted the steps and seated himself in a chair. 

"All well, I believe, " was the crusty reply. 

"I have a small affair to settle with you this morning, and I camerather early. "

"So I suppose, " growled Watt. 

"This morning, my son found thy Durham heifer in my garden, whereshe has destroyed a good deal. "

"And what did he do with her?" demanded Dood, his brow darkening. 

"What would thee have done with her, had she been my heifer in thygarden?" asked Obadiah. 

"I'd a shot her!" retorted Watt, madly, "as I suppose you have done;but we are only even now. Heifer for filly is only 'tit for tat. '"

"Neighbour Dood, thou knowest me not, if thou thinkest I would harma hair of thy heifer's back. She is in my farm-yard, and not even ablow has been struck her, where thee can get her at any time. I knowthee shot my filly; but the evil one prompted thee to do it, and Ilay no evil in my heart against my neighbours. I came to tell theewhere thy heifer is, and now I'll go home. "

Obadiah rose from his chair, and was about to descend the steps, when he was stopped by Watt, who hastily asked, "What was your filly worth?"

"A hundred dollars is what I asked for her, " replied Obediah. 

"Wait a moment!" and Dood rushed into the house, from whence he soonreturned, holding some gold in his hand. "Here's the price of yourfilly; and hereafter let there be a pleasantness between us. "

"Willingly, heartily, " answered Lawson, grasping the proffered handof the other; "let there be peace between us. "

Obadiah mounted his horse, and rode home with a lighter heart, andfrom that day to this Dood has been as good a neighbour as one couldwish to have; being completely reformed by the RETURNING GOOD FOREVIL. 

PUTTING YOUR HAND IN YOUR NEIGHBOUR'S POCKET. 

"DO you recollect Thomas, who lived with us as waiter about twoyears ago, Mary?" asked Mr. Clarke, as he seated himself in hiscomfortable arm-chair, and slipped his feet into the nicely-warmed, embroidered slippers, which stood ready for his use. 

"Certainly, " was the reply of Mrs. Clarke. "He was a bright, activefellow, but rather insolent. "

"He has proved to be a regular pickpocket, " continued her husband, "and is now on his way to Blackwell's Island. "

"A very suitable place for him. I hope he will be benefited by a fewmonths' residence there, " returned the lady. 

"Poor fellow!" exclaimed Mr. Joshua Clarke, an uncle of the youngcouple, who was quietly reading a newspaper in another part of theroom. "There are many of high standing in the world, who deserve togo to Blackwell's Island quite as much as he does. "

"You are always making such queer speeches, Uncle Joshua, " said hisniece. "I suppose you do not mean that there are pickpockets amongrespectable people?"

"Indeed, there are, my dear niece. Your knowledge of the world mustbe very limited, if you are not aware of this. Putting your hand inyour neighbour's pocket, is one of the most fashionableaccomplishments of the day. "

Mrs. Clarke was too well acquainted with her uncle's peculiaritiesto think of arguing with him. She therefore merely smiled, and saidto her husband:--

"Well, Henry, I am glad that neither you nor myself are acquaintedwith this fashionable accomplishment. "

"Not acquainted with it!" exclaimed the old gentleman. "I thoughtyou knew yourselves better. Why, you and Henry are both regularpickpockets!"

"I wonder that you demean yourself by associating with us!" was theplayful reply. 

"Oh, you are no worse than the rest of the world; and, besides, Ihope to do you some good, when you grow older and wiser. At present, Henry's whole soul is absorbed in the desire to obtain wealth. "

"In a fair and honourable way, uncle, " interrupted Mr. Clarke, "andfor honourable purposes. "

"Certainly, " replied Uncle Joshua, "in the common acceptation of thewords _fair_ and _honourable_. But, do you never, in your mercantilespeculations, endeavour to convey erroneous impressions to the mindsof those with whom you are dealing? Do you not sometimes suppressinformation which would prevent your obtaining a good bargain? Doyou never allow your customers to purchase goods under false ideasof their value and demand in the market? If you saw a man, lessskilled in business than yourself, about to take a step injurious tohim, but advantageous to you, would you warn him of his danger--thusobeying the command to love your neighbour as yourself?"

"Why, uncle, these questions are absurd. Of course, when engaged inbusiness, I endeavour to do what is for my own advantage--leavingothers to look out for themselves. "

"Exactly so. You are perfectly willing to put your hand in yourneighbour's pocket and take all you can get, provided he is not wiseenough to know that your hand is there. "

"Oh, for shame, Uncle Joshua! I shall not allow you to talk to Henryin this manner, " exclaimed Mrs. Clarke perceiving that her husbandlooked somewhat irritated. "Come, prove your charge against me. Inwhat way do I pick my neighbour's pockets?"

"You took six shillings from the washerwoman this morning, " coollyreplied Uncle Joshua. 

"_Took_ six shillings from the washerwoman! Paid her six shillings, you mean, uncle. She called for the money due for a day's work, andI gave it to her. "

"Yes, but not till you had kept her waiting nearly two hours. Iheard her say, as she left the house, 'I have lost a day's work bythis delay, for I cannot go to Mrs. Reed's at this hour; so I shallbe six shillings poorer at the end of the week. '"

"Why did she wait, then? She could have called again. I was notready to attend to her at so early an hour. "

"Probably she needed the money to-day. You little know the value ofsix shillings to the mother of a poor family, Mary; but, you shouldremember that her time is valuable, and that it is as sinful todeprive her of the use of it, as if you took money from her purse. "

"Well, uncle, I will acknowledge that I did wrong to keep the poorwoman waiting, and I will endeavour to be more considerate infuture. So draw your chair to the table, and take a cup of tea andsome of your favourite cakes. "

"Thank you, Mary; but I am engaged to take tea with your old friend, Mrs. Morrison. Poor thing! she has not made out very well lately. Her school has quite run down, owing to sickness among her scholars;and her own family have been ill all winter; so that her expenseshave been great. "

"I am sorry to hear this, " replied Mrs. Clarke. "I had hoped thather school was succeeding. Give my love to her, uncle, and tell herI will call upon her in a day or two. "

Uncle Joshua promised to remember the message, and bidding Mr. AndMrs. Clarke good evening, he was soon seated in Mrs. Morrison's neatlittle parlour, which, though it bore no comparison with thespacious and beautifully furnished apartments he had just left, hadan air of comfort and convenience which could not fail to please. 

Delighted to see her old friend, whom she also, from early habit, addressed by the title of Uncle Joshua, although he was no relation, Mrs. Morrison's countenance, for awhile beamed with that cheerful, animated expression which it used to wear in her more youthful days;but an expression of care and anxiety soon over shadowed it, and, inthe midst of her kind attentions to her visiter, and heraffectionate endearment to two sweet children, who were playingaround the room, she would often remain thoughtful and abstractedfor several minutes. 

Uncle Joshua was an attentive observer, and he saw that somethingweighed heavily upon her mind. When tea was over, and the littleones had gone to rest, he said, kindly, "Come, Fanny, draw your chair close to my side, and tell me all yourtroubles, as freely as you used to do when a merry-heartedschool-girl. How often have listened to the sad tale of the petpigeon, that had flown away, or the favourite plant killed by theuntimely frost. Come, I am ready, now as then, to assist you with myadvice, and my purse, too, if necessary. "

Tears started to Mrs. Morrison's eyes, as she replied. 

"You were always a kind friend to me, Uncle Joshua, and I willgladly confide my troubles to you. You know that after my husband'sdeath I took this house, which, though small, may seem far above mylimited income, in the hope of obtaining a school sufficiently largeto enable me to meet the rent, and also to support myself andchildren. The small sum left them by their father I determined toinvest for their future use. I unwisely intrusted it to one whobetrayed the trust, and appropriated the money to some wildspeculation of his own. He says that he did this in the hope ofincreasing my little property. It may be so, but my consent shouldhave been asked. He failed and there is little hope of our everrecovering more, than a small part of what he owes us. But, toreturn to my school. I found little difficulty in obtainingscholars, and, for a short time, believed myself to be doing well, but I soon found that a large number of scholars did not insure alarge income from the school. My terms were moderate, but still Ifound great difficulty in obtaining what was due to me at the end ofthe term. 

"A few paid promptly, and without expecting me to make unreasonabledeductions for unpleasant weather, slight illness, &c. , &c. Otherspaid after long delay, which often put me to the greatestinconvenience; and some, after appointing day after day for me tocall, and promising each time that the bill should be settledwithout fail, moved away, I knew not whither, or met me at lengthwith a cool assurance that it was not possible for them to pay me atpresent--if it was ever in their power they would let me know. "

"Downright robbery!" exclaimed Uncle Joshua. "A set of pickpockets!I wish they were all shipped for Blackwell's Island. "

"There are many reasons assigned for not paying, " continued Mrs. Morrison. "Sometimes the children had not learned as much as theparents expected. Some found it expedient to take their childrenaway long before the expiration of the term, and then gazed at me inastonishment when I declared my right to demand pay for the wholetime for which they engaged. One lady, in particular, to whosedaughter I was giving music lessons, withdrew the pupil underpretext of slight indisposition, and sent me the amount due for ahalf term. I called upon her, and stated that I considered theengagement binding for twenty-four lessons, but would willingly waituntil the young lady was quite recovered. The mother appeared toassent with willingness to this arrangement, and took the profferedmoney without comment. An hour or two after I received a laconicepistle stating that the lady had already engaged another teacher, whom she thought preferable--that she had offered me the amount duefor half of the term, and I had declined receiving it--therefore sheshould not offer it again. I wrote a polite, but very plain, replyto this note, and enclosed my bill for the whole term, but havenever heard from her since. "

"Do you mean to say that she actually received the money which youreturned to her without reluctance, and gave you no notice of herintention to employ another teacher?" demanded the old gentleman. 

"Certainly; and, besides this, I afterwards ascertained that theyoung lady was actually receiving a lesson from another teacher, when I called at the house--therefore the plea of indisposition wasentirely false. The most perfect satisfaction had always beenexpressed as to the progress of the pupil, and no cause was assignedfor the change. "

"I hope you have met with few cases as bad as this, " remarked UncleJoshua. "The world must be in a worse state than even I hadsupposed, if such imposition is common. "

"This may be an extreme case, " replied Mrs. Morrison, "but I couldrelate many others which are little better. However, you will soonweary of my experience in this way, Uncle Joshua, and I willtherefore mention but one other instance. One bitter cold day inJanuary, I called at the house of a lady who had owed me a smallamount for nearly a year, and after repeated delay had reluctantlyfixed this day as the time when she would pay me at least a part ofwhat was due. I was told by the servant who opened the door that thelady was not at home. 

"What time will she be in?" I inquired. 

"Not for some hours, " was the reply. 

Leaving word that I would call again towards evening, I retraced mysteps, feeling much disappointed at my ill success, as I had feltquite sure of obtaining the money. About five o'clock I againpresented myself at the door, and was again informed that the ladywas not at home. 

"I will walk in, and wait for her return, " I replied. 

The servant appeared somewhat startled at this, but after a littledelay ushered me into the parlour. Two little boys, of four and sixyears of age, were playing about the room. I joined in their sports, and soon became quite familiar with them. Half an hour had passedaway, when I inquired of the oldest boy what time he expected hismother?

"Not till late, " he answered, hesitatingly. 

"Did she take the baby with her this cold day?" I asked. 

"Yes, ma'am, " promptly replied the girl, who, under pretence ofattending to the children, frequently came into the room. 

The youngest child gazed earnestly in my face, and said, smilingly, "Mother has not gone away, she is up stairs. She ran away with babywhen she saw you coming, and told us to say she had gone out. I amafraid brother will take cold, for there is no fire up stairs. "

"It is no such thing, " exclaimed the girl and the eldest boy. "Sheis not up stairs, ma'am, or she would see you. "

But even as they spoke the loud cries of an infant were heard, and avoice at the head of the stairs calling Jenny. 

The girl obeyed, and presently returned with the child in her arms, its face, neck, and hands purple with cold. 

"Poor little thing, it has got its death in that cold room, " shesaid. "Mistress cannot see you, ma'am, she is sick and gone to bed. "

"This last story was probably equally false with the other, but Ifelt that it was useless to remain, and with feelings of deep regretfor the poor children who were so early taught an entire disregardfor truth, and of sorrow for the exposure to cold to which I hadinnocently subjected the infant, I left the house. A few days after, I heard that the little one had died with croup. Jenny, whom Iaccidentally met in the street, assured me that he took the coldwhich caused his death from the exposure on the afternoon of mycall, as he became ill the following day. I improved the opportunityto endeavour to impress upon the mind of the poor girl the sin ofwhich she had been guilty, in telling a falsehood even in obedienceto the commands of her mistress; and I hope that what I said may beuseful to her. 

"The want of honesty and promptness in the parents of my pupilsoften caused me great inconvenience, and I frequently found itdifficult to meet my rent when it became due. Still I have struggledthrough my difficulties without contracting any debts until thiswinter, but the sickness which has prevailed in my school has somaterially lessened my income, and my family expenses have, for thesame reason, been so much greater, that I fear it will be quiteimpossible for me to continue in my present situation. "

"Do not be discouraged, " said Uncle Joshua; "I will advance whateversum you are in immediate need of, and you may repay me when it isconvenient to yourself. I will also take the bills which are due toyou from various persons, and endeavour to collect them. Yourpresent term is, I suppose, nearly ended. Commence another with thisregulation:--That the price of tuition, or at least one-half of it, shall be paid before the entrance of the scholar. Some will complainof this rule, but many will not hesitate to comply with it, and youwill find the result beneficial. And now I would leave you, Fanny, for I have another call to make this evening. My young friend, William Churchill, is, I hear, quite ill, and I feel desirous to seehim. I will call upon you in a day or two, and then we will haveanother talk about your affairs, and see what can be done for you. So good night, Fanny; go to sleep and dream of your old friend. "

Closing the door after Uncle Joshua, Mrs. Morrison returned to herroom with a heart filled with thankfulness that so kind a friend hadbeen sent to her in the hour of need; while the old gentleman walkedwith rapid steps through several streets until he stood at the doorof a small, but pleasantly situated house in the suburbs of thecity. His ring at the bell was answered by a pretty, pleasant-looking young woman, whom he addressed as Mrs. Churchill, and kindly inquired for her husband. 

"William is very feeble to-day, but he will be rejoiced to see you, sir. His disease is partly owing to anxiety of mind, I think, andwhen his spirits are raised by a friendly visit, he feels better. "

Uncle Joshua followed Mrs. Churchill to the small room which nowserved the double purpose of parlour and bedroom. They were met atthe door by the invalid, who had recognised the voice of his oldfriend, and had made an effort to rise and greet him. His sunkencountenance, the hectic flush which glowed upon his cheek, and thedistressing cough, gave fearful evidence that unless the disease wassoon arrested in its progress, consumption would mark him for itsvictim. 

The friendly visiter was inwardly shocked at his appearance, butwisely made no allusion to it, and soon engaged him in cheerfulconversation. Gradually he led him to speak openly of his ownsituation, --of his health, and of the pecuniary difficulties withwhich he was struggling. His story was a common one. A young familywere growing up around him, and an aged mother and invalid sisteralso depended upon him for support. The small salary which heobtained as clerk in one of the most extensive mercantileestablishments in the city, was quite insufficient to meet hisnecessary expenses. He had, therefore, after being constantlyemployed from early morning until a late hour in the evening, devoted two or three hours of the night to various occupations whichadded a trifle to his limited income. Sometimes he procured copyingof various kinds; at others, accounts, which he could take to hisown house, were intrusted to him. This incessant application hadgradually ruined his health, and now for several weeks he had beenunable to leave the house. 

"Have you had advice from an experienced physician, William?"inquired Uncle Joshua. The young man blushed, as he replied, that hewas unwilling to send for a physician, knowing that he had no meansto repay his services. 

"I will send my own doctor to see you, " returned his friend. "He canhelp you if any one can, and as for his fee I will attend to it, andif you regain your health I shall be amply repaid. --No, do not thankme, " he continued, as Mr. Churchill endeavoured to express hisgratitude. "Your father has done me many a favour, and it would bestrange if I could not extend a hand to help his son when introuble. And now tell me, William, is not your salary very small, considering the responsible situation which you have so long held inthe firm of Stevenson & Co. ?"

"It is, " was the reply; "but I see no prospect of obtaining more. Ibelieve I have always given perfect satisfaction to my employer, although it is difficult to ascertain the estimation in which heholds me, for he is a man who never praises. He has never foundfault with me, and therefore I suppose him satisfied, and indeed Ihave some proof of this in his willingness to wait two or threemonths in the hope that I may recover from my present illness beforemaking a permanent engagement with a new clerk. Notwithstandingthis, he has never raised my salary, and when I ventured to say tohim about a year ago, that as his business had nearly doubled sinceI had been with him, I felt that it would be but just that I shouldderive some benefit from the change, he coolly replied that mypresent salary was all that he had ever paid a clerk, and heconsidered it a sufficient equivalent for my services. He knows verywell that it is difficult to obtain a good situation, there are somany who stand ready to fill any vacancy, and therefore he feelsquite safe in refusing to give me, more. "

"And yet, " replied Uncle Joshua, "he is fully aware that theadvantage resulting from your long experience and thoroughacquaintance with his business, increases his income several hundreddollars every year, and this money he quietly puts into his ownpocket, without considering or caring that a fair proportion of itshould in common honesty go into yours. What a queer world we livein! The poor thief who robs you of your watch or pocket-book, ispunished without delay; but these wealthy defrauders maintain theirrespectability and pass for honest men, even while withholding whatthey know to be the just due of another. 

"But cheer up, William, I have a fine plan for you, if you can butregain your health. I am looking for a suitable person to takecharge of a large sheep farm, which I propose establishing on theland which I own in Virginia. You acquired some knowledge of farmingin your early days. How would you like to undertake this business?The climate is delightful, the employment easy and pleasant; and itshall be my care that your salary is amply sufficient for thesupport of your family. "

Mr. Churchill could hardly command his voice sufficiently to expresshis thanks, and his wife burst into tears, as she exclaimed, "If my poor husband had confided his troubles to you before, hewould not have been reduced to this feeble state. "

"He will recover, " said the old gentleman. "I feel sure, that in onemonth, he will look like a different man. Rest yourself, now, William, and to-morrow I will see you again. "

And, followed by the blessings and thanks of the young couple, UncleJoshua departed. 

"Past ten o'clock, " he said to himself, as he paused near alamp-post and looked at his watch. "I must go to my own room. "

As he said this he was startled by a deep sigh from some one near, and on looking round, saw a lad, of fourteen or fifteen years ofage, leaning against the post, and looking earnestly at him. 

Uncle Joshua recognised the son of a poor widow, whom he hadoccasionally befriended, and said, kindly, "Well, John, are you on your way home from the store? This is rathera late hour for a boy like you. "

"Yes, sir, it is late. I cannot bear to return home to my poormother, for I have bad news for her to-night. Mr. Mackenzie does notwish to employ me any more. My year is up to-day. "

"Why, John, how is this? Not long ago your employer told me that hewas perfectly satisfied with you; indeed, he said that he neverbefore had so trusty and useful a boy. "

"He has always appeared satisfied with me, sir, and I haveendeavoured to serve him faithfully. But he told me to-day that hehad engaged another boy. "

Uncle Joshua mused for a moment, and then asked, "What was he to give you for the first year, John?"

"Nothing, sir. He told my mother that my services would be worthnothing the first year, but the second he would pay me fiftydollars, and so increase my salary as I grew older. My poor motherhas worked very hard to support me this year, and I had hoped that Iwould be able to help her soon. But it is all over now, and Isuppose I must take a boy's place again, and work another year fornothing. "

"And then be turned off again. Another set of pickpockets, " mutteredhis indignant auditor. 

"Pickpockets!" exclaimed the lad. "Did any one take your watch justnow, sir? I saw a man look at it as you took it out. Perhaps we canovertake him. I think he turned into the next street. "

"No, no, my boy. My watch is safe enough. I am not thinking ofstreet pickpockets, but of another class whom you will find out asyou grow older. But never mind losing your place, John. My nephew isin want of a boy who has had some experience in your business, andwill pay him a fair salary--more than Mr. Mackenzie agreed to giveyou for the second year. I will mention you to him, and you may callat his store to-morrow at eleven o'clock, and we will see if youwill answer his purpose. "

"Thank you, Sir, I am sure I thank you; and mother will bless youfor your kindness, " replied the boy, his countenance glowing withanimation; and with a grateful "good night, " he darted off in thedirection of his own home. 

"There goes a grateful heart, " thought Uncle Joshua, as he gazedafter the boy until he turned the corner of the street anddisappeared. "He has lost his situation merely because another canbe found who will do the work for nothing for a year, in the vainhope of future recompense. I wish Mary could have been with me thisevening; I think she would have acknowledged that there are manyrespectable pickpockets who deserve to accompany poor Thomas toBlackwell's Island;" and thus soliloquizing, Uncle Joshua reachedthe door of his boarding-house, and sought repose in his own room. 

KIND WORDS. 

WE have more than once, in our rapidly written reflections, urgedthe policy and propriety of kindness, courtesy, and good-willbetween man and man. It is so easy for an individual to manifestamenity of spirit, to avoid harshness, and thus to cheer and gladdenthe paths of all over whom he may have influence or control, that itis really surprising to find any one pursuing the very oppositecourse. Strange as it may appear, there are among the children ofmen, hundreds who seem to take delight in making others unhappy. They rejoice at an opportunity of being the messengers of eviltidings. They are jealous or malignant; and in either case theyexult in inflicting a wound. The ancients, in most nations, had apeculiar dislike to croakers, prophets of evil, and the bearers ofevil tidings. It is recorded that the messenger from the banks ofthe Tigris, who first announced the defeat of the Roman army by thePersians, and the death of the Emperor Julian, in a Roman city ofAsia Minor, was instantly buried under a heap of stones thrown uponhim by an indignant populace. And yet this messenger was innocent, and reluctantly discharged a painful duty. But how different thespirit and the motive of volunteers in such cases--those who exultin an opportunity of communicating bad news, and in some degreerevel over the very agony which it produces. The sensitive, thegenerous, the honourable, would ever be spared from such painfulmissions. A case of more recent occurrence may be referred to as inpoint. We allude to the murder of Mr. Roberts, a farmer of NewJersey, who was robbed and shot in his own wagon, near Camden. Itbecame necessary that the sad intelligence should be broken to hiswife and family with as much delicacy as possible. A neighbour wasselected for the task, and at first consented. But, onconsideration, his heart failed him. He could not, he said, communicate the details of a tragedy so appalling and he begged tobe excused. Another, formed it was thought of sterner stuff, wasthen fixed upon: but he too, rough and bluff as he was in hisordinary manners, possessed the heart of a generous and sympathetichuman being, and also respectfully declined. A third made a likeobjection, and at last a female friend of the family was with muchdifficulty persuaded, in company with another, to undertake themournful task. And yet, we repeat, there are in society, individualswho delight in contributing to the misery of others--who are eagerto circulate a slander, to chronicle a ruin, to revive a forgottenerror, to wound, sting, and annoy, whenever they may do so withimpunity. How much better the gentle, the generous, the magnanimouspolicy! Why not do everything that may be done for the happiness ofour fellow creatures, without seeking out their weak points, irritating their half-healed wounds, jarring their sensibilities, orembittering their thoughts! The magic of kind words and a kindmanner can scarcely be over-estimated. Our fellow creatures are moresensitive than is generally imagined. We have known cases in which agentle courtesy has been remembered with pleasure for years. Whoindeed cannot look back into "bygone time, " and discover some smile, some look or other demonstration of regard or esteem, calculated tobless and brighten every hour of after existence! "Kind words, " saysan eminent writer, "do not cost much. It does not take long to utterthem. They never blister the tongue or lips on their passage intothe world, or occasion any other kind of bodily suffering; and wehave never heard of any mental trouble arising from this quarter. Though they do not cost much, yet they accomplish much. 1. They helpone's own good nature and good will. One cannot be in a habit ofthis kind, without thereby pecking away something of the graniteroughness of his own nature. Soft words will soften his own soul. Philosophers tell us that the angry words a man uses in his passionare fuel to the flame of his wrath, and make it blaze the morefiercely. Why, then, should not words of the opposite characterproduce opposite results, and that most blessed of all passions ofthe soul, kindness, be augmented by kind words? People that are forever speaking kindly, are for ever disinclining themselves toill-temper. 2. Kind words make other people good-natured. Cold wordsfreeze people, and hot words scorch them, and sarcastic wordsirritate them, and bitter words make them bitter, and wrathful wordsmake them wrathful. And kind words also produce their own image onmen's souls; and a beautiful image it is. They soothe, and quiet, and comfort the hearer. They shame him out of his sour, morose, unkind feelings; and he has to become kind himself. There is such arush of all other kinds of words in our days, that it seemsdesirable to give kind words a chance among them. There are vainwords, idle words, hasty words, spiteful words, silly words, andempty words. Now kind words are better than the whole of them; andit is a pity that, among the improvements of the present age, birdsof this feather might not have more of a chance than they have hadto spread their wings. "

It is indeed! Kind words should be brought into more general use. Those in authority should employ them more frequently, whenaddressing the less fortunate among mankind. Employers should usethem in their intercourse with their workmen. Parents should utterthem on every occasion to their children. The rich should neverforget an opportunity of speaking kindly to the poor. Neighbours andfriends should emulate each other in the employment of mild, gentle, frank, and kindly language. But this cannot be done unless eachendeavours to control himself. Our passions and our prejudices mustbe kept in check. If we find that we have a neighbour on the otherside of the way, who has been more fortunate in a worldly sense thanwe have been, and if we discover a little jealousy or envy creepinginto our opinions and feelings concerning said neighbour--let us becareful, endeavour to put a rein upon our tongues, and to avoid theindulgence of malevolence or ill-will. If we, on the other hand, have been fortunate, have enough and to spare, and there happens tobe in our circle some who are dependent upon us, some who look up tous with love and respect--let us be generous, courteous, andkind--and thus we shall not only discharge a duty, but prove asource of happiness to others. 

NEIGHBOURS' QUARRELS. 

MOST people think there are cares enough in the world, and yet manyare very industrious to increase them:--One of the readiest ways ofdoing this is to quarrel with a neighbour. A bad bargain may vex aman for a week, and a bad debt may trouble him for a month; but aquarrel with his neighbours will keep him in hot water all the yearround. 

Aaron Hands delights in fowls, and his cocks and hens are alwaysscratching up the flowerbeds of his neighbour William Wilkes, whosemischievous tom-cat every now and then runs off with a chicken. Theconsequence is, that William Wilkins is one half the day occupied indriving away the fowls, and threatening to screw their long uglynecks off; while Aaron Hands, in his periodical outbreaks, invariably vows to skin his neighbour's cat, as sure as he can layhold of him. 

Neighbours! Neighbours! Why can you not be at peace? Not all thefowls you can rear, and the flowers you can grow, will make amendsfor a life of anger, hatred, malice, and uncharitableness. Come tosome kind-hearted understanding one with another, and dwell inpeace. 

Upton, the refiner, has a smoky chimney, that sets him and all theneighbourhood by the ears. The people around abuse him withoutmercy, complaining that they are poisoned, and declaring that theywill indict him at the sessions. Upton fiercely sets them atdefiance, on the ground that his premises were built before theirs, that his chimney did not come to them, but that they came to hischimney. 

Neighbours! Neighbours! practise a little more forbearance. Had halfa dozen of you waited on the refiner in a kindly spirit, he wouldyears ago have so altered his chimney, that it would not haveannoyed you. 

Mrs. Tibbets is thoughtless--if it were not so she would never havehad her large dusty carpet beaten, when her neighbour, who had awash, was having her wet clothes hung out to dry. Mrs. Williams ishasty and passionate, or she would never have taken it for grantedthat the carpet was beaten on purpose to spite her, and give hertrouble. As it is, Mrs. Tibbets and Mrs. Williams hate one anotherwith a perfect hatred. 

Neighbours! Neighbours! bear with one another. We are none of usangels, and should not, therefore, expect those about us to be freefrom faults. 

They who attempt to out-wrangle a quarrelsome neighbour, go thewrong way to work. A kind word, and still more a kind deed, will bemore likely to be successful. Two children wanted to pass by asavage dog: the one took a stick in his hand and pointed it at him, but this only made the enraged creature more furious than before. The other child adopted a different plan; for by giving the dog apiece of his bread and butter, he was allowed to pass, the subduedanimal wagging his tail in quietude. If you happen to have aquarrelsome neighbour, conquer him by civility and kindness; try thebread and butter system, and keep your stick out of sight. That isan excellent Christian admonition, "A soft answer turneth awaywrath, but grievous words stir up anger. "

Neighbours' quarrels are a mutual reproach, and yet a stick or astraw is sufficient to promote them. One man is rich, and anotherpoor; one is a churchman, another a dissenter; one is aconservative, another a liberal; one hates another because he is ofthe same trade, and another is bitter with his neighbour because heis a Jew or a Roman Catholic. 

Neighbours! Neighbours! live in love, and then while you make othershappy, you will be happier yourselves. 

 "That happy man is surely blest, Who of the worst things makes the best; Whilst he must be of temper curst, Who of the best things makes the worst. "

"Be ye all of one mind, " says the Apostle, "having compassion one ofanother; love as brethren, be pitiful, be courteous; not renderingevil for evil, or railing for railing, but contrariwise blessing. "To a rich man I would say, bear with and try to serve those who arebelow you; and to a poor one--

 "Fear God, love peace, and mind your labour; And never, never quarrel with your neighbour. "

GOOD WE MIGHT DO. 

WE all might do good Where we often do ill;There is always the way, If we have but the will;Though it be but a word Kindly breathed or supprest, It may guard off some pain, Or give peace to some breast. 

We all might do good In a thousand small ways--In forbearing to flatter, Yet yielding _due_ praise--In spurning ill humour, Reproving wrong done, And treating but kindly Each heart we have won. 

We all might do good, Whether lowly or great, For the deed is not gauged By the purse or estate;If it be but a cup Of cold water that's given, Like "the widow's two mites, " It is something for Heaven. 

THE TOWN LOT. 

ONCE upon a time it happened that the men who governed the municipalaffairs of a certain growing town in the West, resolved, in gravedeliberation assembled, to purchase a five-acre lot at the north endof the city--recently incorporated--and have it improved for a parkor public square. Now, it also happened, that all the saleableground lying north of the city was owned by a man named Smith--ashrewd, wide-awake individual, whose motto was "Every man forhimself, " with an occasional addition about a certain gentleman inblack taking "the hindmost. "

Smith, it may be mentioned, was secretly at the bottom of thisscheme for a public square, and had himself suggested the matter toan influential member of the council; not that he was moved by whatis denominated public spirit--no; the spring of action in the casewas merely "private spirit, " or a regard for his own good. If thecouncil decided upon a public square, he was the man from whom theground would have to be bought; and he was the man who could get hisown price therefor. 

As we have said, the park was decided upon, and a committee of twoappointed whose business it was to see Smith, and arrange with himfor the purchase of a suitable lot of ground. In due form thecommittee called upon the landholder, who was fully prepared for theinterview. 

"You are the owner of those lots at the north end?" said thespokesman of the committee. 

"I am, " replied Smith, with becoming gravity. 

"Will you sell a portion of ground, say five acres, to the city?"

"For what purpose?" Smith knew very well for what purpose the landwas wanted. 

"We have decided to set apart about five acres of ground, andimprove it as a kind of park, or public promenade. "

"Have you, indeed? Well, I like that, " said Smith, with animation. "It shows the right kind of public spirit. "

"We have, moreover, decided that the best location will be at thenorth end of the town. "

"Decidedly my own opinion, " returned Smith. 

"Will you sell us the required acres?" asked one of the councilmen. 

"That will depend somewhat upon where you wish to locate the park. "

The particular location was named. 

"The very spot, " replied Smith, promptly, "upon which I have decidedto erect four rows of dwellings. "

"But it is too far out for that, " was naturally objected. 

"O, no; not a rod. The city is rapidly growing in that direction. Ihave only to put up the dwellings referred to, and dozens will, beanxious to purchase lots, and build all around them. Won't theground to the left of that you speak of answer as well?"

But the committee replied in the negative. The lot they hadmentioned was the one decided upon as most suited for the purpose, and they were not prepared to think of any other location. 

All this Smith understood very well. He was not only willing, butanxious for the city to purchase the lot they were negotiating for. All he wanted was to get a good round price for the same--say fouror five times the real value. So he feigned indifference, and threwdifficulties in the way. 

A few years previous to this time, Smith had purchased aconsiderable tract of land at the north of the then flourishingvillage, at fifty dollars an acre. Its present value was about threehundred dollars an acre. After a good deal of talk on both sides, Smith finally agreed to sell the particular lot pitched upon. Thenext thing was to arrange as to price. 

"At what do you hold this ground per acre?"

It was some time before Smith answered this question. His eyes werecast upon the floor, and earnestly did he enter into debate withhimself as to the value he should place upon the lot. At first hethought of five hundred dollars per acre. But his cupidity sooncaused him to advance on that sum, although, a month before, hewould have caught at such an offer. Then he advanced to six, toseven, and to eight hundred. And still he felt undecided. 

"I can get my own price, " said he to himself. "The city has to pay, and I might just as well get a large sum as a small one. "

"For what price will you sell?" The question was repeated. 

"I must have a good price. "

"We are willing to pay what is fair and right. "

"Of course. No doubt you have fixed a limit to which you will go. "

"Not exactly that, " said one of the gentlemen. 

"Are you prepared to make an offer?"

"We are prepared to hear your price, and to make a report thereon, "was replied. 

"That's a very valuable lot of ground, " said Smith. 

"Name your price, " returned one of the committeemen, a littleimpatiently. 

Thus brought up to the point, Smith, after thinking hurriedly for afew moments, said--

"One thousand dollars an acre. "

Both the men shook their heads in a very positive way. Smith saidthat it was the lowest he would take; and so the conference ended. 

At the next meeting of the city councils, a report on the town lotwas made, and the extraordinary demand of Smith canvassed. It wasunanimously decided not to make the proposed purchase. 

When this decision reached the landholder, he was considerablydisappointed. He wanted money badly, and would have "jumped at" twothousand dollars for the five acre lot, if satisfied that it wouldbring no more. But when the city came forward as a purchaser, hiscupidity was subjected to a very strong temptation. He believed thathe could get five thousand dollars as easily as two; and quieted hisconscience by the salvo--"An article is always worth what it willbring. "

A week or two went by, and Smith was about calling upon one of themembers of the council, to say that, if the city really wanted thelot he would sell at their price, leaving it with the council to actjustly and generously, when a friend said to him, "I hear that the council had the subject of a public square underconsideration again this morning. "

"Indeed!" Smith was visibly excited, though he tried to appear calm. 

"Yes; and I also hear that they have decided to pay the extravagantprice you asked for a lot of ground at the north end of the city. "

"A thousand dollars an acre?"

"Yes. "

"Its real value, and not cent more, " said Smith. 

"People differ about that. How ever, you are lucky, " the friendreplied. "The city is able to pay. "

"So I think. And I mean they shall pay. "

Before the committee, to whom the matter was given in charge, hadtime to call upon Smith, and close with him for the lot, thatgentleman had concluded in his own mind that it would be just aseasy to get twelve hundred dollars an acre as a thousand. It wasplain that the council were bent upon having the ground, and wouldpay a round sum for it. It was just the spot for a public square;and the city must become the owner. So, when he was called upon, bythe gentlemen, and they said to him, "We are authorized to pay you your price, " he promptly answered, "The offer is no longer open. You declined it when it was made. Myprice for that property is now twelve hundred dollars an acre. "

The men offered remonstrance; but it was of no avail. Smith believedthat he could get six thousand dollars for the ground as easily asfive thousand. The city must have the lot, and would pay almost anyprice. 

"I hardly think it right, Mr. Smith, " said one of his visiters, "foryou to take such an advantage. This square is for the public good. "

"Let the public pay, then, " was the unhesitating answer. "The publicis able enough. "

"The location of this park, at the north end of the city, willgreatly improve the value of your other property. "

This Smith understood very well. But he replied, "I am not so sure of that. I have some very strong doubts on thesubject. It's my opinion, that the buildings I contemplated erectingwill be far more to my advantage. Be that as it may, however, I amdecided in selling for nothing less than six thousand dollars. "

"We are only authorized to pay five thousand, " replied thecommittee. "If you agree to take that sum, will close the bargain onthe spot. "

Five thousand dollars was a large sum of money, and Smith feltstrongly tempted to close in with the liberal offer. But sixthousand loomed up before his imagination still more temptingly. 

"I can get it, " said he to himself; "and the property is worth whatit will bring. "

So he positively declined to sell it at a thousand dollars per acre. 

"At twelve hundred you will sell?" remarked one of the committee, asthey were about retiring. 

"Yes. I will take twelve hundred the acre. That is the lowest rate, and I am not anxious even at that price. I can do quite as well bykeeping it in my own possession. But, as you seem so bent on havingit, I will not stand in your way. When will the council meet again?"

"Not until next week. "

"Very well. If they then accept my offer, all will be right. But, understand me; if they do not accept, the offer no longer remainsopen. It is a matter of no moment to me which way the thing goes. "

It was a matter of moment to Smith, for all this assertion--a matterof very great moment. He had several thousand dollars to pay in thecourse of the next few months on land purchases, and no way to meetthe payments, except by mortgages, or sales of property; and, it maynaturally be concluded, that he suffered considerable uneasinessduring the time which passed until the next meeting of the council. 

Of course, the grasping disposition shown by Smith, became the towntalk; and people said a good many hard things of him. Little, however, did he care, so that he secured six thousand dollars for alot not worth more than two thousand. 

Among other residents and property holders in the town, was asimple-minded, true-hearted, honest man, named Jones. His father hadleft him a large farm, a goodly portion of which, in process oftime, came to be included in the limits of the new city; and hefound a much more profitable employment in selling building lotsthan in tilling the soil. The property of Mr. Jones lay at the westside of the town. 

Now, when Mr. Jones heard of the exorbitant demand made by Smith fora five acre lot, his honest heart throbbed with a feeling ofindignation. 

"I couldn't have believed it of him, " said he. "Six thousanddollars! Preposterous! Why, I would give the city a lot of twice thesize, and do it with pleasure. "

"You would?" said a member of the council, who happened to hear thisremark. 

"Certainly I would. "

"You are really in earnest?"

"Undoubtedly. Go and select a public square from any of myunappropriated land on the west side of the city, and I will passyou the title as a free gift to-morrow, and feel pleasure in doingso. "

"That is public spirit, " said the councilman. 

"Call it what you will. I am pleased in making the offer. "

Now, let it not be supposed that Mr. Jones was shrewdly calculatingthe advantage which would result to him from having a park at thewest side of the city. No such thought had yet entered his mind. Hespoke from the impulse of a generous feeling. 

Time passed on, and the session day of the council came round--a dayto which Smith had looked forward with no ordinary feelings ofinterest, that were touched at times by the coldness of doubt, andthe agitation of uncertainty. Several times he had more than halfrepented of his refusal to accept the liberal offer of five thousanddollars, and of having fixed so positively upon six thousand as the"lowest figure. "

The morning of the day passed, and Smith began to grow uneasy. Hedid not venture to seek for information as to the doings of thecouncil, for that would be to expose the anxiety he felt in theresult of their deliberations. Slowly the afternoon wore away, andit so happened that Smith did not meet any one of the councilmen;nor did he even know whether the council was still in session ornot. As to making allusion to the subject of his anxious interest toany one, that was carefully avoided; for he knew that his exorbitantdemand was the town talk--and he wished to affect the most perfectindifference on the subject. 

The day closed, and not a whisper about the town lot had come to theears of Mr. Smith. What could it mean? Had his offer to sell at sixthousand been rejected? The very thought caused his heart to growheavy in his bosom. Six, seven, eight o'clock came, and still it wasall dark with Mr. Smith. He could bear the suspense no longer, andso determined to call upon his neighbour Wilson, who was a member ofthe council, and learn from him what had been done. 

So he called on Mr. Wilson. 

"Ah, friend Smith, " said the latter; "how are you this evening?"

"Well, I thank you, " returned Smith, feeling a certain oppression ofthe chest. "How are you?"

"Oh, very well. "

Here there was a pause. After which Smith said, "About that groundof mine. What did you do?"

"Nothing, " replied Wilson, coldly. 

"Nothing, did you say?" Smith's voice was a little husky. 

"No. You declined our offer; or, rather, the high price fixed byyourself upon the land. "

"You refused to buy it at five thousand, when it was offered, " saidSmith. 

"I know we did, because your demand was exorbitant. "

"Oh, no, not at all, " returned Smith quickly. 

"In that we only differ, " said Wilson. "However, the council hasdecided not to pay you the price you ask. "

"Unanimously?"

"There was not a dissenting voice. "

Smith began to feel more and more uncomfortable. 

"I might take something less, " he ventured to say, in a low, hesitating voice. 

"It is too late now, " was Mr. Wilson's prompt reply. 

"Too late! How so?"

"We have procured a lot. "

"Mr. Wilson!" Poor Smith started to his feet in chagrin andastonishment. 

"Yes; we have taken one of Jones's lots on the west side of thecity. A beautiful ten acre lot. "

"You have!" Smith was actually pale. 

"We have; and the title deeds are now being made out. "

It was some time before Smith had sufficiently recovered from thestunning effect of this unlooked-for intelligence, to make theinquiry, "And pray how much did Jones ask for his ten acre lot. "

"He presented it to the city as a gift, " replied the councilman. 

"A gift! What folly!"

"No, not folly--but true worldly wisdom; though I believe Jones didnot think of advantage to himself when he generously made the offer. He is worth twenty thousand dollars more to-day than he wasyesterday, in the simple advanced value of his land for buildinglots. And I know of no man in this town whose good fortune affectsme with more pleasure. "

Smith stole back to his home with a mountain of disappointment onhis heart. In his cupidity he had entirely overreached himself, andhe saw that the consequences were to react upon all his futureprosperity. The public square at the west end of the town would drawimprovements in that direction, all the while increasing the wealthof Mr. Jones, while lots at the north end would remain at presentprices, or, it might be, take a downward range. 

And so it proved. In ten years, Jones was the richest man in thetown, while half of Smith's property had been sold for taxes. Thefive acre lot passed from his hands, under the hammer, in theforeclosure of a mortgage, for one thousand dollars!

Thus it is that inordinate selfishness and cupidity overreachthemselves; while the liberal man deviseth liberal things, and issustained thereby. 

THE SUNBEAM AND THE RAINDROP. 

A SUNBEAM and a raindrop met together in the skyOne afternoon in sunny June, when earth was parched and dry;Each quarrelled for the precedence ('twas so the story ran), And the golden sunbeam, warmly, the quarrel thus began:--

"What were the earth without me? I come with beauty bright, She smiles to hail my presence, and rejoices in my light;I deck the hill and valley with many a lovely hue, I give the rose its blushes, and the violet its blue. 

"I steal within the window, and through the cottage door, And my presence like a blessing gilds with smiles the broad earth o'er;The brooks and streams flow dancing and sparkling in my ray, And the merry, happy children in the golden sunshine play. "

Then the tearful raindrop answered--"Give praise where praise is due, The earth indeed were lonely without a smile from you;But without my visits, also, its beauty would decay, The flowers droop and wither, and the streamlets dry away. 

"I give the flowers their freshness, and you their colours gay, My jewels would not sparkle, without your sunny ray. Since each upon the other so closely must depend, Let us seek the earth together, and our common blessings blend. "

The raindrops, and the sunbeams, came laughing down to earth, And it woke once more to beauty, and to myriad tones of mirth;The river and the streamlet went dancing on their way, And the raindrops brightly sparkled in the sunbeam's golden ray. 

The drooping flowers looked brighter, there was fragrance in the air, The earth seemed new created, there was gladness everywhere;And above the dark clouds, gleaming on the clear blue arch of Heaven, The Rainbow, in its beauty, like a smile of love was given. 

'Twas a sweet and simple lesson, which the story told, I thought, Not alone and single-handed our kindliest deeds are wrought;Like the sunbeam and the raindrop, work together, while we may, And the bow of Heaven's own promise shall smile upon our way. 

A PLEA FOR SOFT WORDS. 

STRANGE and subtle are the influences which affect the spirit andtouch the heart. Are there bodiless creatures around us, mouldingour thoughts into darkness or brightness, as they will? Whence, otherwise, come the shadow and the sunshine, for which we candiscern no mortal agency?

Oftener, As we grow older, come the shadows; less frequently the, sunshine. Ere I took up my pen, I was sitting with a pleasantcompany of friends, listening to music, and speaking, with the rest, light words. 

Suddenly, I knew not why, my heart was wrapt away in an atmosphereof sorrow. A sense of weakness and unworthiness weighed me down, andI felt the moisture gather to my eyes and my lips tremble, thoughthey kept the smile. 

All my past life rose up before me, and all my short-comings--all, my mistakes, and all my wilful wickedness, seemed pleadingtrumpet-tongued against me. 

I saw her before me whose feet trod with mine the green holts andmeadows, when the childish thought strayed not beyond the near orthe possible. I saw her through the long blue distances, clothed inthe white beauty of an angel; but, alas! she drew her golden hairacross her face to veil from her vision the sin-darkened creaturewhose eyes dropped heavily to the hem of her robe!

O pure and beautiful one, taken to peace ere the weak temptation hadlifted itself up beyond thy stature, and compelled thee to listen, to oppose thy weakness to its strength, and to fall--sometimes, atleast, let thy face shine on me from between the clouds. Fresh fromthe springs of Paradise, shake from thy wings the dew against myforehead. We two were coming up together through the sweet land ofpoesy and dreams, where the senses believe what the heart hopes; ourhands were full of green boughs, and our laps of cowslips andviolets, white and purple. We were talking of that more beautifulworld into which childhood was opening out, when that spectre metus, feared and dreaded alike by the strong man and the little child, and one was taken, and the other left. 

One was caught away sinless to the bosom of the Good Shepherd, andone was left to weep pitiless tears, to eat the bread of toil, andto think the bitter thoughts of misery, --left "to clasp a phantomand to find it air. " For often has the adversary pressed me sore, and out of my arms has slid ever that which my soul pronounced good:slid out of my arms and coiled about my feet like a serpent, dragging me back and holding me down from all that is high andgreat. 

Pity me, dear one, if thy sweet sympathies can come out of theglory, if the lovelight of thy beautiful life can press through thecloud and the evil, and fold me again as a garment; pity and pleadfor me with the maiden mother whose arms in human sorrow and humanlove cradled our blessed Redeemer. 

She hath known our mortal pain and passion--our more than mortaltriumph--she hath heard the "blessed art thou among women. " Myunavailing prayers goldenly syllabled by her whose name sounds fromthe manger through all the world, may find acceptance with Him who, though our sins be as scarlet, can wash them white as wool. 

Our hearts grew together as one, and along the headlands and thevalleys one shadow went before us, and one shadow followed us, tillthe grave gaped hungry and terrible, and I was alone. Faltering infear, but lingering in love, I knelt by the deathbed--it was themiddle night, and the first moans of the autumn came down from thehills, for the frost specks glinted on her golden robes, and thewind blew chill in her bosom. Heaven was full of stars, and thehalf-moon scattered abroad her beauty like a silver rain. Many havebeen the middle nights since then, for years lie between me and thatfearfulest of all watches; but a shadow, a sound, or a thought, turns the key of the dim chamber, and the scene is reproduced. 

I see the long locks on the pillow, the smile on the ashen lips, thethin, cold fingers faintly pressing my own, and hear the brokenvoice saying, "I am going now. I am not afraid. Why weep ye? ThoughI were to live the full time allotted to man, I should not be moreready, nor more willing than now. " But over this there comes ashudder and a groan that all the mirthfulness of the careless wasimpotent to drown. 

Three days previous to the death-night, three days previous to thetransit of the soul from the clayey tabernacle to the house not;made with hands--from dishonour to glory--let me turn theme over asso many leaves. 

The first of the November mornings, but the summer had tarried late, and the wood to the south of our homestead lifted itself like apainted wall against the sky--the squirrel was leaping nimbly andchattering gayly among the fiery tops of the oaks or the dun foliageof the hickory, that shot up its shelving trunk and spread itsforked branches far over the smooth, moss-spotted boles of thebeeches, and the limber boughs of the elms. Lithe and blithe he was, for his harvest was come. 

From the cracked beech-burs was dropping the sweet, angular fruit, and down from the hickory boughs with every gust fell a shower ofnuts--shelling clean and silvery from their thick black hulls. 

Now and then, across the stubble-field, with long cars erect, leapedthe gray hare, but for the most part he kept close in his burrow, for rude huntsmen were on the hills with their dogs, and only whenthe sharp report of a rifle rung through the forest, or the hungryyelping of some trailing hound startled his harmless slumber, mightyou see at the mouth of his burrow the quivering lip and great timideyes. 

Along the margin of the creek, shrunken now away from the blue andgray and yellowish stones that made its cool pavement, and projectedin thick layers from the shelving banks, the white columns ofgigantic sycamores leaped earthward, their bases driven, as itseemed, deep into the ground--all their convolutions of roots buriedout, of view. Dropping into the stagnant waters below, came one byone the broad, rose-tinted leaves, breaking the shadows of thesilver limbs. 

Ruffling and widening to the edges of the pools went the circles, asthe pale, yellow walnuts plashed into their midst; for here, too, grew the parent trees, their black bark cut and jagged and brokeninto rough diamond work. 

That beautiful season was come when

"Rustic girls in hoodsGo gleaning through the woods. "

Two days after this, we said, my dear mate and I, we shall have aholiday, and from sunrise till sunset, with our laps full of ripenuts and orchard fruits, we shall make pleasant pastime. 

Rosalie, for so I may call her, was older than I, with a face ofbeauty and a spirit that never flagged. But to-day there washeaviness in her eyes, and a flushing in her cheek that was deeperthan had been there before. 

Still she spoke gayly, and smiled the old smile, for the gaunt formof sickness had never been among us children, and we knew not howhis touch made the head sick and the heart faint. 

The day looked forward to so anxiously dawned at last; but in thedim chamber of Rosalie the light fell sad. I must go alone. 

We had always been together before, at work and in play, asleep andawake, and I lingered long ere I would be persuaded to leave her;but when she smiled and said the fresh-gathered nuts and shiningapples would make her glad, I wiped her forehead, and turningquickly away that she might not see my tears, was speedily wadingthrough winrows of dead leaves. 

The sensations of that day I shall never forget; a vague andtrembling fear of some coming evil, I knew not what, made me oftenstart as the shadows drifted past me, or a bough crackled beneath myfeet. 

From the low, shrubby hawthorns, I gathered the small red apples, and from beneath the maples, picked by their slim golden stems thenotched and gorgeous leaves. The wind fingered playfully my hair, and clouds of birds went whirring through the tree-tops; but nosight nor sound could divide my thoughts from her whose voice had sooften filled with music these solitary places. 

I remember when first the fear distinctly defined itself. I wasseated on a mossy log, counting the treasures which I had beengathering, when the clatter of hoof-strokes on the clayey andhard-beaten road arrested my attention, and, looking up--for thewood thinned off in the direction of the highway, and left itdistinctly in view--I saw Doctor H----, the physician, in attendanceupon my sick companion. The visit was an unseasonable one. She, whomI loved so, might never come with me to the woods any more. 

Where the hill sloped to the roadside, and the trees, as I said, were but few, was the village graveyard. No friend of mine, no onewhom I had ever known or loved, was buried there--yet with a child'sinstinctive dread of death, I had ever passed its shaggy solitude(for shrubs and trees grew there wild and unattended) with a hurriedstep and averted face. 

Now, for the first time in my life, I walked voluntarilythitherward, and climbing on a log by the fence-side, gazed long andearnestly within. I stood beneath a tall locust-tree, and the small, round leaves; yellow now as the long cloud-bar across the sunset, kept dropping, and dropping at my feet, till all the faded grass wascovered up. There the mattock had never been struck; but in fancy Isaw the small Heaves falling and drifting about a new andsmooth-shaped mound--and, choking with the turbulent outcry in myheart, I glided stealthily homeward--alas! to find the boding shapeI had seen through mists and, shadows awfully palpable. I did notask about Rosalie. I was afraid; but with my rural gleanings in mylap, opened the door of her chamber. The physician had preceded mebut a moment, and, standing by the bedside, was turning toward thelessening light the little wasted hand, the one on which I hadnoticed in the morning a small purple spot. "Mortification!" hesaid, abruptly, and moved away, as though his work were done. 

There was a groan expressive of the sudden and terribleconsciousness which had in it the agony of agonies--the giving up ofall. The gift I had brought fell from my relaxed grasp, and, hidingmy face in the pillow, I gave way to the passionate sorrow of anundisciplined nature. 

When at last I looked up, there was a smile on her lips that nofaintest moan ever displaced again. 

A good man and a skilful physician was Dr. H----, but his infirmitywas a love of strong drink; and, therefore, was it that he softenednot the terrible blow which must soon have fallen. I link with hismemory no reproaches now, for all this is away down in the past; andthat foe that sooner or later biteth like a serpent, soon did hiswork; but then my breaking heart judged him, hardly. Often yet, forin all that is saddest memory is faithfulest, I wake suddenly out ofsleep, and live over that first and bitterest sorrow of my life; andthere is no house of gladness in the world that with a whisper willnot echo the moan of lips pale with the kisses of death. 

Sometimes, when life is gayest about me, an unseen hand leads meapart, and opening the door of that still chambers I go in--theyellow leaves are at my feet again, and that white band between meand the light. 

I see the blue flames quivering and curling close and thesmouldering embers on the hearth. I hear soft footsteps and sobbingvoices and see the clasped hands and placid smile of her who, aloneamong us all, was untroubled; and over the darkness and the pain Ihear voice, saying, "She is not dead, but sleepeth. " Would, dearreader, that you might remember, and I too all ways, the importanceof soft and careful words. One harsh or even thoughtlessly chosenepithet, may bear with it a weight which shall weigh down some heartthrough all life. There are for us all nights of sorrow, in which wefeel their value. Help us, our Father, to remember it!

MR. QUERY'S INVESTIGATION. 

"HE is a good man, suppose, and an excellent doctor, " said Mrs. Salina Simmons, with a dubious shake of her head but----"

"But what, Mrs. Simmons?"

"They say he _drinks!_"

"No, impossible!" exclaimed Mr. Josiah Query, with emphasis. 

"Impossible? I hope so, " said Mrs. Simmons. "And--mind you, I don'tsay he _drinks_, but that such is the report. And I have it upontolerably good authority, too, Mr. Query. "

"What authority?"

"Oh, I couldn't tell that: for you know I never like to makemischief. I can only say that the _report_ is--he drinks. "

Mr. Josiah Query scratched his head. 

"Can it be that Dr. Harvey drinks?" he murmured. "I thought him pureSon of Temperance. And his my family physician, too! I must lookinto this matter forthwith. Mrs. Simmons, you still decline slatingwho is your authority for this report?"

Mrs. Simmons was firm; her companion could gain no satisfaction. Shesoon compelled him to promise that he would not mention her name, ifhe spoke of the affair elsewhere, repeating her remark that shenever liked to make mischief. 

Dr. Harvey was a physician residing in a small village, where heshared the profits of practice with another doctor, named Jones. Dr. Harvey was generally liked and among his friends was Mr. JosiahQuery, whom Mrs. Simmons shocked with the bit of gossip respectingthe doctor's habits of intemperance. Mr. Query was a good-heartedman, and he deemed it his duty to inquire into the nature of thereport, and learn if it had any foundation in truth. Accordingly, bewent to Mr. Green, who also employed the doctor in his family. 

"Mr. Green, " said he, "have you heard anything about this report ofDr. Harvey's intemperance?"

"Dr. Harvey's intemperance?" cried Mr. Green, astonished. 

"Yes--a flying report. "

"No, I'm sure I haven't. "

"Of course, then, you don't know whether it is true or not?"

"What?"

"That he drinks. "

"I never heard of it before. Dr. Harvey is my family physician, andI certainly would not employ a man addicted to the use of ardentspirits. "

"Nor I, " said Mr. Query "and for this reason, and for the doctor'ssake, too, I want to know the truth of the matter. I don't reallycredit it myself; but I thought it would do no harm to inquire. "

Mr. Query next applied to Squire Worthy for information. 

"Dear me!" exclaimed the squire, who was a nervous man; "does Dr. Harvey drink?"

"Such is the rumour; how true it is, I can't say. "

"And what if he should give one of my family a dose of arsenicinstead of the tincture of rhubarb, some time, when he isintoxicated? My mind is made up now. I shall send for Dr. Jones infuture. "

"But, dear sir, " remonstrated Mr. Query. "I don't say the report istrue. "

"Oh, no; you wouldn't wish to commit yourself. You like to know thesafe side, and so do I. I shall employ Dr. Jones. "

Mr. Query turned sorrowfully away. 

"Squire Worthy must have bad suspicions of the doctor's intemperancebefore I came to him, " thought he; "I really begin to fear thatthere is some foundation for the report. I'll go to Mrs. Mason; shewill know. "

Mr. Query found Mrs. Mason ready to listen to and believe anyscandal. She gave her head a significant toss, as if she knew moreabout the report than she chose to confess. 

Mr. Query begged of her to explain herself. 

"Oh, _I_ sha'n't say anything, " exclaimed Mrs. Mason; "I've no illwill against Dr. Harvey, and I'd rather cut off my right hand thaninjure him. "

"But is the report true?"

"True, Mr. Query? Do you suppose _I_ ever saw Dr. Harvey drunk? Thenhow can you expect me to know? Oh, I don't wish to say anythingagainst the man, and I won't. "

After visiting Mrs. Mason, Mr. Query went to half a dozen others tolearn the truth respecting Dr. Harvey's habits. Nobody would confessthat they knew anything, about his drinking; but Mr. Smith "was notas much surprised as others might be;" Mr. Brown "was sorry if thereport was true, " adding, that the best of men had their faults. Miss Single had frequently remarked the doctor's florid complexion, and wondered if his colour was natural; Mr. Clark remembered thatthe doctor appeared unusually gay, on the occasion of his last visitto his family; Mrs. Rogers declared that, when she came to reflect, she believed she had once or twice smelt the man's breath; and Mr. Impulse had often seen him riding at an extraordinary rate for asober Gentleman. Still Mr. Query was unable to ascertain anydefinite facts respecting the unfavourable report. 

Meanwhile, with his usual industry, Dr. Harvey went about hisbusiness, little suspecting the scandalous gossip that wascirculating to his discredit. But he soon perceived he was verycoldly received by some of his old friends, and that others employedDr. Jones. Nobody sent for him, and he might have begun to thinkthat the health of the town was entirely re-established, had he notobserved that his rival appeared driven with business, and that herode night and day. 

One evening Dr. Harvey sat in his office, wondering what could haveoccasioned the sudden and surprising change in his affairs, when, contrary to his expectations, he received a call to visit a sickchild of one of his old friends, who had lately employed his rival. After some hesitation, and a struggle between pride and a sense ofduty, he resolved to respond to the call, and at the same timelearn, if possible, why he had been preferred to Dr. Jones, and whyDr. Jones had on other occasions been preferred to him. 

"The truth is, Dr. Harvey, " said Mr. Miles, "we thought the childdangerously ill, and as Dr. Jones could not come immediately, weconcluded to send for you. "

"I admire your frankness, " responded Dr. Harvey, smiling; "and shalladmire it still more, if you will inform me why you have latelypreferred Dr. Jones to me. Formerly I had the honour of enjoyingyour friendship and esteem, and you have frequently told meyourself, that you would trust no other physician. "

"Well, " replied Mr. Miles, "I am a plain man, and never hesitate totell people what they wish to know. I sent for Dr. Jones instead ofyou, I confess not that I doubted your skill--"

"What then?"

"It is a delicate subject, but I will, nevertheless, speak out. Although I had the utmost confidence in your skill andfaithfulness--I--you know, I--in short, I don't like to trust aphysician who drinks. "

"Sir!" cried the astonished doctor. 

"Yes--drinks, " pursued Mr. Miles. "It is plain language, but I am aplain man. I heard of your intemperance, and thought it unsafe--thatis, dangerous--to employ you. "

"My intemperance!" ejaculated Dr. Harvey. 

"Yes, sir! and I am sorry to know it. But the fact that yousometimes drink a trifle too much is now a well known fact, and isgenerally talked of in the village. "

"Mr. Miles, " cried the indignant doctor, "this is scandalous--it isfalse! Who is your authority for this report?"

"Oh, I have heard it from several mouths but I can't say exactly whois responsible for the rumour. "

And Mr. Miles went on to mention several names, as connected withthe rumour, and among which was that of Mr. Query. 

The indignant doctor immediately set out on a pilgrimage ofinvestigation, going from one house to another, in search of theauthor of the scandal. 

Nobody, however, could state where it originated, but it wasuniversally admitted that the man from whose lips it was firstheard, was Mr. Query. 

Accordingly Dr. Harvey hastened to Mr. Query's house, and demandedof that gentleman what he meant by circulating such scandal. 

"My dear doctor, " cried Mr. Query, his face beaming with consciousinnocence, "_I_ haven't been guilty of any mis-statement about you, I can take my oath. I heard that there was a report of yourdrinking, and all I did was to tell people I didn't believe it, norknow anything about it, and to inquire were it originated. Oh, Iassure you, doctor, I haven't slandered you in any manner. "

"You are a poor fool!" exclaimed Dr. Harvey, perplexed and angry. "If you had gone about town telling everybody that you saw me drunk, daily, you couldn't have slandered me more effectually than youhave. "

"Oh, I beg your pardon, " cried Mr. Query, very sad; "but I thought Iwas doing you a service!"

"Save me from my friends!" exclaimed the doctor, bitterly. "An_enemy_ could not have done me as much injury as you have done. ButI now insist on knowing who first mentioned the report to you. "

"Oh, I am not at liberty to say that. "

"Then I shall hold you responsible for the scandal--for the baselies you have circulated. But if you are really an honest man, andmy friend, you will not hesitate to tell me where this reportoriginated. "

After some reflection, Mr. Query, who stood in mortal fear of theindignant doctor, resolved to reveal the secret, and mentioned thename of his informant, Mrs. Simmons. As Dr. Harvey had not heard herspoken of before, as connected with the report of his intemperance, he knew very well that Mr. Query's "friendly investigations" hadbeen the sole cause of his loss of practice. However, to go to theroots of this Upas tree of scandal, he resolved to pay an immediatevisit to Mrs. Simmons. 

This lady could deny nothing; but she declared that she had notgiven the rumour as a fact, and that she had never spoken of itexcept to Mr. Query. Anxious to throw the responsibility of theslander upon others, she eagerly confessed that, on a certainoccasion upon entering a room in which were Mrs. Guild and Mrs. Harmless, she overheard one of these ladies remark that "Dr. Harveydrank more than ever, " and the other reply, that "she had heard himsay he could not break himself, although he knew his health sufferedin consequence. "

Thus set upon the right track, Dr. Harvey visited Mrs. Guild andMrs. Harmless without delay. 

"Mercy on us!" exclaimed those ladies, when questioned respectingthe matter, "we perfectly remember talking about your _drinkingcoffee_, and making such remarks as you have heard through Mrs. Simmons. But with regard to your _drinking liquor_, we never heardthe report until a week ago, and never believed it at all. "

As what these ladies had said of his _coffee-drinking_ propensitieswas perfectly true, Dr. Harvey readily acquitted them of any designsagainst his character for sobriety, and well satisfied with havingat last discovered the origin of the rumour, returned to thefriendly Mr. Query. 

The humiliation of this gentleman was so deep, that Dr. Harveyavoided reproaches, and confined himself to a simple narrative ofhis discoveries. 

"I see, it is all my fault, " said Mr. Query. "And I will do anythingto remedy it. I never could believe you drank--and now I'll go andtell everybody that the report _was_ false. "

"Oh! bless you, " cried the doctor, "I wouldn't have you do so forthe world. All I ask of you, is to say nothing whatever on thesubject, and if you ever again hear a report of the kind, don't makeit a subject of friendly investigation. "

Mr. Query promised; and, after the truth was known, and, Dr. Harveyhad regained the good-will of the community, together with his shareof medical practice, he never had reason again to exclaim--"Save mefrom my friends!" And Mr. Query was in future exceedingly carefulhow he attempted to make friendly investigations. 

ROOM IN THE WORLD. 

THERE is room in the world for the wealthy and great, For princes to reign in magnificent state;For the courtier to bend, for the noble to sue, If the hearts of all these are but honest and true. 

And there's room in the world for the lowly and meek, For the hard horny hand, and the toil-furrow'd cheek;For the scholar to think, for the merchant to trade, So these are found upright and just in their grade. 

But room there is none for the wicked; and noughtFor the souls that with teeming corruption are fraught. The world would be small, were its oceans all land, To harbour and feed such a pestilent band. 

Root out from among ye, by teaching the mind, By training the heart, this chief curse of mankind!'Tis a duty you owe to the forthcoming race--Confess it in time, and discharge it with grace!

WORDS. 

"THE foolish thing!" said my Aunt Rachel, speaking warmly, "to gethurt at a mere word. It's a little hard that people can't open theirlips but somebody is offended. "

"Words are things!" said I, smiling. 

"Very light things! A person must be tender indeed, that is hurt bya word. "

"The very lightest thing may hurt, if it falls on a tender place. "

"I don't like people who have these tender places, " said AuntRachel. "I never get hurt at what is said to me. No--never! To beever picking and mincing, and chopping off your words--to be afraidto say this or that--for fear somebody will be offended! I can'tabide it. "

"People who have these tender places can't help it, I suppose. Thisbeing so, ought we not to regard their weakness?" said I. "Pain, either of body or mind, is hard to bear, and we should not inflictit causelessly. "

"People who are so wonderfully sensitive, " replied Aunt Rachel, growing warmer, "ought to shut themselves up at home, and not comeamong sensible, good-tempered persons. As far as I am concerned, Ican tell them, one and all, that I am not going to pick out everyhard word from a sentence as carefully as I would seeds from araisin. Let them crack them with their teeth, if they are afraid toswallow them whole. "

Now, for all that Aunt Rachel went on after this strain, she was akind, good soul, in the main, and, I could see, was sorry for havinghurt the feelings of Mary Lane. But she didn't like to acknowledgethat she was in the wrong; that would detract too much from theself-complacency with which she regarded herself. Knowing hercharacter very well, I thought it best not to continue the littleargument about the importance of words, and so changed the subject. But, every now and then, Aunt Rachel would return to it, each timesoftening a little towards Mary. At last she said, "I'm sure it was a little thing. A very little thing. She might haveknown that nothing unkind was intended on my part. "

"There are some subjects, aunt, " I replied, "to which we cannot bearthe slightest allusion. And a sudden reference to them is very aptto throw us off of our guard. What you said to Mary has, in allprobability touched some weakness of character, or probed some woundthat time has not been able to heal. I have always thought her asensible, good-natured girl. "

"And so have I. But I really cannot think that she has showed hergood sense or good nature in the present case. It is a very badfailing this, of being over sensitive; and exceedingly annoying toone's friends. "

"It is, I know; but still, all of, us have a weak point, and to herthat is assailed, we are very apt to betray our feelings. "

"Well, I say now, as I have always said--I don't like to haveanything to do with people who have these weak points. This beinghurt by a word, as if words were blows, is something that does notcome within the range of my sympathies. "

"And yet, aunt, " said I, "all have weak points. Even you are notentirely free from them. "

"Me!" Aunt Rachel bridled. 

"Yes; and if even as light a thing as a word were to fall upon them, you would suffer pain. "

"Pray, sir, " said Aunt Rachel, with much dignity of manner; she waschafed by my words, light as they were, "inform me where theseweaknesses, of which you are pleased to speak, lie. "

"Oh, no; you must excuse me. That would be very much out of place. But I only stated a general fact that appertains to all of us. "

Aunt Rachel looked very grave. I had laid the weight of words upon aweakness of her character, and it had given her pain. That weaknesswas a peculiarly good opinion of herself. I had made no allegationagainst her; and there was none in my mind. My words simplyexpressed the general truth that we all have weaknesses, andincluded her in their application. But she imagined that I referredto some particular defect or fault, and mail-proof as she wasagainst words, they had wounded her. 

For a day or two Aunt Rachel remained more sober than was her wont. I knew the cause, but did not attempt to remove from her mind anyimpression my words had made. One day, about a week after, I said toher, "Aunt Rachel, I saw Mary Lane's mother this morning. "

"Ah?" The old lady looked up at me inquiringly. 

"I don't wonder your words hurt the poor girl, " I added. 

"Why? What did I say?" quickly asked Aunt Rachel. 

"You said that she was a jilt. "

"But I was only jest, and she knew it. I did not really meananything. I'm surprised that Mary should be so foolish. "

"You will not be surprised when you know all, " was my answer. 

"All? What all? I'm sure I wasn't in earnest. I didn't mean to hurtthe poor girl's feelings. " My aunt looked very much troubled. 

"No one blames you, Aunt Rachel, " said I. "Mary knows you didn'tintend wounding her. "

"But why should she take a little word go much to heart? It musthave had more truth in it than I supposed. "

"Did you know that Mary refused an offer of marriage from WalterGreen last week?"

"Why no! It can't be possible! Refused Walter Green?"

"They've been intimate for a long time. "

"I know. "

"She certainly encouraged him. "

"I think it more than probable. "

"Is it possible, then, that she did really jilt the young man?"exclaimed Aunt Rachel. 

"This has been said of her, " I replied. "But so far as I can learn, she was really attached to him, and sufferred great pain inrejecting his offer. Wisely she regarded marriage as the mostimportant event of her life, and refused to make so solemn acontract with one in whose principles she had not the fullestconfidence. "

"But she ought not to have encouraged Walter, if she did not intendmarrying him, " said Aunt Rachel, with some warmth. 

"She encouraged him so long as she thought well of him. A closerview revealed points of character hidden by distance. When she sawthese her feelings were already deeply involved. But, like a truewoman, she turned from the proffered hand, even though while indoing so her heart palpitated with pain. There is nothing falseabout Mary Lane. She could no more trifle with a lover than shecould commit a crime. Think, then, how almost impossible it would befor her to hear herself called, under existing circumstances, evenin sport, a jilt, without being hurt. Words sometimes have power tohurt more than blows. Do you not see this, now, Aunt Rachel?"

"Oh, yes, yes. I see it; and I saw it before, " said the old lady. "And in future I will be more careful of my words. It is pretty latein life to learn this lesson--but we are never too late to learn. Poor Mary! It grieves me to think that I should have hurt her somuch. "

Yes, words often have in them a smarting force, and we cannot be tooguarded how we use them. "Think twice before you speak once, " is atrite but wise saying. We teach it to our children very carefully, but are too apt to forget that it has not lost its application toourselves. 

THE THANKLESS OFFICE. 

"AN object of real charity, " said Andrew Lyon to his wife, as a poorwoman withdrew from the room in which they were seated. 

"If ever there was a worthy object she is one, returned Mrs. Lyon. "A widow, with health so feeble that even ordinary exertion is toomuch for her; yet obliged to support, with the labour of her ownhands, not only herself, but three young children. I do not wonderthat she is behind with her rent. "

"Nor I, " said Mr. Lyon, in a voice of sympathy. "How much, did shesay, was due to her landlord?"

"Ten dollars. "

"She will not be able to pay it. "

"I fear not. How can she? I give her all my extra sewing, and haveobtained work for her from several ladies; but with her best effortsshe can barely obtain food and decent clothing for herself andbabes. "

"Does it not seem hard, " remarked Mr. Lyon, "that one like Mrs. Arnold, who is so earnest in her efforts to take care of herself andfamily, should not receive a helping hand from some one of the manywho could help her without feeling the effort? If I didn't find itso hard to make both ends meet, I would pay off her arrears of rentfor her, and feel happy in so doing. "

"Ah!" exclaimed the kind-hearted wife, "how much I wish that we wereable to do this! But we are not. "

"I'll tell you what we can do, " said Mr. Lyon, in a cheerful voice;"or rather what _I_ can do. It will be a very light matter for sayten persons to give a dollar apiece, in order to relieve Mrs. Arnoldfrom her present trouble. There are plenty who would cheerfullycontribute, for this good purpose; all that is wanted is some one totake upon himself the business of making the collections. That taskshall be mine. "

"How glad I am, James, to hear you say so!" smilingly replied Mrs. Lyon. "Oh, what a relief it will be to poor Mrs. Arnold. It willmake her heart as light as a feather. That rent has troubled hersadly. Old Links, her landlord, has been worrying her about it agood deal, and, only a week ago, threatened to put her things in thestreet, if she didn't pay up. "

"I should have thought of this before, " remarked Andrew Lyon. "Thereare hundreds of people who are willing enough to give if they wereonly certain in regard to the object. Here is one worthy enough inevery way. Be it my business to present her claims to benevolentconsideration. Let me see. To whom shall I go? There are Jones, andGreen, and Tompkins. I can get a dollar from each of them. That willbe three dollars, --and one from myself, will make four. Who else isthere? Oh, Malcolm! I'm sure of a dollar from him; and also fromSmith, Todd, and Perry. "

Confident in the success of his benevolent scheme, Mr. Lyon startedforth, early on the very next day, for the purpose of obtaining, bysubscription, the poor widow's rent. The first person he called onwas Malcolm. 

"Ah, friend Lyon!" said Malcolm, smiling blandly, "Good morning!What can I do for you, to-day?"

"Nothing for me, but something for a poor widow, who is behind withher rent, " replied Andrew Lyon. "I want just one dollar from you, and as much more from some eight or nine as benevolent as yourself. "

At the word poor widow the countenance of Malcolm fell, and when hisvisiter ceased, he replied, in a changed and husky voice, clearinghis throat two or three times as he spoke. 

"Are you sure she is deserving, Mr. Lyon?" The man's manner hadbecome exceedingly grave. 

"None more so, " was the prompt answer. "She is in poor health, andhas three children to support with the product of her needle. If anyone needs assistance, it is Mrs. Arnold. "

"Oh! Ah! The widow of Jacob Arnold?"

"The same, " replied Andrew Lyon. 

Malcolm's face did not brighten with a feeling of heart-warmbenevolence. But he turned slowly away, and opening hismoney-drawer, _very slowly_ toyed with his fingers amid itscontents. At length he took therefrom a dollar bill, and said, as hepresented it to Lyon, --signing involuntarily as he did so, --

"I suppose I must do my part. But we are called upon so often. "

The ardour of Andrew Lyon's benevolent feelings suddenly cooled atthis unexpected reception. He had entered upon his work under theglow of a pure enthusiasm; anticipating a hearty response the momenthis errand was made known. 

"I thank you in the widow's name, " said he, as he took the dollar. When he turned from Mr. Malcolm's store, it was with a pressure onhis feelings, as if he had asked the coldly-given favour forhimself. 

It was not without an effort that Lyon compelled himself to callupon Mr. Green, considered the "next best man" on his list. But heentered his place of business with far less confidence than he hadfelt when calling upon Malcolm. His story told, Green, without aword or smile, drew two half dollars from his pocket and presentedthem. 

"Thank you, " said Lyon. 

"Welcome, " returned Green. 

Oppressed with a feeling of embarrassment, Lyon stood for a fewmoments. Then bowing, he said, "Good morning. "

"Good morning, " was coldly and formally responded. 

And thus the alms-seeker and alms-giver parted. 

"Better be at his shop, attending to his work, " muttered Green tohimself, as his visiter retired. "Men ain't very apt to get alongtoo well in the world who spend their time in begging for everyobject of charity that happens to turn up. And there are plenty ofsuch, dear knows. He's got a dollar out of me; may it do him, or thepoor widow he talked so glibly about, much good. "

Cold water had been poured upon the feelings of Andrew Lyon. He hadraised two dollars for the poor widow, but, at what a sacrifice forone so sensitive as himself! Instead of keeping on in his work ofbenevolence, he went to his shop, and entered upon the day'semployment. How disappointed he felt;--and this disappointment wasmingled with a certain sense of humiliation, as if he had beenasking alms for himself. 

"Catch me at this work again!" he said half aloud, as his thoughtsdwelt upon what had so recently occurred. "But this is not right, "he added, quickly. "It is a weakness in me to feel so. Poor Mrs. Arnold must be relieved; and it is my duty to see that she getsrelief. I had no thought of a reception like this. People can talkof benevolence; but putting the hand in the pocket is another affairaltogether. I never dreamed that such men as Malcolm and Green couldbe insensible to an appeal like the one I made. "

"I've got two dollars towards paying Mrs. Arnold's rent, " he said tohimself, in a more cheerful tone, some time afterwards; "and it willgo hard if I don't raise the whole amount for her. All are not likeGreen and Malcolm. Jones is a kind-hearted man, and will instantlyrespond to the call of humanity. I'll go and see him. "

So, off Andrew Lyon started to see this individual. 

"I've come begging, Mr. Jones, " said he, on meeting him. And hespoke in a frank, pleasant manner, "Then you've come to the wrong shop; that's all I have to say, " wasthe blunt answer. 

"Don't say that, Mr. Jones. Hear my story first. "

"I do say it, and I'm in earnest, " returned Jones. "I feel as pooras Job's turkey to-day. "

"I only want a dollar to help a poor widow pay her rent, " said Lyon. 

"Oh, hang all the poor widows! If that's your game, you'll getnothing here. I've got my hands full to pay my own rent. A nice timeI'd have in handing out a dollar to every poor widow in town to helppay her rent! No, no, my friend, you can't get anything here. "

"Just as you feel about it, " said Andrew Lyon. "There's nocompulsion in the matter. "

"No, I presume not, " was rather coldly replied. 

Lyon returned to his shop, still more disheartened than before. Hehad undertaken a thankless office. 

Nearly two hours elapsed before his resolution to persevere in thegood work he had begun came back with sufficient force to prompt toanother effort. Then he dropped in upon his neighbour Tompkins, towhom he made known his errand. 

"Why, yes, I suppose I must do something in a case like this, " saidTompkins, with the tone and air of a man who was cornered. "Butthere are so many calls for charity, that we are naturally enoughled to hold on pretty tightly to our purse strings. Poor woman! Ifeel sorry for her. How much do you want?"

"I am trying to get ten persons, including myself, to give a dollareach. "

"Well, here's my dollar. " And Tompkins forced a smile to his face ashe handed over his contribution, --but the smile did not conceal anexpression which said very plainly--

"I hope you will not trouble me again in this way. "

"You may be sure I will not, " muttered Lyon, as he went away. Hefully understood the meaning of the expression. 

Only one more application did the kind-hearted man make. It wassuccessful; but there was something in the manner of the individualwho gave his dollar, that Lyon felt as a rebuke. 

"And so poor Mrs. Arnold did not get the whole of her arrears ofrent paid off, " says some one who has felt an interest in herfavour. 

Oh, yes she did. Mr. Lyon begged five dollars, and added five morefrom his own slender purse. But, he cannot be induced again toundertake the thankless office of seeking relief from the benevolentfor a fellow creature in need. He has learned that a great many whorefuse alms on the plea that the object presented is not worthy, arebut little more inclined to charitable deeds, when on this pointthere is no question. 

How many who read this can sympathize with Andrew Lyon! Few men whohave hearts to feel for others but have been impelled, at some timein their lives, to seek aid for a fellow creature in need. Thattheir office was a thankless one, they have too soon become aware. Even those who responded to their call most liberally, in too manyinstances gave in a way that left an unpleasant impression behind. How quickly has the first glow of generous feeling, that sought toextend itself to others, that they might share the pleasure ofhumanity, been chilled; and, instead of finding the task an easyone, it has proved to be hard, and, too often, humiliating! Alasthat this should be! That men should shut their hearts soinstinctively at the voice of charity!

We have not written this to discourage active efforts in thebenevolent; but to hold up a mirror in which another class may seethemselves. At best, the office of him who seeks of his fellow menaid for the suffering and indigent, is an unpleasant one. It is allsacrifice on his part, and the least that can be done is to honourhis disinterested regard for others in distress, and treat him withdelicacy and consideration. 

LOVE. 

OH! if there is one law above the rest, Written in Wisdom--if there is a wordThat I would trace as with a pen of fireUpon the unsullied temper of a child--If there is anything that keeps the mindOpen to angel visits, and repelsThe ministry of ill--_'tis Human Love!_God has made nothing worthy of contempt;The smallest pebble in the well of TruthHas its peculiar meanings, and will standWhen man's best monuments wear fast away. The law of Heaven is _Love_--and though its nameHas been usurped by passion, and profanedTo its unholy uses through all time, Still, the external principle is pure;And in these deep affections that we feelOmnipotent within us, can we seeThe lavish measure in which love is given. And in the yearning tenderness of a childFor every bird that sings above its head, And every creature feeding on the hills, And every tree and flower, and running brook, We see how everything was made to love, And how they err, who, in a world like this, Find anything to hate but human pride. 

"EVERY LITTLE HELPS. "

WHAT if a drop of rain should plead-- "So small a drop as ICan ne'er refresh the thirsty mead; I'll tarry in the sky?"

What, if the shining beam of noon Should in its fountain stay;Because its feeble light alone Cannot create a day?

Does not each rain-drop help to form The cool refreshing shower?And every ray of light, to warm And beautify the flower?

LITTLE THINGS. 

SCORN not the slightest word or deed, Nor deem it void of power;There's fruit in each wind-wafted seed, Waiting its natal hour. A whispered word may touch the heart, And call it back to life;A look of love bid sin depart, And still unholy strife. 

No act falls fruitless; none can tell How vast its power may be, Nor what results enfolded dwell Within it silently. Work and despair not; give thy mite, Nor care how small it be;God is with all that serve the right, The holy, true, and free!

CARELESS WORDS. 

FIVE years ago, this fair November day, --five years? it seems butyesterday, so fresh is that scene in my memory; and, I doubt not, were the period ten times multiplied, it would be as vivid still tous--the surviving actors in that drama! The touch of time, whichblunts the piercing thorn, as well as steals from the rose itslovely tints, is powerless here, unless to give darker shades tothat picture engraven on our souls; and tears--ah, they only make itmore imperishable!

We do not speak of her now; her name has not passed our lips in eachother's presence, since we followed her--grief-stricken mourners-tothe grave, to which--alas, alas! but why should not the truth bespoken? the grave to which our careless words consigned her. But onevery anniversary of that day we can never forget, uninvited by me, and without any previous arrangement between themselves, those twofriends have come to my house, and together we have sat, almostsilently, save when Ada's sweet voice has poured forth a low, plaintive strain to the mournful chords Mary has made the harp tobreathe. Four years ago, that cousin came too; and since then, though he has been thousands of miles distant from us, when, thatanniversary has returned, he has written to me: he cannot look intomy face when that letter is penned; he but looks into his own heart, and he cannot withhold the words of remorse and agony. 

Ada and Mary have sat with me to-day, and we knew that Rowland, inthought, was here too; ah, if we could have known another had beenamong us, --if we could have felt that an eye was upon us, which willnever more dim with tears, a heart was near us which carelessnesscan never wound again;--could we have known she had been here--thatpure, bright angel, with the smile of forgiveness and love on thatbeautiful face--the dark veil of sorrow might have been lifted fromour souls! but we saw only with mortal vision; our faith was feeble, and we have only drawn that sombre mantle more and more closelyabout us. The forgiveness we have so many tim es prayed for, we havenot yet dared to receive, though we know it is our own. 

That November day was just what this has been fair, mild, and sweet;and how much did that dear one enjoy it! The earth was dry, and aswe looked from the window we saw no verdure but a small line ofgreen on the south side of the garden enclosure, and around thetrunk of the old pear-tree, and here and there a little oasis fromwhich the strong wind of the previous day, had lifted the thickcovering of dry leaves, and one or two shrubs, whose foliage fearednot the cold breath of winter. The gaudy hues, too, which nature hadlately worn, were all faded; there was a pale, yellow-leafed vineclambering over the verdureless lilac, and far down in the gardenmight be seen a shrub covered with bright scarlet berries. But thewarm south wind was sweet and fragrant, as if it had strayed throughbowers of roses and eglantines. Deep-leaden and snow-white cloudsblended together, floated lazily through the sky, and the suncoquetted all day with the earth, though his glance was not, foronce, more than half averted, while his smile was bright and loving, as it bad been months before, when her face was fair and blooming. 

But how sadly has this day passed, and how unlike is this calm, sweet evening to the one which closed that November day! Nature isthe same. The moonbeams look as bright and silvery through thebrown, naked arms of the tall oaks, and the dark evergreen forestlifts up its head to the sky, striving, but in vain, to shut outthe, soft light from the little stream, whose murmurings, seem moresad and complaining than at another season of the year, perhapsbecause it feels how soon the icy bands of winter will stay its freecourse, and hush its low whisperings. The soft breeze sighs as sadlythrough the vines which still wreath themselves around the window;though seemingly conscious they have ceased to adorn it, they arestriving to loosen their bold, and bow themselves to the earth; andthe, chirping of a cricket in the chimney is as sad and mournful asit was then. But the low moan of the sufferer, the buthalf-smothered, agonized sobs of those fair girls, the deep groanwhich all my proud cousin's firmness could not hush, and the wordsof reproach, which, though I was so guilty myself, and though I sawthem so repentant, I could not withhold, are all stilled now. 

Ada and Mary have just left me, and I am sitting alone in myapartment. Not a sound reaches me but the whisperings of the wind, the murmuring of the stream, and the chirping of that solitarycricket. The family know my heart is heavy to-night, and the voicesare hushed, and the footsteps fall lightly. Lily, dear Lily, artthou near me?

Five years and some months ago--it was in early June--there came toour home from far away in the sunny South, a fair young creature, arelative of ours, though we had never seen her before. She had beenmotherless rather less than a year, but her father had already foundanother partner, and feeling that she would not so soon see theplace of the dearly-loved parent filled by a stranger, she hadobtained his permission to spend a few months with those who couldsympathize with her in her griefs. 

Lily White! She was rightly named; I have never seen such a fair, delicate face and figure, nor watched the revealings of a nature sopure and gentle as was hers. She would have been too fair anddelicate to be beautiful, but for the brilliancy of those deep blueeyes, the dark shade of that glossy hair, and the litheness of thatfragile form; but when months had passed away, and, though the browwas still marble white, and the lip colourless, the cheek wore thatdeep rose tint, how surpassingly beautiful she was! We did not dreamwhat had planted that rose-tint there--we thought her to be throwingoff the grief which alone, we believed, had paled her cheek; and wedid not observe that her form was becoming more delicate, and thather step was losing its lightness and elasticity. We loved the sweetLily dearly at first sight, and she had been with us but a shorttime before we began to wonder how our home had ever seemed perfectto us previous to her coming. And our affection was returned by thedear girl. We knew how much she loved us, when, as the warm seasonhad passed, and her father sent for her to return home, we saw theexpression of deep sorrow in every feature, and the silent entreatythat we would persuade him to allow her to remain with us still. 

She did not thank me when a letter reached me from her father, inreply to one which, unknown to her, I had sent him, saying, if Ithought Lily's health would not be injured by a winter's residencein our cold climate, he would comply with my urgent request, andallow her to remain with us until the following spring--the deargirl could not speak. She came to me almost totteringly, and woundher arms about my neck, resting her head on mine, and tears fromthose sweet eyes fell fast over my face; and all the remainder ofthat afternoon she lay on her couch. Oh, why did I not thinkwherefore she was so much overcome?

Ada L----and Mary R----, two friends whom I had loved fromchildhood, I had selected as companions for our dear Lily on herarrival among us, and the young ladies, from their firstintroduction to her, had vied with me in my endeavours to dispel thegloom from that fair face, and to make her happy; and they shared, almost equally with her relatives, dear Lily's affections. 

Ada--she is changed now--was a gay, brilliant, daring girl; Mary, witty and playful, though frank and warm-hearted; but it made melove them more than ever. The gaiety and audacity of the one wasforgotten in the presence of the thoughtful, timid Lily: and theother checked the merry jest which trembled on her lips, and soberedthat roguish eye beside the earnest, sensitive girl; so that, thoughwe were together almost daily, dear Lily did not understand thecharacter of the young ladies. 

The warm season had passed away, and October brought an addition toour household--Cousin Rowland--as handsome, kind-hearted, andgood-natured a fellow as ever lived, but a little cowardly, if thedread of the raillery of a beautiful woman may be called cowardice. 

Cousin Rowland and dear Lily were mutually pleased with each other, it was very evident to me, though Ada and Mary failed to see it;for, in the presence of the young ladies, Rowland did not show herthose little delicate attentions which, alone with me, who was veryunobservant, he took no pains to conceal; and Lily did not hide fromme her blushing face--her eyes only thanked me for the expressionwhich met her gaze. 

That November day--I dread to approach it! Lily and I were sittingbeside each other, looking down the street, and watching the returnof the carriage which Rowland had gone out with to bring Ada andMary to our house; or, rather, Lily was looking for its coming--myeyes were resting on her face. It had never looked so beautiful tome before. Her brow was so purely white, her cheek was so deeplyred, and that dark eye was so lustrous; but her face was very thin, and her breathing, I observed, was faint and difficult. A pang shotthrough my heart. 

"Lily, are you well?" I exclaimed, suddenly. 

She fixed her eyes on mine. I was too much excited by my sudden fearto read their expression, but when our friends came in, the deargirl seemed so cheerful and happy--I remembered, afterwards, I hadnever seen her so gay as on that afternoon--that my suspicionsgradually left me. 

The hours were passing pleasantly away, when a letter was brought infor Lily. It was from her father, and the young lady retired toperuse it. The eye of Rowland followed her as she passed out of theroom, and I observed a shadow flit across his brow. I afterwardslearned that at the moment a thought was passing through his mindsimilar to that which had so terrified me an hour before. Ourvisiters remarked it, too, but little suspected its cause; andMary's eye met, with a most roguish look, Ada's rather inquiringgaze. 

"When does Lily intend to return home, S----?" she inquired, as shebent, very demurely, over her embroidery. "I thought she was makingpreparations to go before Rowland came here!" and she raised hereyes so cunningly to my face, that I could not forbear answering, "I hear nothing of her return, now. Perhaps she will remain with usduring the winter. "

"Indeed!" exclaimed Ada, and her voice expressed much surprise. "Iwonder if I could make such a prolonged visit interesting to afriend!"

"Why, Lily considers herself conferring a great favour by remaininghere, " replied Mary. 

"On whom?" asked Rowland, quickly. 

"On all of use of course;" and to Mary's great delight she perceivedthat her meaning words had the effect she desired on the young man. 

"I hope she will not neglect the duty she owes her family, for thesake of showing us this great kindness, " said Rowland, with affectedcarelessness, though he walked across the apartment with a veryimpatient step. 

"Lily has not again been guilty of the error she so frequentlycommits, has she, S----?" asked Ada, in a lower but still far toodistinct tone; "that of supposing herself loved and admired whereshe is only pitied and endured?" and the merry creature fairlyexulted in the annoyance which his deepened colour told her she wascausing the young man. 

A slight sound from the apartment adjoining the parlour attracted myattention. Had Lily stopped there to read her letter instead ofgoing to her chamber? and had she, consequently, overheard ourfoolish remarks? The door was slightly ajar, and I pushed it open. There was a slight rustling, but I thought it only the waving of thewindow curtain. 

A half-hour passed away, and Lily had not returned to us. I began tobe alarmed, and my companions partook of my fears. Had she overheardus? and, if so, what must that sensitive heart be suffering?

I went out to call her; but half way up the flight of stairs I sawthe letter from her father lying on the carpet, unopened, though ithad been torn from its envelope. I know not how I found my way upstairs, but I stood by Lily's bed. 

Merciful Heaven! what a sight was presented to my gaze. The whitecovering was stained with blood, and from those cold, pale lips thered drops were fast falling. Her eyes turned slowly till they restedon mine. What a look was that! I see it now; so full of grief; sofull of reproach; and then they closed. I thought her dead, and myfrantic shrieks called my companions to her bedside. They arousedher, too, from that swoon, but they did not awaken her toconsciousness. She never more turned a look of recognition on us, orseemed to be aware that we were near her. Through all that night, solong and so full of agony to us, she was murmuring, incoherently, toherself, "They did not know I was dying, " she would say; "that I have beendying ever since I have been here! They have not dreamed of mysufferings through these long months; I could not tell them, for Ibelieved they loved me, and I would not grieve them. But no oneloves me--not one in the wide world cares for me! My mother, youwill not have forgotten your child when you meet me in thespirit-land! Their loved tones made me deaf to the voice which wascalling to me from the grave, and the sunshine of _his_ smile brokethrough the dark cloud which death was drawing around me. Oh, Iwould have lived, but death, I thought, would lose half itsbitterness, could I breathe my last in their arms! But, now, I mustdie alone! Oh, how shall I reach my home--how shall I ever reachmy home?"

Dear Lily! The passage was short; when morning dawned, she was_there. _

HOW TO BE HAPPY. 

A BOON of inestimable worth is a calm, thankful heart--a treasurethat few, very few, possess. We once met an old man, whose face wasa mixture of smiles and sunshine. Wherever he went, he succeeded inmaking everybody about him as pleasant as himself. 

Said we, one day, --for he was one of that delightful class whomeverybody feels privileged to be related to, --"Uncle, uncle, how_is_ it that you contrive to be so happy? Why is your face socheerful, when so many thousands are craped over with a mostuncomfortable gloominess?"

"My dear young friend, " he answered, with his placid smile, "I ameven as others, afflicted with infirmities; I have had my share ofsorrow--some would say more--but I have found out the secret ofbeing happy, and it is this:

"_Forget self_. "

"Until you do that, you can lay but little claim to a cheerfulspirit. 'Forget what manner of man you are, ' and think more with, rejoice more for, your neighbours. If I am poor, let me look upon myricher friend, and in estimating his blessings, forget myprivations. 

"If my neighbour is building a house, let me watch with him itsprogress, and think, 'Well, what a comfortable place it will be, tobe sure; how much he may enjoy it with his family. ' Thus I have adouble pleasure--that of delight in noting the structure as itexpands into beauty, and making my neighbour's weal mine. If he hasplanted a fine garden, I feast my eyes on the flowers, smell theirfragrance: could I do more if it was my own?

"Another has a family of fine children; they bless him and areblessed by him; mine are all gone before me; I have none that bearmy name; shall I, therefore, envy my neighbour his lovely children?No; let me enjoy their innocent smiles with him; let me _forgetmyself_--my tears when they were put away in darkness; or if I weep, may it be for joy that God took them untainted to dwell with Hisholy angels for ever. 

"Believe an old man when he says there is great pleasure in livingfor others. The heart of the selfish man is like a city full ofcrooked lanes. If a generous thought from some glorious templestrays in there, wo to it--it is lost. It wanders about, and wandersabout, until enveloped in darkness; as the mist of selfishnessgathers around, it lies down upon some cold thought to die, and isshrouded in oblivion. 

"So, if you would be happy, shun selfishness; do a kindly deed forthis one, speak a kindly word for another. He who is constantlygiving pleasure, is constantly receiving it. The little river givesto the great ocean, and the more it gives the faster it runs. Stopits flowing, and the hot sun would dry it up, till it would be butfilthy mud, sending forth bad odours, and corrupting the fresh airof Heaven. Keep your heart constantly travelling on errands ofmercy--it has feet that never tire, hands that cannot beoverburdened, eyes that never sleep; freight its hands withblessings, direct its eyes--no matter how narrow your sphere--to thenearest object of suffering, and relieve it. 

"I say, my dear young friend, take the word of an old man for it, who has tried every known panacea, and found all to fail, exceptthis golden rule, "_Forget self, and keep the heart busy for others. _"

CHARITY. --ITS OBJECTS. 

THE great Teacher, on being asked "Who is my neighbour?" replied "Aman went down from Jerusalem to Jericho, " and the parable whichfollowed is the most beautiful which language has ever recorded. Story-telling, though often abused, is the medium by which truth canbe most irresistibly conveyed to the majority of minds, and in thepresent instance we have a desire to portray in some slight degreethe importance of Charity in every-day life. 

A great deal has been said and written on the subject ofindiscriminate giving, and many who have little sympathy with theneedy or distressed, make the supposed unworthiness of the object anexcuse for withholding their alms; while others, who really possessa large proportion of the milk of human kindness, in awaiting_great_ opportunities to do good, overlook all in their immediatepathway, as beneath their notice. And yet it was the "widow's mite"which, amid the many rich gifts cast into the treasury, won theapproval of the Searcher of Hearts; and we have His assurance that acup of cold water given in a proper spirit shall not lose itsreward. 

Our design in the present sketch is to call the attention of thesofter sex to a subject which has in too many instances escapedtheir attention; for our ideas of Charity embrace a wide field, andwe hold that it should at all times be united with justice, whenthose less favoured than themselves are concerned. 

"I do not intend hereafter to have washing done more than once intwo weeks, " said the rich Mrs. Percy, in reply to an observation ofher husband, who was standing at the window, looking at a woman whowas up to her knees in the snow, hanging clothes on a line in theyard. "I declare it is too bad, to be paying that poking old thing ahalf-a-dollar a week for our wash, and only six in the family. Thereshe has been at it since seven o'clock this morning, and now it isalmost four. It will require but two or three hours longer if I gether once a fortnight, and I shall save twenty-five cents a week byit. "

"When your own sex are concerned, you women are the _closest_beings, " said Mr. P. , laughing. "Do just as you please, however, " hecontinued, as he observed a brown gather on the brow of his wife;"for my part I should be glad if washing-days were blotted entirelyfrom the calendar. "

At this moment the washerwoman passed the window with her stiffenedskirts and almost frozen hands and arms. Some emotions of pitystirring in his breast at the sight, he again asked, "Do you thinkit will be exactly right, my dear, to make old Phoebe do the sameamount of labour for half the wages?"

"Of course it will, " replied Mrs. Percy, decidedly; "we are bound todo the best we can for ourselves. If she objects, she can say so. There are plenty of poor I can get who will be glad to come, and bythis arrangement I shall save thirteen dollars a year. "

"So much, " returned Mr. P. , carelessly; "how these things do runup!" Here the matter ended as far as they were concerned. Not sowith "old Phoebe, " as she was called. In reality, however, Phoebewas not yet forty; it was care and hardship which had seamed heronce blooming face, and brought on prematurely the appearance ofage. On going to Mrs. Percy in the evening after she had finishedher wash, for the meagre sum she had earned, that lady had spokensomewhat harshly about her being so slow, and mentioned the newarrangement she intended to carry into effect, leaving it optionalwith the poor woman to accept or decline. After a moment'shesitation, Phoebe, whose necessities allowed her no choice, agreedto her proposal, and the lady, who had been fumbling in her purse, remarked:--

"I have no change, nothing less than this three-dollar bill. SupposeI pay you by the month hereafter; it will save me a great deal oftrouble, and I will try to give you your dollar a month regularly. "

Phoebe's pale cheek waxed still more ghastly as Mrs. Percy spoke, but it was not within that lady's province to notice the colour of awasherwoman's face. She did, however, observe her lingering, wearysteps as she proceeded through the yard, and conscience whisperedsome reproaches, which were so unpleasant and unwelcome, that sheendeavoured to dispel them by turning to the luxurious supper whichwas spread before her. And here I would pause to observe, thatwhatever method may be adopted to reconcile the conscience towithholding money so justly due, so hardly earned, she disobeyed thepositive injunction of that God who has not left the time of paymentoptional with ourselves, but who has said--"The wages of him that ishired, shall not abide with thee all night until the morning. "--Lev. 19 chap. 13th verse. 

The husband of Phoebe was a day labourer; when not intoxicated hewas kind; but this was of rare occurrence, for most of his earningswent for ardent spirits, and the labour of the poor wife and motherwas the main support of herself and four children--the eldest nineyears, the youngest only eighteen months old. As she neared thewretched hovel she had left early in the morning, she saw the facesof her four little ones pressed close against the window. 

"Mother's coming, mother's coming!" they shouted, as they watchedher approaching through the gloom, and as she unlocked the door, which she had been obliged to fasten to keep them from strayingaway, they all sprang to her arms at once. 

"God bless you, my babes!" she exclaimed, gathering them to herheart, "you have not been a minute absent from my mind this day. Andwhat have _you_ suffered, " she added, clasping the youngest, asickly, attenuated-looking object, to her breast. "Oh! it is hard, my little Mary, to leave you to the tender mercies of childrenhardly able to take care of themselves. " And as the baby nestled itshead closer to her side, and lifted its pale, imploring face, theanguished mother's fortitude gave way, and she burst into an agonyof tears and sobbings. By-the-by, do some mothers, as they sit bythe softly-lined cradles of their own beloved babes, ever think uponthe sufferings of those hapless little ones, many times left with ascanty supply of food, and no fire, on a cold winter day, while theparent is earning the pittance which is to preserve them fromstarvation? And lest some may suppose that we are drawing largelyupon our imagination, we will mention, in this place, that we knewof a child left under such circumstances, and half-perishing withcold, who was nearly burned to death by some hops (for there was nofuel to be found), which it scraped together in its ragged apron, and set on fire with a coal found in the ashes. 

Phoebe did not indulge long in grief, however she forgot her wearylimbs, and bustling about, soon made up a fire, and boiled somepotatoes, which constituted their supper--after which she nursed thechildren, two at a time, for a while, and then put them tenderly tobed. Her husband had not come home, and as he was nearly alwaysintoxicated, and sometimes ill-treated her sadly, she felt hisabsence a relief. Sitting over a handful of coals, she attempted todry her wet feet; every bone in her body ached, for she was notnaturally strong, and leaning her head on her hand, she allowed thebig tears to course slowly down her cheeks, without making anyattempt to wipe them away, while she murmured:

"Thirteen dollars a year gone! What is to become of us? I cannot gethelp from those authorized by law to assist the poor, unless I agreeto put out my children, and I cannot live and see them abused andover-worked at their tender age. And people think their father mightsupport us; but how can I help it that he spends all his earnings indrink? And rich as Mrs. Percy is, she did not pay me my wagesto-night, and now I cannot get the yarn for my baby's stockings, andher little limbs must remain cold awhile longer; and I must dowithout the flour, too, that I was going to make into bread, and thepotatoes are almost gone. "

Here Phoebe's emotions overcame her, and she ceased speaking. Aftera while, she continued--

"Mrs. Percy also blamed me for being so slow; she did not know thatI was up half the night, and that my head has ached ready to splitall day. Oh! dear, oh! dear, oh! dear, if it were not for my babes, I should yearn for the quiet of the grave!"

And with a long, quivering sigh, such as one might heave at therending of soul and body, Phoebe was silent. 

Daughters of luxury! did it ever occur to you that we are all thechildren of one common Parent? Oh, look hereafter with pity on thosefaces where the records of suffering are deeply graven, and remember"_Be ye warmed and filled_, " will not suffice, unless the handexecutes the promptings of the heart. After awhile, as the fire diedout, Phoebe crept to her miserable pallet, crushed with the prospectof the days of toil which were still before her, and haunted by theidea of sickness and death, brought on by over-taxation of herbodily powers, while in case of such an event, she was tortured bythe reflection--"what is to become of my children?"

Ah, this anxiety is the true bitterness of death, to the friendlessand poverty-stricken parent. In this way she passed the night, torenew, with the dawn, the toils and cares which were fast closingtheir work on her. We will not say what Phoebe, under othercircumstances, might have been. She possessed every noble attributecommon to woman, without education, or training, but she was notprepossessing in her appearance; and Mrs. Percy, who never studiedcharacter, or sympathized with menials, or strangers, would havelaughed at the idea of dwelling with compassion on the lot of herwasherwoman with a drunken husband. Yet her feelings sometimesbecame interested for the poor she heard of abroad, the poor sheread of, and she would now and then descant largely on the few casesof actual distress which had chanced to come under her notice, andthe little opportunity she enjoyed of bestowing alms. Superficial inher mode of thinking and observation, her ideas of charity werelimited, forgetful that to be true it must be a pervading principleof life, and can be exercised even in the bestowal of a graciousword or smile, which, under peculiar circumstances, may raise abrother from the dust--and thus win the approval of Him, who, although the Lord of angels, was pleased to say of her who broughtbut the "box of spikenard"--with tears of love--"_She hath done whatshe could. _"

THE VISION OF BOATS. 

ONE morn, when the Day-god, yet hidden By the mist that the mountain enshrouds, Was hoarding up hyacinth blossoms, And roses, to fling at the clouds;I saw from the casement, that northward Looks out on the Valley of Pines, (The casement, where all day in summer, You hear the drew drop from the vines), White shapes 'mid the purple wreaths glancing, Like the banners of hosts at strife;But I knew they were silvery pennons Of boats on the River of Life. And I watched, as the, mist cleared upward, Half hoping, yet fearing to seeOn that rapid and rock-sown River, What the fate of the boats might be. 

There were some that sped cheerily onward, With white sails gallantly spreadYet ever there sat at the look-out, One, watching for danger ahead. No fragrant and song-haunted island, No golden and gem-studded coastCould win, with its ravishing beauty, The watcher away from his post. 

When the tempest crouched low on the waters, And fiercely the hurricane swept, With furled sails, cautiously wearing, Still onward in safety they kept. And many sailed well for a season, When river and sky were serene, And leisurely swung the light rudder, 'Twixt borders of blossoming green. 

But the Storm-King came out from his caverns, With whirlwind, and lightning, and rain;And my eyes, that grew dim for a moment, Saw but the rent canvas again. Then sorely I wept the ill-fated! Yea, bitterly wept, for I knewThey had learned but the fair-weather wisdom, That a moment of trial o'erthrew. 

And one in its swift sinking, parted A placid and sun-bright wave;Oh, deftly the rock was hidden, That keepeth that voyager's grave!And I sorrowed to think how little Of aid from, a kindly hand, Might have guided the beautiful vessel Away from the treacherous strand. 

And I watched with a murmur of, blessing, The few that on either shoreWere setting up signals of warning, Where many had perished before. But now, as the sunlight came creeping Through the half-opened lids of the morn, Fast faded that wonderful pageant, Of shadows and drowsiness born. 

And no sound could I hear but the sighing Of winds, in the Valley of Pines;And the heavy, monotonous dropping Of dew from the shivering vines. But all day, 'mid the clashing of Labour, And the city's unmusical notes, With thoughts that went seeking the hidden, I pondered that Vision of Boats. 

REGULATION OF THE TEMPER. 

THERE is considerable ground for thinking that the opinion verygenerally prevails that the temper is something beyond the power ofregulation, control, or government. A good temper, too, if we mayjudge from the usual excuses for the want of it, is hardly regardedin the light of an attainable quality. To be slow in taking offence, and moderate in the expression of resentment, in which things goodtemper consists, seems to be generally reckoned rather among thegifts of nature, the privileges of a happy constitution, than amongthe possible results of careful self-discipline. When we have beenfretted by some petty grievance, or, hurried by some reasonablecause of offence into a degree of anger far beyond what the occasionrequired, our subsequent regret is seldom of a kind for which we arelikely to be much better. We bewail ourselves for a misfortune, rather than condemn ourselves for a fault. We speak of our unhappytemper as if it were something that entirely removed the blame fromus, and threw it all upon the peculiar and unavoidable sensitivenessof our frame. A peevish and irritable temper is, indeed, an_unhappy_ one; a source of misery to ourselves and to others; but itis not, in _all_ cases, so valid an excuse for being easilyprovoked, as it is usually supposed to be. 

A good temper is too important a source of happiness, and an illtemper too important a source of misery, to be treated withindifference or hopelessness. The false excuses or modes ofregarding this matter, to which we have referred, should be exposed;for until their invalidity and incorrectness are exposed, noefforts, or but feeble ones, will be put forth to regulate an illtemper, or to cultivate a good one. 

We allow that there are great differences of natural constitution. One who is endowed with a poetical temperament, or a keen sense ofbeauty, or a great love of order, or very large ideality, will bepained by the want or the opposites of these qualities, where oneless amply endowed would suffer no provocation whatever. What wouldgrate most harshly on the ear of an eminent musician, might not benoticed at all by one whose musical faculties were unusually small. The same holds true in regard to some other, besides musicaldeficiencies or discords. A delicate and sickly frame will feelannoyed by what would not at all disturb the same frame in a stateof vigorous health. Particular circumstances, also, may expose someto greater trials and vexations than others. But, after all this isgranted, the only reasonable conclusion seems to be, that theattempt to govern the temper is more difficult in some cases than inothers; not that it is, in any case, impossible. It is, at least, certain that an opinion of its impossibility is an effectual baragainst entering upon it. On the other hand, "believe that you willsucceed, and you will succeed, " is a maxim which has nowhere beenmore frequently verified than in the moral world. It should be amongthe first maxims admitted, and the last abandoned, by every earnestseeker of his own moral improvement. 

Then, too, facts demonstrate that much has been done and can be donein regulating the worst of tempers. The most irritable or peevishtemper has been restrained by company; has been subdued by interest;has been awed by fear; has been softened by grief; has been soothedby kindness. A bad temper has shown itself, in the same individuals, capable of increase, liable to change, accessible to motives. Suchfacts are enough to encourage, in every case, an attempt to governthe temper. All the miseries of a bad temper, and all the blessingsof a good one, may be attained by an habitual tolerance, concern, and kindness for others--by an habitual restraint of considerationsand feelings entirely selfish. 

To those of our readers who feel moved or resolved by theconsiderations we have named to attempt to regulate their temper, orto cultivate one of a higher order of excellence, we would submit afew suggestions which may assist them in their somewhat difficultundertaking. 

See, first of all, that you set as high a value on the comfort ofthose with whom you have to do as you. Do on your own. If you regardyour own comfort _exclusively_, you will not make the allowanceswhich a _proper_ regard to the happiness of others would lead you todo. 

Avoid, particularly in your intercourse with those to whom it is ofmost consequence that your temper should be gentle andforbearing--avoid raising into undue importance the little failingswhich you may perceive in them, or the trifling disappointmentswhich they may occasion you. If we make it a subject of vexation, that the beings among whom we tire destined to live, are notperfect, we must give up all hope of attaining a temper not easilyprovoked. A habit of trying everything by the standard of perfectionvitiates the temper more than it improves the understanding, anddisposes the mind to discern faults with an unhappy penetration. Iwould not have you shut your eyes to the errors or follies, orthoughtlessnesses of your friends, but only not to magnify them orview them microscopically. Regard them in others as you would havethem regard the same things in you, in an exchange of circumstances. 

Do not forget to make due allowances for the original constitutionand the manner of education or bringing up, which has been the lotof those with whom you have to do. Make such excuses for Others asthe circumstances of their constitution, rearing, and youthfulassociations, do fairly demand. 

Always put the best construction on the motives of others, whentheir conduct admits of more than one way of understanding it. Inmany cases, where neglect or ill intention seems evident at firstsight, it may prove true that "second thoughts are best. " Indeed, this common slaying is never more likely to prove true than in casesin which the _first_ thoughts were the dictates of anger And evenwhen the first thoughts are confirmed by further evidence, yet thehabit of always waiting for complete evidence before we condemn, must have a calming; and moderating effect upon the temper, while itwill take nothing from the authority of our just censures. 

It will further, be a great help to our efforts, as well as ourdesires, for the government of the temper, if we consider frequentlyand seriously the natural consequences of hasty resentments, angryreplies, rebukes impatiently given or impatiently received, muttereddiscontents, sullen looks, and harsh words. It may safely beasserted that the consequences of these and other ways in whichill-temper may show itself, are _entirely_ evil. The feelings, whichaccompany them in ourselves, and those which they excite in others, are unprofitable as well as painful. They lessen our own comfort, and tend often rather to prevent than to promote the improvement ofthose with whom we find fault. If we give even friendly andjudicious counsels in a harsh and pettish tone, we excite against_them_ the repugnance naturally felt to _our manner_. Theconsequence is, that the advice is slighted, and the peevish adviserpitied, despised, or hated. 

When we cannot succeed in putting a restraint on our _feelings_ ofanger or dissatisfaction, we can at least check the _expression_ ofthose feelings. If our thoughts are not always in our power, ourwords and actions and looks may be brought under our command; and acommand over these expressions of our thoughts and feelings will befound no mean help towards obtaining an increase of power over ourthoughts and feelings themselves. At least, one great good will beeffected: time will be gained; time for reflection; time forcharitable allowances and excuses. 

Lastly, seek the help of religion. Consider how you may mostcertainly secure the approbation of God. For a good temper, or awell-regulated temper, _may be_ the constant homage of a trulyreligious man to that God, whose love and long-suffering forbearancesurpass all human love and forbearance. 

MANLY GENTLENESS. 

WHO is the most wretched man living? This question might constitutea very fair puzzle to those of our readers whose kind hearts havegiven them, in their own experience, no clue to the true answer. Itis a species of happiness to be rich; to have at one's command anabundance of the elegancies and luxuries of life. Then he, perhaps, is the most miserable of men who is the poorest. It is a species ofhappiness to be the possessor of learning, fame, or power; andtherefore, perhaps, he is the most miserable man who is the mostignorant, despised, and helpless. No; there is a man more wretchedthan these. We know not where he may be found; but find him whereyou will, in a prison or on a throne, steeped in poverty orsurrounded with princely affluence; execrated, as he deserves to be, or crowned with world-wide applause; that man is the most miserablewhose heart contains the least love for others. 

It is a pleasure to be beloved. Who has not felt this? Humanaffection is priceless. A fond heart is more valuable than theIndies. But it is a still greater pleasure to love than to be loved;the emotion itself is of a higher kind; it calls forth our ownpowers into more agreeable exercise, and is independent of thecaprice of others. Generally speaking, if we deserve to be loved, others will love us, but this is not always the case. The love ofothers towards us, is not always in proportion to our real merits;and it would be unjust to make our highest happiness dependent onit. But our love for others will always be in proportion to our realgoodness; the more amiable, the more excellent we become, the moreshall we love others; it is right, therefore, that this love shouldbe made capable of bestowing upon us the largest amount ofhappiness. This is the arrangement which the Creator has fixed upon. By virtue of our moral constitution, to love is to be happy; to hateis to be wretched. 

Hatred is a strong word, and the idea it conveys is very repulsive. We would hope that few of our readers know by experience what it isin its full extent. To be a very demon, to combine in ourselves thehighest possible degree of wickedness and misery, nothing more isneedful than to hate with sufficient intensity. But though, happily, comparatively few persons are fully under the influence of thisbaneful passion, how many are under it more frequently andpowerfully than they ought to be? How often do we indulge inresentful, revengeful feelings, with all of which hatred more orless mixes itself? Have we not sometimes entertained sentimentspositively malignant towards those who have wounded our vanity orinjured our interests, secretly wishing them ill, or not heartilywishing them happiness? If so, we need only consult our ownexperience to ascertain that such feelings are both sinful andfoolish; they offend our Maker, and render us wretched. 

We know a happy man; one who in the midst of the vexations andcrosses of this changing world, is always happy. Meet him anywhere, and at any time, his features beam with pleasure. Children run tomeet him, and contend for the honour of touching his hand, or layinghold of the skirt of his coat, as he passes by, so cheerful andbenevolent does he always look. In his own house he seems to reignabsolute, and yet he never uses any weapon more powerful than a kindword. Everybody who knows him is aware, that, in point ofintelligence, ay, and in physical prowess, too--for we know few menwho can boast a more athletic frame--he is strong as a lion, yet inhis demeanour he is gentle as a lamb. His wife is not of the mostamiable temper, his children are not the most docile, his businessbrings him into contact with men of various dispositions; but heconquers all with the same weapons. What a contrast have we oftenthought he presents to some whose physiognomy looks like a piece ofharsh handwriting, in which we can decipher nothing but _self, self, self_; who seem, both at home and abroad, to be always on the watchagainst any infringement of their dignity. Poor men! their dignitycan be of little value if it requires so much care in order to bemaintained. True manliness need take but little pains to procurerespectful recognition. If it is genuine, others will see it, andrespect it. The lion will always be acknowledged as the king of thebeasts; but the ass, though clothed in the lion's skin, may brayloudly and perseveringly indeed, but he will never keep the forestin awe. 

From some experience in the homes of working-men, and other homestoo, we are led to think that much of the harsh and discordantfeeling which too often prevails there may be ascribed to a falseconception of what is truly great. It is a very erroneous impressionthat despotism is manly. For our part we believe that despotism isinhuman, satanic, and that wherever it is found--as much in thebosom of a family, as on the throne of a kingdom. We cannot bringourselves to tolerate the inconsistency with which some men willinveigh against some absolute sovereign, and straight-way enact thepettiest airs of absolutism in their little empire at home. We haveno private intimacy with "the autocrat of all the Russias, " and may, with all humility, avow that we do not desire to have any; but thiswe believe, that out of the thousands who call him a tyrant, itwould be no difficult matter to pick scores who are as bad, if notworse. Let us remember that it is not a great empire whichconstitutes a great tyrant. Tyranny must be measured by the strengthof those imperious and malignant passions from which it flows, andcarrying this rule along with us, it would not surprise us, if wefound the greatest tyrant in the world in some small cottage, withnone to oppress but a few unoffending children, and a helplesswoman. O! when shall we, be just!--when shall we cease to prateabout wrongs inflicted by others, and magnified by being beheldthrough the haze of distance, and seek to redress those which lie atour own doors, and to redress which we shall only have to prevailupon ourselves to be just and gentle! Arbitrary power is alwaysassociated either with cruelty, or conscious weakness. Truegreatness is above the petty arts of tyranny. Sometimes muchdomestic suffering may arise from a cause which is easily confoundedwith a tyrannical disposition--we refer to an exaggerated sense ofjustice. This is the abuse of a right feeling, and requires to bekept in vigilant check. Nothing is easier than to be one-sided injudging of the actions of others. How agreeable the task of applyingthe line and plummet! How quiet and complete the assumption of ourown superior excellence which we make in doing it! But if the taskis in some respects easy, it is most difficult if we take intoaccount the necessity of being just in our decisions. In domesticlife especially, in which so much depends on circumstances, and thehighest questions often relate to mere matters of expediency, howeasy it is to be "always finding fault, " if we neglect to takenotice of explanatory and extenuating circumstances! Anybody with atongue and a most moderate complement of brains can call a thingstupid, foolish, ill-advised, and so forth; though it might requirea larger amount of wisdom than the judges possessed to have done thething better. But what do we want with captious judges in the bosomof a family? The scales of household polity are the scales of love, and he who holds them should be a sympathizing friend; ever ready tomake allowance for failures, ingenious in contriving apologies, morelavish of counsels than rebukes, and less anxious to overwhelm aperson with a sense of deficiency than to awaken in the bosom, aconscious power of doing better. One thing is certain: if any memberof a family conceives it his duty to sit continually in the censor'schair, and weigh in the scales of justice all that happens in thedomestic commonwealth, domestic happiness is out of the question. Itis manly to extenuate and forgive, but a crabbed and censoriousspirit is contemptible. 

There is much more misery thrown into the cup of life by domesticunkindness than we might at first suppose. In thinking of the evilsendured by society from malevolent passions of individuals, we areapt to enumerate only the more dreadful instances of crime: but whatare the few murders which unhappily pollute the soil of thisChristian land--what, we ask, is the suffering they occasion, whattheir demoralizing tendency--when compared with the daily effusionsof ill-humour which sadden, may we not fear, many thousand homes? Webelieve that an incalculably greater number are hurried to the graveby habitual unkindness than by sudden violence; the slow poison ofchurlishness and neglect, is of all poisons the most destructive. Ifthis is true, we want a new definition for the most flagrant of allcrimes: a definition which shall leave out the element of time, andcall these actions the same--equally hateful, equally diabolical, equally censured by the righteous government of Heaven--whichproceed from the same motives, and lead to the same result, whetherthey be done in a moment, or spread out through a series of years. Habitual unkindness is demoralizing as well as cruel. Whenever itfails to break the heart, it hardens it. To take a familiarillustration: a wife who is never addressed by her husband in tonesof kindness, must cease to love him if she wishes to be happy. It isher only alternative. Thanks to the nobility of our nature, she doesnot always take it. No; for years she battles with cruelty, andstill presses with affection the hand which smites her, but it isfearfully at her own expense. Such endurance preys upon her health, and hastens her exit to the asylum of the grave. If this is to beavoided, she must learn to forget, what woman should never betempted to forget, the vows, the self-renunciating devotedness ofimpassioned youth; she must learn to oppose indifference, to neglectand repel him with a heart as cold as his own. But what a tragedylies involved in a career like this! We gaze on something infinitelymore terrible than murder; we see our nature abandoned to the mercyof malignant passions, and the sacred susceptibilities which wereintended to fertilize with the waters of charity the pathway oflife, sending forth streams of bitterest gall. A catalogue of suchcases, faithfully compiled, would eclipse, in turpitude and horror, all the calendars of crime that have ever sickened the attention ofthe world. 

The obligations of gentleness and kindness are extensive as theclaims to manliness; these three qualities must go together. Thereare some cases, however, in which such obligations are of specialforce. Perhaps a precept here will be presented most appropriatelyunder the guise of an example. We have now before our mind's eye acouple, whose marriage tie was, a few months since, severed bydeath. The husband was a strong, hale, robust sort of a man, whoprobably never knew a day's illness in the course of his life, andwhose sympathy on behalf of weakness or suffering in others it wasexceedingly difficult to evoke; while his partner was the veryreverse, by constitution weak and ailing, but withal a woman of whomany man might and ought to have been proud. Her elegant form, herfair transparent skin, the classical contour of her refined andexpressive face, might have led a Canova to have selected her as amodel of feminine beauty. But alas! she was weak; she could not worklike other women; her husband could not _boast_ among his shopmateshow much she contributed to the maintenance of the family, and howlargely she could afford to dispense with the fruit of his labours. Indeed, with a noble infant in her bosom, and the cares of ahousehold resting entirely upon her, she required help herself, andat least she needed, what no wife can dispense with, but she leastof all--_sympathy_, forbearance, and all those tranquilizing virtueswhich flow from a heart of kindness. She least of all could bear aharsh look; to be treated daily with cold, disapproving reserve, apetulant dissatisfaction could not but be death to her. We will notsay it _was_--enough that she is dead. The lily bent before thestorm, and at last was crushed by it. We ask but one question, inorder to point the moral:--In the circumstances we have delineated, what course of treatment was most consonant with a manly spirit;that which was actually pursued, or some other which the reader cansuggest?

Yes, to love is to be happy and to make happy, and to love is thevery spirit of true manliness. We speak not of exaggerated passionand false sentiment; we speak not of those bewildering, indescribable feelings, which under that name, often monopolize fora time the guidance of the youthful heart; but we speak of that pureemotion which is benevolence intensified, and which, when blendedwith intelligence, can throw the light of joyousness around themanifold relations of life. Coarseness, rudeness, tyranny, are somany forms of brute power; so many manifestations of what it isman's peculiar glory not to be; but kindness and gentleness cannever cease to be MANLY. 

Count not the days that have lightly flown, The years that were vainly spent;Nor speak of the hours thou must blush to own, When thy spirit stands before the Throne, To account for the talents lent. 

But number the hours redeemed from sin, The moments employed for Heaven;--Oh few and evil thy days have been, Thy life, a toilsome but worthless scene, For a nobler purpose given. 

Will the shade go back on the dial plate? Will thy sun stand still on his way?Both hasten on; and thy spirit's fateRests on the point of life's little date:-- Then live while 'tis called to-day. 

Life's waning hours, like the Sibyl's page, As they lessen, in value rise;Oh rouse thee and live! nor deem that man's ageStands on the length of his pilgrimage, But in days that are truly wise. 

SILENT INFLUENCE. 

"HOW finely she looks!" said Margaret Winne, as a lady swept by themin the crowd; "I do not see that time wears upon her beauty at all. "

"What, Bell Walters!" exclaimed her companion. "Are you one of thosewho think her such a beauty?"

"I think her a very fine-looking woman, certainly, " returned Mrs. Winne; "and, what is more, I think her a very fine woman. "

"Indeed!" exclaimed Mrs. Hall; "I thought you were no friends?"

"No, " replied the first speaker; "but that does not make usenemies. "

"But I tell you she positively dislikes you, Margaret, " said Mrs. Hall. "It is only a few days since I knew of her saying that youwere a bold, impudent woman, and she did not like you at all. "

"That is bad, " said Margaret, with a smile; "for I must confess thatI like her. "

"Well, " said her companion, "I am sure I could never like any onewho made such unkind speeches about me. "

"I presume she said no more than she thought, " said Margaret, quietly. 

"Well, so much the worse!" exclaimed Mrs. Hall, in surprise. "I hopeyou do not think that excuses the matter at all?"

"Certainly, I do. I presume she has some reason for thinking as shedoes; and, if so, it was very natural she should express heropinion. "

"Well, you are very cool and candid about it, I must say. Whatreason have you given her, pray, for thinking you were bold andimpudent?"

"None, that I am aware of, " replied Mrs. Winne, "but I presume shethinks I have. I always claim her acquaintance, when we meet, and Ihave no doubt she would much rather I would let it drop. "

"Why don't you, then? I never knew her, and never had any desire forher acquaintance. She was no better than you when you were girls, and I don't think her present good fortune need make her so veryscornful. "

"I do not think she exhibits any more haughtiness than most peoplewould under the same circumstances. Some would have dropped theacquaintance at once, without waiting for me to do it. Her socialposition is higher than mine, and it annoys her to have me meet heras an equal, just I used to do. "

"You do it to annoy her, then?"

"Not by any means. I would much rather she would feel, as I do, thatthe difference between us is merely conventional, and might bear tobe forgotten on the few occasions when accident throws us together. But she does not, and I presume it is natural. I do not know how myhead might be turned, if I had climbed up in the world as rapidly asshe has done. As it is, however, I admire her too much to drop heracquaintance just yet, as long as she leaves it to me. "

"Really, Margaret, I should have supposed you had too much spirit tointrude yourself upon a person that you knew wished to shake youoff; and I do not see how you can admire one that you know to be soproud. "

"I do not admire her on account of her pride, certainly, though itis a quality that sits very gracefully upon her, " said MargaretWinne; and she introduced another topic of conversation, for she didnot hope to make her companion understand the motives thatinfluenced her. 

"Bold and impudent!" said Margaret, to herself, as she sat alone, inher own apartment. "I knew she thought it, for I have seen it in herlooks; but she always treats me well externally, and I hardlythought she would say it. I know she was vexed with herself forspeaking to me, one day, when she was in the midst of a circle ofher fashionable acquaintances. I was particularly ill-dressed, and Inoticed that they stared at me; but I had no intention, then, ofthrowing myself in her way. Well, " she continued, musingly, "I amnot to be foiled with one rebuff. I know her better than she knowsme, for the busy world has canvassed her life, while they have nevermeddled with my own: and I think there are points of contact enoughbetween us for us to understand each other, if we once found anopportunity. She stands in a position which I shall never occupy, and she has more power and strength than I; else she had never stoodwhere she does, for she has shaped her fortunes by her own unaidedwill. Her face was not her fortune, as most people suppose, but hermind. She has accomplished whatever she has undertaken, and she canaccomplish much more, for her resources are far from beingdeveloped. Those around her may remember yet that she was not alwayson a footing with them; but they will not do so long. She will betheir leader, for she was born to rule. Yes; and she queens it mostproudly among them. It were a pity to lose sight of her stately, graceful dignity. I regard her very much as I would some beautifulexotic, and her opinion of me affects me about as much as if shewere the flower, and not the mortal. And yet I can never see herwithout wishing that the influence she exerts might be turned into abetter channel. She has much of good about her, and I think that itneeds but a few hints to make life and its responsibilities appearto her as they do to me. I have a message for her ear, but she mustnot know that it was intended for her. She has too much pride ofplace to receive it from me, and too much self-confidence to listenknowingly to the suggestions of any other mind than her own. Therefore, I will seek the society of Isabel Walters whenever I can, without appearing intrusive, until she thinks me worthy her notice, or drops me altogether. My talent lies in thinking, but she has allthe life and energy I lack, and would make an excellent actor to mythought, and would need no mentor when her attention was oncearoused. My usefulness must lie in an humble sphere, but hers--shecan carry it wherever she will. It will be enough for my single lifeto accomplish, if, beyond the careful training of my own family, Ican incite her to a development of her powers of usefulness. Peoplewill listen to her who will pay no attention to me; and, besides, she has the time and means to spare, which I have not. "

"Everywhere, in Europe, they were talking of you, Mrs. Walters, "said a lady, who had spent many years abroad, "and adopting yourplans for vagrant and industrial schools, and for the management ofhospitals and asylums. I have seen your name in the memorials laidbefore government in various foreign countries. You have certainlyachieved a world-wide reputation. Do tell me how your attention camefirst to be turned to that sort of thing? I supposed you were one ofour fashionable women, who sought simply to know how much care andresponsibility they could lawfully avoid, and how high a socialstation it was possible to attain. I am sure something must havehappened to turn your life into so different a channel. "

"Nothing in particular, I assure you, " returned Mrs. Walters. "Icame gradually to perceive the necessity there was that some oneshould take personal and decisive action in those things that it wasso customary to neglect. Fond as men are of money, it was far easierto reach their purses than their minds. Our public charities werequite well endowed, but no one gave them that attention that theyneeded, and thus evils had crept in that were of the highestimportance. My attention was attracted to it in my own vicinity atfirst; and others saw it as well as I, but it was so much ofeverybody's business that everybody let it alone. I followed theexample for awhile, but it seemed as much my duty to act as that ofany other person; and though it is little I have done, I think that, in that little, I have filled the place designed for me byProvidence. "

"Well, really, Mrs. Walters, you were one of the last persons Ishould have imagined to be nicely balancing a point of duty, orsearching out the place designed for them by Providence. I mustconfess myself at fault in my judgment of character for once. "

"Indeed, madam, " replied Mrs. Walters, "I have no doubt you judgedme very correctly at the time you knew me. My first ideas of theduties and responsibilities of life were aroused by Margaret Winne;and I recollect that my intimacy with her commenced after you leftthe country. "

"Margaret Winne? Who was she? Not the wife of that little Dr. Winnewe used to hear of occasionally? They attended the same church withus, I believe?"

"Yes; she was the one. We grew up together, and were familiar witheach other's faces from childhood; but this was about all. She wasalways in humble circumstances, as I had myself been in early life;and, after my marriage, I used positively to dislike her, and todread meeting her, for she was the only one of my formeracquaintances who met me on the same terms as she had always done. Ithought she wished to remind me that we were once equals in station;but I learned, when I came to know her well, how far she was aboveso mean a thought. I hardly know how I came first to appreciate her, but we were occasionally thrown in contact, and her sentiments wereso beautiful--so much above the common stamp--that I could not failto be attracted by her. She was a noble woman. The world knows fewlike her. So modest and retiring--with an earnest desire to do allthe good in the world of which she was capable, but with no ambitionto shine. Well fitted as she was, to be an ornament in any stationof society, she seemed perfectly content to be the idol of her ownfamily, and known to few besides. There were few subjects on whichshe had not thought, and her clear perceptions went at once to thebottom of a subject, so that she solved simply many a question onwhich astute philosophers had found themselves at fault. I came atlast to regard her opinion almost as an oracle. I have oftenthought, since her death, that it was her object to turn my lifeinto that channel to which it has since been devoted, but I do notknow. I had never thought of the work that has since occupied me atthe time of her death, but I can see now how cautiously andgradually she led me among the poor, and taught me to sympathizewith their sufferings, and gave me, little by little, a clue to theevils that had sprung up in the management of our public charities. She was called from her family in the prime of life, but they whocome after her do assuredly rise up and call her blessed. She hasleft a fine family, who will not soon forget, the instructions oftheir mother. "

"Ah! yes, there it is, Mrs. Walters. A woman's sphere, after all, isat home. One may do a great deal of good in public, no doubt, as youhave done; but don't you think that, while you have devoted yourselfso untiringly to other affairs, you have been obliged to neglectyour own family in order to gain time for this? One cannot live twolives at once, you know. "

"No, madam, certainly we cannot live two lives at once, but we canglean a much larger harvest from the one which is, bestowed upon usthan we are accustomed to think. I do not, by any means, think thatI have ever neglected my own family in the performance of otherduties, and I trust my children are proving, by their heartyco-operation with me, that I am not mistaken. Our first duty, certainly is at home, and I determined, at the outset, that nothingshould call me from the performance of this first charge. I do notthink anything can excuse a mother from devoting a large portion ofher life in personal attention to the children God has given her. But I can assure you that, to those things which I have done ofwhich the world could take cognisance, I have given far less timethan I used once to devote to dress and amusement, I found, bysystematizing everything, that my time was more than doubled; and, certainly, I was far better fitted to attend properly to my ownfamily, when my eyes, were opened to the responsibilities of life, than when my thoughts were wholly occupied by fashion and display. "

ANTIDOTE FOR MELANCHOLY. 

"AH, friend K----, good-morning to you; I'm really happy to see youlooking so cheerful. Pray, to what unusual circumstance may we beindebted for this happy, smiling face of yours, this morning?" (Ourfriend K----had been, unfortunately, of a, very desponding andsomewhat of a choleric turn of mind, previously. )

"Really, is the change so perceptible, then? Well, my dear sir, youshall have the secret; for, happy as I appear--and be assured, myappearances are by no means deceptive, for I never felt more happyin my life--it will still give me pleasure to inform you, and won'ttake long, either. It is simply this; I have made a whole familyhappy!"

"Indeed! Why, you have discovered a truly valuable: recipe forblues, then, which may be used _ad libitum_, eh, K----?"

"You may well say that. But, really, my friend, I feel no littlemortification at not making so simple and valuable a discovery at anearlier period of my life, Heaven knows, " continued K----, "I havelooked for contentment everywhere else. First, I sought for wealthyin the gold mines of California, thinking that was the true sourceof all earthly joys; but after obtaining it, I found myself withsuch a multiplicity of cares and anxieties, that I was really moreunhappy than ever. I then sought for pleasure in travelling. Thisanswered somewhat the purpose of dissipating cares, &c. , so long asit lasted; but, dear me, it gave no permanent satisfaction. Afterseeing the whole world, I was as badly off as Alexander the Great. He cried for another world to _conquer_, and I cried for anotherworld to _see_. "

The case of our friend, I imagine, differs not materially from thatof a host of other seekers of contentment in this productive world. Like "blind leaders of the blind, " our invariable fate is to goastray in the universal race for happiness. How common is it, afterseeking for it in every place but the right one, for the selfish manto lay the whole blame upon this fine world--as if anybody was toblame but himself. Even some professors of religion are too apt tolibel the world. "Well, this is a troublesome world, to make thebest of it, " is not an uncommon expression; neither is it a truthfulone. "Troubles, disappointments, losses, crosses, sickness, anddeath, make up the sum and substance of our existence here, " addthey, with tremendous emphasis, as if they had no hand in producingthe sad catalogue. The trouble is, we set too high a value on ourown merits; we imagine ourselves deserving of great favours andprivileges, while we are doing nothing to merit them. In thisrespect, we are not altogether unlike the young man in the parable, who, by-the-by, was also a professor--he professed very loudly ofhaving done all those good things "from his youth up. " But when thecommand came, "go sell all thou hast, and give to the poor, " &c. , itsoon took the conceit out of him. 

In this connexion, there are two or three seemingly importantconsiderations, which I feel some delicacy in touching upon here. However, in the kindest possible spirit, I would merely remark, thatthere is a very large amount of wealth in the Church--by this Iinclude its wealthy members, of course; and refer to no particulardenomination; by Church, I mean all Christian denominations. Now, inconnexion with this fact, such a question as this arises in mymind--and I put it, not, for the purpose of fault-finding, for Idon't know that I have a right view of the matter, but merely forthe consideration of those who are fond of hoarding up their earthlygains, viz. : Suppose the modern Church was composed of suchprofessors as the self-denying disciples of our Saviour, --with theirpiety, simplicity, and this wealth; what, think you, would be theconsequence? Now I do not intend to throw out any such flings as, "comparisons are odious"--"this is the modern Christian age"--"theage of Christian privileges, " and all that sort of nonsense. Still, I am rather inclined to the opinion, that if we were all--in and outof the Church--disposed to live up to, or carry out what weprofessedly know to be right, it would be almost as difficult tofind real trouble, as it is now to find real happiness. 

The sources of contentment and discontentment are discoverable, therefore, without going into a metaphysical examination of thesubject. Just in proportion as we happen to discharge, or neglectknown duties, are we, according to my view, happy or miserable onearth. Philosophy tells us that our happiness and well-being dependsupon a conformity to certain unalterable laws--moral, physical, andorganic--which act upon the intellectual, moral, and materialuniverse, of which man is a part, and which determine, or regulatethe growth, happiness, and well-being of all organic beings. Theseviews, when reduced to their simple meaning, amount to the samething, call it by what name we will. Duties, of course, imply legalor moral obligations, which we are certainly legally or morallybound to pay, perform, or discharge. And certain it is, there is nogetting over them--they are as irresistible as Divine power, asuniversal as Divine presence, as permanent as Divine existence, andno art nor cunning of man can disconnect unhappiness fromtransgressing them. How necessary to our happiness, then, is it, notonly to know, but to perform our whole duty?

One of the great duties of man in this life, and, perhaps, the mostneglected, is that of doing good, or benefiting one another. Thatdoing good is clearly a duty devolving upon man, there can be noquestion. The benevolent Creator, in placing man in the world, endowed him with mental and physical energies, which clearly denotethat he is to be active in his day and generation. 

Active in what? Certainly not in mischief, for that would not beconsistent with Divine goodness. Neither should we suppose that weare here for our own sakes simply. Such an idea would bepresumptuous. For what purpose, then, was man endowed with all thesefacilities of mind and body, but to do good and glorify his Maker?True philosophy teaches that benevolence was not only the design ofthe Creator in all His works, but the fruits to be expected fromthem. The whole infinite contrivances of everything above, around, and within us, are directed to certain benevolent issues, and allthe laws of nature are in perfect harmony with this idea. 

That such is the design of man may also be inferred from thehappiness which attends every good action, and the misery ofdiscontentment which attends those who not only do wrong, but areuseless to themselves and to society. Friend K----'s case, abovequoted, is a fair illustration of this truth. 

Now, then, if it is our duty to do all the good we can, and I thinkthis will be admitted, particularly by the Christian, and this bemeasured by our means and opportunity, then there are many whomProvidence has blessed with the means and opportunity of doing avery great amount of good. And if it be true, as it manifestly is, that "it is more blessed to give than receive, " then has Providencealso blessed them with very great privileges. The privilege ofgiving liberally, and thus obtaining for themselves the greaterblessing, which is the result of every benevolent action, the simplesatisfaction with ourselves which follows a good act, orconsciousness of having done our duty in relieving afellow-creature, are blessings indeed, which none but the good orbenevolent can realize. Such kind spirits are never cast down. Theirhearts always light and cheerful--rendered so by their many kindoffices, --they can always enjoy their neighbours, rich or poor, highor low, and love them too; and with a flow of spirits which bespeaka heart all right within, they make all glad and happy around them. 

Doing good is an infallible antidote for melancholy. When the heartseems heavy, and our minds can light upon nothing but little naughtyperplexities, everything going wrong, no bright spot or reliefanywhere for our crazy thoughts, and we are finally wound up in aweb of melancholy, depend upon it there is nothing, nothing whichcan dispel this angry, ponderous, and unnatural cloud from our_rheumatic minds_ and _consciences_ like a charity visit--to giveliberally to those in need of succour, the poor widow, thesuffering, sick, and poor, the aged invalid, the lame, the blind, &c. , &c. ; all have a claim upon your bounty, and how they will blessyou and love you for it--anyhow, they will thank kind Providence foryour mission of love. He that makes one such visit will make anotherand another; he can't very well get weary in such well-doing, forhis is the greater blessing. It is a blessing indeed: how the heartis lightened, the soul enlarged, the mind improved, and even health;for the mind being liberated from perplexities, the body is at rest, the nerves in repose, and the blood, equalized, courses freelythrough the system, giving strength, vigour, and equilibrium to thewhole complicated machinery. Thus we can think clearer, love better, enjoy life, and be thankful for it. 

What a beautiful arrangement it is that we can, by doing good toothers, do so much good to ourselves! The wealthy classes, who "riseabove society like clouds above the earth, to diffuse an abundantdew, " should not forget this fact. The season has now about arrived, when the good people of all classes will be most busily engaged inthese delightful duties. The experiment is certainly worth trying byall. If all those desponding individuals, whose chief comfort is togrowl at this "troublesome world, " will but take the hint, looktrouble full in the face. And relieve it, they will, like friendK----, feel much better. 

It may be set down as a generally correct axiom, (with some fewexceptions, perhaps, such as accidents, and the deceptions andcruelties of those whom we injudiciously select for friends andconfidants, from our want of discernment), that life is much what wemake it, and so is the world. 

THE SORROWS OF A WEALTHY CITIZEN. 

AH me! Am I really a rich man, or am I not? That is the question. Iam sure I don't feel rich; and yet, here I am written down among the"wealthy citizens" as being worth seventy thousand dollars! How theestimate was made, or who furnished the data, is all a mystery tome. I am sure I wasn't aware of the fact before. "Seventy thousanddollars!" That sounds comfortable, doesn't it? Seventy thousanddollars!--But where is it? Ah! There is the rub! How true it is thatpeople always know more about you than you do yourself. 

Before this unfortunate book came out ("The Wealthy Citizens ofPhiladelphia"), I was jogging on very quietly. Nobody seemed to beaware of the fact that I was a rich man, and I had no suspicion ofthe thing myself. But, strange to tell, I awoke one morning andfound myself worth seventy thousand dollars! I shall never forgetthat day. Men who had passed me in the street with a quiet, familiarnod, now bowed with a low salaam, or lifted their hatsdeferentially, as I encountered them on the _pave_. 

"What's the meaning of all this?" thought I. "I haven't stood up tobe shot at, nor sinned against innocence and virtue. I haven't beento Paris. I don't wear moustaches. What has given me thisimportance?"

And, musing thus, I pursued my way in quest of money to help me outwith some pretty heavy payments. After succeeding, though with somedifficulty in obtaining what I wanted, I returned to my store abouttwelve o'clock. I found a mercantile acquaintance awaiting me, who, without many preliminaries, thus stated his business:

"I want, " said he, with great coolness, "to get a loan of six orseven thousand dollars; and I don't know of any one to whom I canapply with more freedom and hope of success than yourself. I think Ican satisfy you, fully, in regard to security. 

"My dear sir, " replied I, "if you only wanted six or seven hundreddollars, instead of six or seven thousand dollars, I could notaccommodate you. I have just come in from a borrowing expeditionmyself. "

I was struck with the sudden change in the man's countenance. He wasnot only disappointed, but offended. He did not believe mystatement. In his eyes, I had merely resorted to a subterfuge, or, rather, told a lie, because I did not wish to let him have my money. Bowing with cold formality, he turned away and left my place ofbusiness. His manner to me has been reserved ever since. 

On the afternoon of that day, I was sitting in the back part of mystore musing on some, matter of business, when I saw a couple ofladies enter. They spoke to one of my clerks, and he directed themback to where I was taking things comfortably in an old arm-chair. 

"Mr. G----, I believe?" said the elder of the two ladies, with abland smile. 

I had already arisen, and to this question, or rather affirmation, Ibowed assent. 

"Mr. G----, " resumed the lady, producing a small book as she spoke, "we are a committee, appointed to make collections in this districtfor the purpose of setting up a fair in aid of the funds of theEsquimaux Missionary Society. It is the design of the ladies whohave taken this matter in hand to have a very large collection ofarticles, as the funds of the society are entirely exhausted. To thegentlemen of our district, and especially to those who leave beenliberally _blessed with this world's goods_"--this was particularlyemphasized--"we look for important aid. Upon you, sir, we havecalled first, in order that you may head the subscription, and thusset an example of liberality to others. "

And the lady handed me the book in the most "of course" manner inthe world, and with the evident expectation that I would put down atleast fifty-dollars. 

Of course I was cornered, and must do something, I tried to be blandand polite; but am inclined to think that I failed in the effort. Asfor fairs, I never did approve of them. But that was nothing. Theenemy had boarded me so suddenly and so completely, that nothing, was left for me but to surrender at discretion, and I did so with asgood grace as possible. Opening my desk, I took out a five dollarbill and presented it; to the elder of the two ladies, thinking thatI was doing very well indeed. She took the money, but was evidentlydisappointed; and did not even ask me to head the list with my name. 

"How money does harden the heart!" I overheard one of my fairvisiters say to the other, in a low voices but plainly intended formy edification, as they walked off with their five dollar bill. 

"Confound your impudence!" I said to myself, thus taking my revengeout of them. "Do you think I've got nothing else to do with my moneybut scatter it to the four winds?"

And I stuck my thumbs firmly in the armholes of my waistcoat, andtook a dozen turns up and down my store, in order to cool off. 

"Confound your impudence!" I then repeated, and quietly sat downagain in the old arm-chair. 

On the next day I had any number of calls from money-hunters. Business men, who had never thought of asking me for loans, findingthat I was worth seventy thousand dollars, crowded in upon me fortemporary favours, and, when disappointed in their expectations, couldn't seem to understand it. When I spoke of being "hard up"myself, they looked as if they didn't clearly comprehend what Imeant. 

A few days after the story of my wealth had gone abroad, I wassitting, one evening, with my family, when I was informed that alady was in the parlour, and wished to see me. 

"A lady!" said I. 

"Yes, sir, " replied the servant. 

"Is she alone?"

"Yes, sir. "

"What does she want?"

"She did not say, sir. "

"Very well. Tell her I'll be down in a few moments. "

When I entered the parlour, I found a woman, dressed in mourning, with her veil closely drawn. 

"Mr. G----?" she said, in a low, sad voice. 

I bowed, and took a place upon the sofa where she was sitting, andfrom which she had not risen upon my entrance. 

"Pardon the great liberty I have taken, " she began, after a pause ofembarrassment, and in an unsteady voice. "But, I believe I have notmistaken your character for sympathy and benevolence, nor erred inbelieving that your hand is ever ready to respond to the generousimpulses of our heart. "

I bowed again, and my visiter went on. 

"My object in calling upon you I will briefly state. A year ago myhusband died. Up to that time I had never known the want of anythingthat money could buy. He was a merchant of this city, and supposedto be in good circumstances. But he left an insolvent estate; andnow, with five little ones to care for, educate, and support, I haveparted with nearly my last dollar, and have not a single friend towhom I can look for aid. "

There was a deep earnestness and moving pathos in the tones of thewoman's voice, that went to my heart. She paused for a few moments, overcome with her feelings, and then resumed:--

"One in an extremity like mine, sir, will do many things from which, under other circumstances she should shrink. This is my only excusefor troubling you at the present time. But I cannot see my littlefamily in want without an effort to sustain them; and, with a littleaid, I see my way clear to do so. I was well educated, and feel notonly competent, but willing to undertake a school. There is one, theteacher of which being in bad health, wishes to give it up, and if Ican get the means to buy out her establishment, will secure an ampleand permanent income for my family. To aid me, sir, in doing this, Inow make an appeal to you. I know you are able, and I believe youare willing to put forth your hand and save my children from want, and, it may be, separation. "

The woman still remained closely veiled; I could not, therefore, seeher face. But I could perceive that she was waiting with tremblingsuspense for my answer. Heaven knows my heart responded freely toher appeal. 

"How much will it take to purchase this establishment?" I inquired. 

"Only a thousand dollars, " she replied. 

I was silent. A thousand dollars!

"I do not wish it, sir, as a gift, " she said "only as a loan. In ayear or two I will be able to repay it. "

"My dear madam, " was my reply, "had I the ability most gladly wouldI meet your wishes. But, I assure you I have not. A thousand dollarstaken from my business would destroy it. "

A deep sigh, that was almost a groan, came up from the breast of thestranger, and her head dropped low upon her bosom. She seemed tohave fully expected the relief for which she applied; and to bestricken to the earth by my words! We were both unhappy. 

"May I presume to ask your name, madam?" said I, after a pause. 

"It would do no good to mention it, " she replied, mournfully. "Ithas cost me a painful effort to come to you; and now that my hopehas proved, alas! in vain, I must beg the privilege of stillremaining a stranger. "

She arose, as she said this. Her figure was tall and dignified. Dropping me a slight courtesy, she was turning to go away, when Isaid, "But, madam, even if I have not the ability to grant your request, Imay still have it in my power to aid you in this matter. I am readyto do all I can; and, without doubt, among the friends of yourhusband will be found numbers to step forward and join in affordingyou the assistance so much desired, when they are made aware of yourpresent extremity. "

The lady made an impatient gesture, as if my words were felt as amockery or an insult, and turning from me, again walked from theroom with a firm step. Before I could recover myself, she had passedinto the street, and I was left standing alone. To this day I haveremained in ignorance of her identity. Cheerfully would I have aidedher to the extent of my ability to do so. Her story touched myfeelings and awakened my liveliest sympathies, and if, on learningher name and making proper inquiries into her circumstances, I hadfound all to be as she had stated, I would have felt it a duty tointerest myself in her behalf, and have contributed in aid of thedesired end to the extent of my ability. But she came to me underthe false idea that I had but to put my hand in my pocket, or writea check upon the bank, and lo! a thousand dollars were forthcoming. And because I did not do this, she believed me unfeeling, selfish, and turned from me mortified, disappointed, and despairing. 

I felt sad for weeks after this painful interview. On the very nextmorning I received a letter from an artist, in which he spoke of theextremity of his circumstances, and begged me to purchase a coupleof pictures. I called at his rooms, for I could not resist hisappeal. The pictures did not strike me as possessing much artisticvalue. 

"What do you ask for them?" I inquired. 

"I refused a hundred dollars for the pair. But I am compelled topart with them now, and you shall have them for eighty. "

I had many other uses for eighty dollars, and therefore shook myhead. But, as he looked disappointed, I offered to take one of thepictures at forty dollars. To this he agreed. I paid the money, andthe picture was sent home. Some days afterward, I was showing it toa friend. 

"What did you pay for it?" he asked. 

"Forty dollars, " I replied. 

The friend smiled strangely. 

"What's the matter?" said I. 

"He offered it to me for twenty-five. "

"That picture?"

"Yes. "

"He asked me eighty for this and another, and said he had refused ahundred for the pair. "

"He lied though. He thought, as you were well off, that he must askyou a good stiff price, or you wouldn't buy. "

"The scoundrel!"

"He got ahead of you, certainly. "

"But it's the last time, " said I, angrily. 

And so things went on. Scarcely a day passed in which my fame as awealthy citizen did not subject me to some kind of experiment frompeople in want of money. If I employed a porter for any service andasked what was to pay, after the work was done, ten chances to onethat he didn't touch his hat and reply, "Anything that you please, sir, " in the hope that I, being a richman, would be ashamed to offer him less than about four times hisregular price. Poor people in abundance called upon me for aid; andall sorts of applications to give or lend money met me at everyturn. And when I, in self-defence, begged off as politely aspossible, hints gentle or broad, according to the characters orfeelings of those who came, touching the hardening and pervertinginfluence of wealth, were thrown out for my especial edification. 

And still the annoyance continues. Nobody but myself doubts the factthat I am worth from seventy to a hundred thousand dollars, and Iam, therefore, considered allowable game for all who are too idle orprodigal to succeed in the world; or as Nature's almoner to all whoare suffering from misfortunes. 

Soon after the publication to which I have alluded was foisted uponour community as a veritable document, I found myself a seculardignitary in the church militant. Previously I had been only apew-holder, and an unambitious attendant upon the Sabbathministrations of the Rev. Mr----. But a new field suddenly openedbefore me; I was a man of weight and influence, and must be used forwhat I was worth. It is no joke, I can assure the reader, when Itell them that the way my pocket suffered was truly alarming. Idon't know, but I have seriously thought, sometimes, that if Ihadn't kicked loose from my dignity, I would have been gazetted as abankrupt long before this time. 

Soon after sending in my resignation as vestryman or deacon, I willnot say which, I met the Rev. Mr----, and the way he talked to meabout the earth being the "Lord's and the fullness thereof;" aboutour having the poor always with us; about the duties of charity, andthe laying up of treasure in heaven, made me ashamed to go to churchfor a month to come. I really began to fear that I was a doomed manand that the reputation of being a "wealthy citizen" was going tosink me into everlasting perdition. But I am getting over thatfeeling now. My cash-book, ledger, and bill-book set me right again;and I can button up my coat and draw my purse-strings, when guidedby the dictates of my own judgment, without a fear of the threatenedfinal consequences before my eyes. Still, I am the subject ofperpetual annoyance from all sorts of people, who will persist inbelieving that I am made of money; and many of these approach me in, such a way as to put it almost entirely out of my power to say "no. "They come with appeals for small amounts, as loans, donations toparticular charities, or as the price of articles that I do notwant, but which I cannot well refuse to take. I am sure that, sinceI have obtained my present unenviable reputation, it hasn't cost mea cent less than two thousand, in money given away, loaned never tobe returned, and in the purchase of things that I never would havethought of buying. 

And, with all this, I have made more enemies than I ever before hadin my life, and estranged half of my friends and acquaintances. 

Seriously, I have it in contemplation to "break" one of these days, in order to satisfy the world that I am not a rich man. I see noother effectual remedy for present grievances. 

"WE'VE ALL OUR ANGEL SIDE. "

DESPAIR not of the better part That lies in human kind--A gleam of light still flickereth In e'en the darkest mind;The savage with his club of war, The sage so mild and good, Are linked in firm, eternal bonds Of common brotherhood. Despair not! Oh despair not, then, For through this world so wide, No nature is so demon-like, But there's an angel side. 

The huge rough stones from out the mine, Unsightly and unfair, Have veins of purest metal hid Beneath the surface there;Few rocks so bare but to their heights Some tiny moss-plant clings, And round the peaks, so desolate, The sea-bird sits and sings. Believe me, too, that rugged souls, Beneath their rudeness hideMuch that is beautiful and good-- We've all our angel side. 

In all there is an inner depth-- A far off, secret way, Where, through dim windows of the soul, God sends His smiling ray;In every human heart there is A faithful sounding chord, That may be struck, unknown to us, By some sweet loving word;The wayward heart in vain may try Its softer thoughts to hide, Some unexpected tone reveals It has its angel side. 

Despised, and low, and trodden down, Dark with the shade of sin:Deciphering not those halo lights Which God hath lit within;Groping about in utmost night, Poor prisoned souls there are, Who guess not what life's meaning is, Nor dream of heaven afar;Oh! that some gentle hand of love Their stumbling steps would guide, And show them that, amidst it all, Life has its angel side. 

Brutal, and mean, and dark enough, God knows, some natures are, But He, compassionate, comes near-- And shall we stand afar?Our cruse of oil will not grow less, If shared with hearty hand, And words of peace and looks of love Few natures can withstand. Love is the mighty conqueror-- Love is the beauteous guide--Love, with her beaming eye, can see We've all our angel side. 

BLIND JAMES. 

IN the month of December, in the neighbourhood of Paris, two men, one young, the other rather advanced in years, were descending thevillage street, which was made uneven and almost impassable bystones and puddles. 

Opposite to them, and ascending this same street, a labourer, fastened to a sort of dray laden with a cask, was slowly advancing, and beside him a little girl, of about eight years old, who washolding the end of the barrow. Suddenly the wheel went over anenormous stone, which lay in the middle of the street, and the carleaned towards the side of the child. 

"The man must be intoxicated, " cried the young man, stepping forwardto prevent the overturn of the dray. When he reached the spot, heperceived that the man was blind. 

"Blind!" said he, turning towards his old friend. But the latter, making him a sign to be silent, placed his hand, without speaking, on that of the labourer, while the little girl smiled. The blind manimmediately raised his head, his sightless eyes were turned towardsthe two gentlemen, his face shone with an intelligent and naturalpleasure, and, pressing closely the hand which held his own, hesaid, with an accent of tenderness, "Mr. Desgranges!"

"How!" said the young man, moved and surprised; "he knew you by thetouch of your hand. "

"I do not need even that, " said the blind man; "when he passes me inthe street, I say to myself, 'That is his step. '" And, seizing thehand of Mr. Desgranges, he kissed it with ardour. "It was indeedyou, Mr. Desgranges, who prevented my falling--always you. "

"Why, " said the young man, "do you expose yourself to suchaccidents, by dragging this cask?"

"One must attend to his business, sir, " replied he, gayly. 

"Your business?"

"Undoubtedly, " added Mr. Desgranges. "James is our water-carrier. But I shall scold him for going out without his wife to guide him. "

"My wife was gone away. I took the little girl. One must be a littleenergetic, must he not? And, you see, I have done very well since Ilast saw you, my dear Mr. Desgranges; and you have assisted me. "

"Come, James, now finish serving your customers, and then you cancall and see me. I am going home. "

"Thank you, sir. Good-by, sir; good-by, sir. "

And he started again, dragging his cask, while the child turnedtowards the gentlemen her rosy and smiling face. 

"Blind, and a water-carrier!" repeated the young man, as they walkedalong. 

"Ah! our James astonishes you, my young friend. Yes, it is one ofthose miracles like that of a paralytic who walks. Should you liketo know his story?"

"Tell it to me. "

"I will do so. It does not abound in facts or dramatic incidents, but it will interest you, I think, for it is the history of a soul, and of a good soul it is--a man struggling against the night. Youwill see the unfortunate man going step by step out of a bottomlessabyss to begin his life again--to create his soul anew. You will seehow a blind man, with a noble heart for a stay, makes his way evenin this world. "

While they were conversing, they reached the house of Mr. Desgranges, who began in this manner:--

"One morning, three years since, I was walking on a large dry plain, which separates our village from that of Noiesemont, and which isall covered with mill-stones just taken from the quarry. The processof blowing the rocks was still going on. Suddenly a violentexplosion was heard. I looked. At a distance of four or five hundredpaces, a gray smoke, which seemed to come from a hole, rose from theground. Stones were then thrown up in the air, horrible cries wereheard, and springing from this hole appeared a man, who began to runacross the plain as if mad. He shook his arms, screamed, fell down, got up again, disappeared in the great crevices of the plain, andappeared again. The distance and the irregularity of his pathprevented me from distinguishing anything clearly; but, at theheight of his head, in the place of his face, I saw a great, redmark. In alarm, I approached him, while from the other side of theplain, from Noiesemont, a troop of men and women were advancing, crying aloud. I was the first to reach the poor creature. His facewas all one wound, and torrents of blood were streaming over hisgarments, which were all in rags. 

"Scarcely had I taken hold of him, when a woman, followed by twentypeasants, approached, and threw herself before him. 

"'James, James, is it you? I did not know you, James. '

"The poor man, without answering, struggled furiously in our hands. 

"'Ah!' cried the woman, suddenly, and with a heart-rending voice, 'it is he!'

"She had recognised a large silver pin, which fastened his shirt, which was covered with blood. 

"It was indeed he, her husband, the father of three children, a poorlabourer, who, in blasting a rock with powder, had received theexplosion in his face, and was blind, mutilated, perhaps mortallywounded. 

"He was carried home. I was obliged to go away the same day, on ajourney, and was absent a month. Before my departure, I sent him ourdoctor, a man devoted to his profession as a country physician, andas learned as a city physician. On my return--

"'Ah! well, doctor, ' said I, 'the blind man?'

"'It is all over with him. His wounds are healed, his head is doingwell, he is only blind; but he will die; despair has seized him, andhe will kill himself. I can do nothing more for him, This is all, 'he said; 'an internal inflammation is taking place. He must die. '

"I hastened to the poor man. I arrived. I shall never forget thesight. He was seated on a wooden stool, beside a hearth on. Whichthere was no fire, his eyes covered with a white bandage. On thefloor an infant of three months was sleeping; a little girl of fouryears old was playing in the ashes; one, still older, was shiveringopposite to her; and, in front of the fireplace, seated on thedisordered bed, her arms hanging down, was the wife. What was leftto be imagined in this spectacle was more than met the eye. One feltthat for several hours, perhaps, no word had been spoken in thisroom. The wife was doing nothing, and seemed to have no care to doanything. They were not merely unfortunate, they seemed likecondemned persons. At the sound of my footsteps they arose, butwithout speaking. 

"'You are the blind man of the quarry?"

"'Yes, sir. '

"'I have come to see you. '

"'Thank you, sir. '

"'You met with a sad misfortune there. '

"'Yes, sir. '

"His voice was cold, short, without any emotion. He expected nothingfrom any one. I pronounced the words 'assistance, ' 'publiccompassion. '

"'Assistance!' cried his wife, suddenly, with a tone of despair;'they ought to give it to us; they must help us; we have donenothing to bring upon us this misfortune; they will not let mychildren die with hunger. '

"She asked for nothing--begged for nothing. She claimed help. Thisimperative beggary touched me more than the common lamentations ofpoverty, for it was the voice of despair; and I felt in my purse forsome pieces of silver. 

"The man then, who had till now been silent, said, with a hollowtone, "'Your children must die, since I can no longer see. '

"There is a strange power in the human voice. My money fell backinto my purse. I was ashamed of the precarious assistance. I feltthat here was a call for something more than mere almsgiving--thecharity of a day. I soon formed my resolution. "

"But what could you do?" said the young man, to Mr. Desgranges. 

"What could I do?" replied he, with animation. "Fifteen days after, James was saved. A year after, he gained his own living, and mightbe heard singing at his work. "

"Saved! working! singing! but how?"

"How! by very natural means. But wait, I think I hear him. I willmake him tell you his simple story. It will touch you more from hislips. It will embarrass me less, and his cordial and ardent facewill complete the work. "

In fact, the noise of some one taking off his wooden shoes was heardat the door, and then a little tap. 

"Come in, James;" and he entered with his wife, "I have brought Juliana, my dear Mr. Desgranges, the poor woman--shemust see you sometimes, must she not?"

"You did right, James. Sit down. "

He came forward, pushing his stick before him, that he might notknock against a chair. He found one, and seated himself. He wasyoung, small, vigorous, with black hair, a high and open forehead, asingularly expansive face for a blind man, and, as Rabelais says, amagnificent smile of thirty-two teeth. His wife remained standingbehind him. 

"James, " said Mr. Desgranges to him, "here is one of my goodfriends, who is very desirous to see you. "

"He is a good man, then, since he is your friend. "

"Yes. Talk with him; I am going to see my geraniums. But do not besad, you know I forbid you that. "

"No, no, my dear friend, no!"

This tender and simple appellation seemed to charm the young man;and after the departure of his friend, approaching the blind man, hesaid, "You are very fond of Mr. Desgranges?"

"Fond of him!" cried the blind man, with impetuosity; "he saved mefrom ruin, sir. It was all over with me; the thought of my childrenconsumed me; I was dying because I could not see. He saved me. "

"With assistance--with money?"

"Money! what is money? Everybody can give that. Yes, he clothed us, he fed us, he obtained a subscription of five hundred francs (aboutone hundred dollars) for me; but all this was as nothing; he didmore--he cured my heart!"

"But how?"

"By his kind words, sir. Yes, he, a person of so much consequence inthe world, he came every day into my poor house, he sat on my poorstool, he talked with me an hour, two hours, till I became quiet andeasy. "

"What did he say to you?"

"I do not know; I am but a foolish fellow, and he must tell you allhe said to me; but they were things I had never heard before. Hespoke to me of the good God better than a minister; and he broughtsleep back to me. "

"How was that?"

"It was two months since I had slept soundly. I would just doze, andthen start up, saying, "'James, you are blind, ' and then my head would go round--round, like a madman; and this was killing me. One morning he came in, thisdear friend, and said to me, "'James, do you believe in God?'

"'Why do you ask that, Mr. Desgranges?'

"'Well, this night, when you wake, and the thought of yourmisfortune comes upon you, say aloud a prayer--then two--thenthree--and you will go to sleep. '"

"Yes, " said the wife, with her calm voice, "the good God, He givessleep. "

"This is not all, sir. In my despair I would have killed myself. Isaid to myself, 'You are useless to your family, you are the womanof the house, and others support you. ' But he was displeased--'Is itnot you who support your family? If you had not been blind, wouldany one have given you the five hundred francs?'

"'That is true, Mr. Desgranges. '

"'If you were not blind, would any one provide for your children?'

"'That is true, Mr. Desgranges. '

"'If you were not blind, would every one love you, as we love you?'

"'It is true, Mr. Desgranges, it is true. '

"'You see, James, there are misfortunes in all families. Misfortuneis like rain; it must fall a little on everybody. If you were notblind, your wife would, perhaps, be sick; one of your children mighthave died. Instead of that, you have all the misfortune, my poorman; but they--they have none. '

"'True, true. ' And I began to feel less sad. I was even happy tosuffer for them. And then he added, "'Dear James, misfortune is either the greatest enemy or thegreatest friend of men. There are people whom it makes wicked; thereare others made better by it. For you, it must make you beloved byeverybody; you must become so grateful, so affectionate, that whenthey wish to speak of any one who is good, they will say, good asthe blind man of the Noiesemont. That will serve for a dowry to yourdaughter. ' This is the way he talked to me, sir: and it gave meheart to be unfortunate. "

"Yes; but when he was not here?"

"Ah, when he was not here, I had, to be sure, some heavy moments. Ithought of my eyes--the light is so beautiful! Oh, God! cried I, inanguish, if ever I should see clearly again, I would get up at threeo'clock. In the morning, and I would, not go to bed till ten atnight, that I might gather up more light. "

"James, James!" said his wife. 

"You are right, Juliana; he has forbidden me to be sad. He wouldperceive it, sir. Do you think that when my head had gone wrong inthe night, and he came in the morning, and merely looked at me, hewould say--'James, you have been thinking that;' and then he wouldscold me, this dear friend. Yes, " added he, with an expression ofjoy--"he would scold me, and that would give me pleasure, because hetried to make his words cross, but he could not do it. "

"And what gave you the idea of becoming a water-carrier?"

"He gave me that, also. Do you suppose I have ideas? I began to losemy grief, but my time hung heavy on my hands. At thirty-two yearsold, to be sitting all day in a chair! He then began to instruct me, as he said, and he told me beautiful stories. The Bible--the historyof an old man, blind like me, named Tobias; the history of Joseph;the history of David; the history of Jesus Christ. And then he mademe repeat them after him. But my head, it was hard--it was hard; itwas not used to learning, and I was always getting tired in my armsand my legs. "

"And he tormented us to death, " said his wife, laughing. 

"True, true, " replied he, laughing also; "I became cross. He cameagain, and said, "'James, you must go to work. '

"I showed him my poor, burned hands. 

"'It is no matter; I have bought you a capital in trade. '

"'Me, Mr. Desgranges?'

"'Yes, James, a capital into which they never put goods, and wherethey always find them. '

"'It must have cost you a great deal, sir. '

"'Nothing at all, my lad. '

"'What is then this fund?'

"'The river. '

"'The river? Do you wish me to become a fisherman?'

"'Not all; a water-carrier. '

"'Water-carrier! but eyes?'

"'Eyes; of what use are they? do the dray-horses have eyes? If theydo, they make use of them; if they do not, they do without them. Come, you must be a water-carrier. '

"'But a cask?'

"'I will give you one. '

"'A cart?'

"'I have ordered one at the cart-maker's. '

"'But customers?'

"I will give you my custom, to begin with, eighteen francs a month;(my dear friend pays for water as dearly as for wine. ) Moreover, youhave nothing to say, either yes or no. I have dismissed mywater-carrier, and you would not let my wife and me die with thirst. This dear Madame Desgranges, just think of it. And so, my boy, inthree days--work. And you, Madam James, come here;' and he carriedoff Juliana. "

"Yes, sir, " continued the wife, "he carried me off, ordered leatherstraps, made me buy the wheels, harnessed me; we were allastonishment, James and I; but stop, if you can, when Mr. Desgrangesdrives you. At the end of three days, here we are with the cask, heharnessed and drawing it, I behind, pushing; we were ashamed atcrossing the village, as if we were doing something wrong; it seemedas if everybody would laugh at us. But Mr. Desgranges was there inthe street. 

"'Come on, James, ' said he, 'courage. '

"We came along, and in the evening he put into our hands a piece ofmoney, saying, " continued the blind man, with emotion--

"'James, here are twenty sous you have earned to-day. '

"Earned, sir, think of that! earned, it was fifteen months that Ihad only eaten what had been given to me. It is good to receive fromgood people, it is true; but the bread that one earns, it is as wesay, half corn, half barley; it nourishes better, and then it wasdone, I was no longer the woman, I was a labourer--a labourer--Jamesearned his living. "

A sort of pride shone from his face. 

"How!" said the young man, "was your cask sufficient to supportyou?"

"Not alone, sir; but I have still another profession. "

"Another profession!"

"Ha, ha, yes, sir; the river always runs, except when it is frozen, and, as Mr. Desgranges says, 'water-carriers do not make theirfortune with ice, ' so he gave me a Winter trade and Summer trade. "

"Winter trade!"

Mr. Desgranges returned at this moment--James heard him--"Is it nottrue, Mr. Desgranges, that I have another trade besides that ofwater-carrier?"

"Undoubtedly. "

"What is it then?"

"Wood-sawyer. "

"Wood-sawyer? impossible; how could you measure the length of thesticks? how could you cut wood without cutting yourself?"

"Cut myself, sir, " replied the blind man, with a pleasant shade ofconfidence; "I formerly was a woodsawyer, and the saw knows me well;and then one learns everything--I go to school, indeed. They put apile of wood at my left side, my saw and saw horse before me, astick that is to be sawed in three; I take a thread, I cut it thesize of the third of the stick--this is the measure. Every place Isaw, I try it, and so it goes on till now there is nothing burned ordrunk in the village without calling upon me. "

"Without mentioning, " added Mr. Desgranges, "that he is acommissioner. "

"A commissioner!" said the young man, still more surprised. 

"Yes, sir, when there is an errand to be done at Melun, I put mylittle girl on my back, and then off I go. She sees for me, I walkfor her; those who meet me, say, 'Here is a gentleman who carrieshis eyes very high;' to which I answer, 'that is so I may see thefarther. ' And then at night I have twenty sous more to bring home. "

"But are you not afraid of stumbling against the stones?"

"I lift my feet pretty high; and then I am used to it; I come fromNoiesemont here all alone. "

"All alone! how do you find your way?"

"I find the course of the wind as I leave home, and this takes theplace of the sun with me. "

"But the holes?"

"I know them all. "

"And the walls?"

"I feel them. When I approach anything thick, sir, the air comeswith less force upon my face; it is but now and then that I get ahard knock, as by example, if sometimes a little handcart is left onthe road, I do not suspect it--whack! bad for you, poorfive-and-thirty, but this is soon over. It is only when I getbewildered, as I did day before yesterday. O then---"

"You have not told me of that, James, " said Mr. Desgranges. 

"I was, however, somewhat embarrassed, my dear friend. While I washere the wind changed, I did not perceive it; but at the end of aquarter of an hour, when I had reached the plain of Noiesemont, Ihad lost my way, and I felt so bewildered that I did not dare tostir a step. You know the plain, not a house, no passersby. I satdown on the ground, I listened; after a moment I heard at, as Isupposed, about two hundred paces distant, a noise of running water. I said, 'If this should be the stream which is at the bottom of theplain?' I went feeling along on the side from which the noisecame--I reached the stream; then I reasoned in this way: the watercomes down from the side of Noiesemont and crosses it. I put in myhand to feel the current. "

"Bravo, James. "

"Yes, but the water was so low and the current so small, that myhand felt nothing. I put in the end of my stick, it was not moved. Irubbed my head finally, I said, 'I am a fool, here is myhandkerchief;' I took it, I fastened it to the end of my cane. SoonI felt that it moved gently to the right, very gently. Noiesemont ison the right. I started again and I get home to Juliana, who beganto be uneasy. "

"O, " cried the young man, "this is admir----"

But Mr. Desgranges stopped him, and leading him to the other end ofthe room, "Silence!" said he to him in a low voice. "Not admirable--do notcorrupt by pride the simplicity of this man. Look at him, see howtranquil his face is, how calm after this recital which has movedyou so much. He is ignorant of himself, do not spoil him. "

"It is so touching, " said the young man, in a low tone. 

"Undoubtedly, and still his superiority does not lie there. Athousand blind men have found out these ingenious resources, athousand will find them again; but this moral perfection--thisheart, which opens itself so readily to elevated consolations--thisheart which so willingly takes upon it the part of a victim--thisheart which has restored him to life. For do not be deceived, it isnot I who have saved him, it is his affection for me; his ardentgratitude has filled his whole soul, and has sustained--he has livedbecause he has loved!"

At that moment, James, who had remained at the other end of theroom, and who perceived that we were speaking low, got up softly, and with a delicate discretion, said to his wife, "We will go away without making any noise. "

"Are you going, James?"

"I am in the way, my dear Mr. Desgranges. "

"No, pray stay longer. "

His benefactor retained him, reaching out to him cordially his hand. The blind man seized the hand in his turn, and pressed it warmlyagainst his heart. 

"My dear friend, my dear good friend, you permit me to stay a littlelonger. How glad I am to find myself near you. When I am sad Isay--'James, the good God will, perhaps, of His mercy, put you inthe same paradise with Mr. Desgranges, ' and that does me good. "

The young man smiled at this simple tenderness, which believed in ahierarchy in Heaven. James heard him. 

"You smile, sir. But this good man has re-created James. I dream ofit every night--I have never seen him, but I shall know him then. Ohmy God, if I recover my sight I will look at him for ever--for ever, like the light, till he shall say to me, James, go away. But he willnot say so, he is too good. If I had known him four years ago, Iwould have served him, and never have left him. "

"James, James!" said Mr. Desgranges; but the poor man could not besilenced. 

"It is enough to know he is in the village; this makes my hearteasy. I do not always wish to come in, but I pass before his house, it is always there; and when he is gone a journey I make Julianalead me into the plain of Noiesemont, and I say--'turn me towardsthe place where he is gone, that I may breathe the same air withhim. '"

Mr. Desgranges put his hand before his mouth. James stopped. 

"You are right, Mr. Desgranges, my mouth is rude, it is only myheart which is right. Come, wife, " said he, gayly, and drying hisgreat tears which rolled from his eyes, "Come, we must give ourchildren their supper. Good-by, my dear friend, good-by, sir. "

He went away, moving his staff before him. Just as he laid his handupon the door, Mr. Desgranges called him back. 

"I want to tell you a piece of news which will give you pleasure. Iwas going to leave the village this year; but I have just taken anew lease of five years of my landlady. "

"Do you see, Juliana, " said James to his wife, turning round, "I wasright when I said he was going away. "

"How, " replied Mr. Desgranges, "I had told them not to tell youof it. "

"Yes; but here, " putting his hand on his heart, "everything is plainhere. I heard about a month since, some little words, which hadbegun to make my head turn round; when, last Sunday, your landladycalled me to her, and showed me more kindness than usual, promisingme that she would take care of me, and that she would never abandonme. When I came home, I said to Juliana, 'Wife, Mr. Desgranges isgoing to quit the village; but that lady has consoled me. '"

In a few moments the blind man had returned to his home. 

DEPENDENCE. 

"WELL, Mary, " said Aunt Frances, "how do you propose to spend thesummer? It is so long since the failure and death of your guardian, that I suppose you are now familiar with your position, and preparedto mark out some course for the future. "

"True, aunt; I have had many painful thoughts with regard to theloss of my fortune, and I was for a time in great uncertainty aboutmy future course, but a kind offer, which I received, yesterday, hasremoved that burden. I now know where to find a respectable andpleasant home. "

"Is the offer you speak of one of marriage?" asked Aunt Frances, smiling. 

"Oh! dear, no; I am too young for that yet. But Cousin Kate ishappily married, and lives a few miles out of the city, in just thecosiest little spot, only a little too retired; and she haspersuaded me that I shall do her a great kindness to accept a homewith her. "

"Let me see. Kate's husband is not wealthy, I believe?"

"No: Charles Howard is not wealthy, but his business is very good, and improving every year; and both he and Kate are too whole-souledand generous to regret giving an asylum to an unfortunate girl likeme. They feel that 'it is more blessed to give than to receive. '"

"A very noble feeling, Mary; but one in which I am sorry to perceivethat you are a little wanting. "

"Oh! no, Aunt Frances, I do feel it deeply; but it is the curse ofpoverty that one must give up, in some measure, the power ofbenefiting others. And, then, I mean to beguile Kate of so manylonely hours, and perform so many friendly offices for her husband, that they will think me not a burden but a treasure. "

"And you really think you can give them as much comfort as theexpense of your maintenance could procure them in any other way?"

"Yes, aunt; it may sound conceited, perhaps, but I do really think Ican. I am sure, if I thought otherwise, I would never consent tobecome a burden to them. "

"Well, my dear, then your own interest is all that remains to beconsidered. There are few blessings in life that can compensate forthe loss of self-reliance. She who derives her support from personsupon whom she has no natural claim, finds the effect upon herself tobe decidedly narrowing. Perpetually in debt, without the means ofreimbursement, barred from any generous action which does not seemlike 'robbing Peter to pay Paul, ' she sinks too often into thecharacter of a sponge, whose only business is absorption. But I seeyou do not like what I am saying, and I will tell you somethingwhich I am sure you _will_ like--my own veritable history. 

"I was left an orphan in childhood, like yourself, and when myfather's affairs were settled, not a dollar remained for my support. I was only six years of age, but I had attracted the notice of adistant relative, who was a man of considerable wealth. Without anyeffort of my own, I became an inmate of his family, and his onlyson, a few years my elder, was taught to consider me as a sister. 

"George Somers was a generous, kind-hearted boy, and I believe hewas none the less fond of me, because I was likely to rob him ofhalf his fortune. Mr. Somers often spoke of making a will, in whichI was to share equally with his son in the division of his property, but a natural reluctance to so grave a task led him to defer it fromone year to another. Meantime, I was sent to expensive schools, andwas as idle and superficial as any heiress in the land. 

"I was just sixteen when my kind benefactor suddenly perished onboard the ill-fated Lexington, and, as he died without a will, I hadno legal claim to any farther favours. But George Somers was knownas a very open-handed youth, upright and honourable, and, as he wasperfectly well acquainted with the wishes of his father, I felt nofears with regard to my pecuniary condition. While yet overwhelmedwith grief at the loss of one whom my heart called father, Ireceived a very kind and sympathizing letter from George, in whichhe said he thought I had better remain at school for another year, as had been originally intended. 

"'Of course, ' he added, 'the death of my father does not alter ourrelation in the least; you are still my dear and only sister. '

"And, in compliance with his wishes, I passed another year at a veryfashionable school--a year of girlish frivolity, in which my lastchance of acquiring knowledge as a means of future independence waswholly thrown away. Before the close of this year I received anotherletter from George, which somewhat surprised, but did not at alldishearten me. It was, in substance, as follows:--

"'_MY own dear Sister_:--I wrote you, some months ago, fromSavannah, in Georgia told you how much I was delighted with theplace and people; how charmed with Southern frankness andhospitality. But I did not tell you that I had there met withpositively the most bewitching creature in the world--for I was buta timid lover, and feared that, as the song says, the course of truelove never would run smooth. My charming Laura was a considerableheiress, and, although no sordid considerations ever had a feather'sweight upon her own preferences, of course, yet her father wasnaturally and very properly anxious that the guardian of so fair aflower should be able to shield it from the biting winds of poverty. Indeed, I had some difficulty in satisfying his wishes on thispoint, and in order to do so, I will frankly own that I assumed tomyself the unencumbered possession of my father's estate, of whichso large a share belongs of right to you. I am confident that whenyou know my Laura you will forgive me this merely nominal injustice. Of course, this connexion can make no sort of difference in yourrights and expectations. You will always have a home at my house. Laura is delighted, with the idea of such a companion, and says shewould on no account dispense with that arrangement. And whenever, you marry as girls do and will, I shall hold myself bound to satisfyany reasonable wishes on the part of the happy youth that wins you. Circumstances hastened my marriage somewhat unexpectedly, or Ishould certainly have informed you previously, and requested yourpresence at the nuptial ceremony. We have secured a beautiful housein Brooklyn, and shall expect you to join us as soon as your presentyear expires, Laura sends her kindest regards, and I remain, asalways, your sincere and affectionate brother, GEORGE SOMERS. '

"Not long after the receipt of this letter, one of theinstructresses, in the institution where I resided requested thefavour of a private interview. She then said she knew somethinggenerally of my position and prospects, and, as she had always feltan instinctive interest in my fortunes, she could not see me leavethe place without seeking my confidence, and rendering me aid, ifaid was in her power. Though surprised and, to say the truth, indignant, I simply inquired what views, had occurred to her withregard to my future life. 

"She said, then, very kindly, that although I was not very thoroughin, any branch of study, yet she thought I had a decided taste forthe lighter and more ornamental parts of female education. That afew months earnest attention to these would fit me for a positionindependent of my connexions, and one of which none of my friendswould have cause to be ashamed. 

"I am deeply pained to own to you how I answered her. Drawing myselfup, I said, coldly, "'I am obliged to you, madam, for your quite unsolicited interest inmy affairs. When I leave this place, it will be to join my brotherand sister in Brooklyn, and, as we are all reasonably wealthy, Imust try to make gold varnish over any defects in my neglectededucation. '

"I looked to see my kind adviser entirely annihilated by theseimposing words, but she answered with perfect calmness, "'I know Laura Wentworth, now Mrs. Somers. She was educated at theNorth, and was a pupil of my own for a year. She is wealthy andbeautiful, and I hope you will never have cause to regret assuming aposition with regard to her that might be mistaken for dependence. '

"With these words, my well-meaning, but perhaps injudicious friend, took leave, and I burst into a mocking laugh, that I hoped she mightlinger long enough to hear. 'This is too good!' I repeated tomyself--but I could not feel perfectly at ease. However, I soonforgot all thoughts of the future, in the present duties ofscribbling in fifty albums, and exchanging keepsakes, tears, andkisses, with a like number of _very_ intimate friends. 

"It was not until I had finally left school, and was fairly on theway to the home of my brother, that I found a moment's leisure tothink seriously of the life that was before me. I confess that Ifelt some secret misgivings, as I stood at last upon the steps ofthe very elegant house that was to be my future home. The servantwho obeyed my summons, inquired if I was Miss Rankin, a name I hadnever borne since childhood. 

"I was about to reply in the negative, when she added, 'If you arethe young lady that Mr. Somers is expecting from the seminary, Iwill show you to your room. '

"I followed mechanically, and was left in a very pretty chamber, with the information that Mrs. Somers was a little indisposed, butwould meet me at dinner. The maid added that Mr. Somers was out oftown, and would not return till evening. After a very uncomfortablehour, during which I resolutely suspended my opinion with regard tomy position, the dinner-bell rang, and the domestic again appearedto show me to the dining-room. 

"Mrs. Somers met me with extended hand. 'My dear Miss Rankin!' sheexclaimed, 'I am most happy to see you. I have heard George speak ofyou so often and so warmly that I consider you quite as a relative. Come directly to the table. I am sure you must be famished afteryour long ride. I hope you will make yourself one of us, at once, and let me call you Fanny. May I call you Cousin Fanny?' shepursued, with an air of sweet condescension that was meant to beirresistible. 

"'As you please, ' I replied coldly. 

"To which she quickly responded, 'Oh, that will be delightful. '

"She then turned to superintend the carving of a fowl, and I hadtime to look at her undisturbed. She was tall and finely formed, with small delicate features, and an exquisite grace in everymovement; a haughty sweetness that was perfectly indescribable. Shehad very beautiful teeth, which she showed liberally when shesmiled, and in her graver moments her slight features wore animperturbable serenity, as if the round world contained nothing thatwas really worth her attention. An animated statue, cold, polished, and pitiless! was my inward thought, as I bent over my dinner. 

"When the meal was over, Mrs. Somers said to me, in a tone ofplayful authority, "'Now, Cousin Fanny, I want you to go to your room and rest, and notdo an earthly thing until teatime. After that I have a thousandthings to show you. '

"At night I was accordingly shown a great part of the house; acostly residence, and exquisitely furnished, but, alas! I alreadywearied of this icy splendour. Every smile of my beautiful hostess(I could not now call her sister), every tone of her soft voice, every movement of her superb form, half queen-like dignity, halffawn-like grace--seemed to place an insurmountable barrier betweenherself and me. It was not that I thought more humbly of myself--notthat I did not even consider myself her equal--but her daintyblandishments were a delicate frost-work, that almost made me shiverand when, she touched her cool lips to mine, and said 'Good-night, dear, ' I felt as if even then separated from her real, living self, by a wall of freezing marble. 

"'Poor George!' I said, as I retired to rest--'You have wedded thissoulless woman, and she will wind you round her finger. '

"I did not sit up for him, for he was detained till a late hour, butI obeyed the breakfast-bell with unfashionable eagerness, as I wasbecoming nervous about our meeting, and really anxious to have itover. After a delay of some minutes, I heard the wedded pair comingleisurely down the stairs, in, very amicable chatter. 

"'I am glad you like her, Laura, ' said a voice which I knew in amoment as that of George. How I shivered as I caught the smoothreply, 'A nice little thing. I am very glad of the connexion. Itwill be such a relief not to rely entirely upon servants. Thereshould be a middle class in every family. '

"With these words she glided through the door, looked with perfectcalmness in my flashing eyes, and said, "'Ah, Fanny! I, was just telling George here how much I shall likeyou. '

"The husband came forward with an embarrassed air; I strove to meethim with dignity, but my heart failed me, and I burst into tears. 

"'Forgive me, madam, ' I said, on regaining my composure--'This isour first meeting since the death of _our father_. '

"'I understand your feelings perfectly, ' she quietly replied. 'Myfather knew the late Mr. Somers well, and thought very highly ofhim, He was charitable to a fault, and yet remarkable fordiscernment. His bounty was seldom unworthily bestowed. '

"His bounty! I had never been thought easy to intimidate, but Iquailed before this unapproachable ice-berg. It made no attemptfrom that moment to vindicate what I was pleased to call my rights, but awaited passively the progress of events. 

"After breakfast, Mrs. Somers said to the maid in attendance, "'Dorothy, bring some hot water and towels for Miss Rankin. '

"She then turned to me and continued, 'I shall feel the chinaperfectly safe in your hands, cousin. These servants are so veryunreliable. '

"And she followed George to the parlour above, where their livelytones and light laughter made agreeable music. 

"In the same easy way, I was invested with a variety of domesticcares, most of them such as I would willingly have accepted, had shewaited for me to manifest such a willingness. But a few days aftermy arrival, we received a visit from little Ella Grey, a cousin ofLaura's, who was taken seriously ill on the first evening of herstay. A physician was promptly summoned, and, after a conferencewith him, Mrs. Somers came to me, inquiring earnestly, "'Cousin Fanny, have you ever had the measles?'

"I replied in the affirmative. 

"'Oh, I am very glad!' was her response; 'for little Ella isattacked with them, and very severely; but, if you will take chargeof her, I shall feel no anxiety. It is dreadful in sickness to beobliged to depend upon hirelings. '

"So I was duly installed as little Ella's nurse, and, as she was aspoiled child, my task was neither easy nor agreeable. 

"No sooner was the whining little creature sufficiently improved tobe taken to her own home, than the house was thrown into confusionby preparations for a brilliant party. Laura took me with her on ashopping excursion, and bade me select whatever I wished, and sendthe bill with hers to Mr. Somers. I purchased a few indispensablearticles, but I felt embarrassed by her calm, scrutinizing gaze, andby the consciousness that every item of my expenditures would bescanned by, perhaps, censorious eyes. 

"What with my previous fatigue while acting as Ella's nurse, and thelaborious preparations for the approaching festival, I felt, as thetime drew near, completely exhausted. Yet I was determined not to sofar give way to the depressing influences that surrounded me, as toabsent myself from the party. So, after snatching an interval ofrest, to relieve my aching head, I dressed myself with unusual care, and repaired to the brilliantly lighted rooms. They were alreadyfilled, and murmuring like a swarm of bees, although, as one of theguests remarked, there were more drones than workers in the hive. Iwas now no drone, certainly, and that was some consolation. When Ientered, Laura was conversing with a group of dashing young men, whowere blundering over a book of charades. Seeing me enter, she cametowards me immediately. 

"'Cousin Fanny, you who help everybody, I want you to come to theaid of these stupid young men. Gentlemen, this is our Cousin Fanny, the very best creature in the world. ' And with this introduction sheleft me, and turned to greet some new arrivals. After discussing thecharades till my ears were weary of empty and aimless chatter, I wasvery glad to find my group of young men gradually dispersing, andmyself at liberty to look about me, undisturbed. George soon came tome, gave me his arm, and took me to a room where were severalladies, friends of his father, and who had known me very well as achild. 

"'You remember Fanny, ' he said to them; and then left me, anddevoted himself to the courteous duties of the hour. While I wasindulging in a quiet chat with a very kind old friend, she proposedto go with me to look at the dancers, as the music was remarkablyfine, and it was thought the collected beauty and fashion of theevening would make a very brilliant show. We left our seats, accordingly, but were soon engaged in the crowd, and while waitingfor an opportunity to move on, I heard one of my young men askanother, "'How do you like _la cousine_?'

"I lost a part of the answer, but heard the closing wordsdistinctly--'_et un peu passee. _' '_Oui, decidement!_' was theprompt response, and a light laugh followed, while, shrinking closeto my kind friend, I rejoiced that my short stature concealed mefrom observation. I was not very well taught, but, like mostschool-girls, I had a smattering of French, and I knew the meaningof the very ordinary phrases that had been used with regard to me. Before the supper-hour, my headache became so severe that I was gladto take refuge in my own room. There I consulted my mirror, and feltdisposed to forgive, the young critics for their disparagingremarks. _Passee!_ I looked twenty-five at least, and yet I was noteighteen, and six months before I had fancied myself a beauty and anheiress!

"But I will not weary you with details. Suffice it to say; that Ispent only three months of this kind of life, and then relinquishedthe protection of Mr. And Mrs. Somers, and removed to a second-rateboarding-house, where I attempted to maintain myself by givinglessons in music. Every day, however, convinced me of my unfitnessfor this task, and, as I soon felt an interest in the sweet littlegirls who looked up to me for instruction, my position with regardto them became truly embarrassing. One day I had been wearyingmyself by attempting the impossible task of making clear to anothermind, ideas that lay confusedly in my own, and at last I said to mypupil, "'You may go home now, Clara, dear, and practise the lesson ofyesterday. I am really ill to-day, but to-morrow I shall feelbetter, and I hope I shall then be able to make you understand me. '

"The child glided out, but a shadow still fell across the carpet. Ilooked up, and saw in the doorway a young man, whose eccentricitiessometimes excited a smile among his fellow-boarders, but who wasmuch respected for his sense and independence. 

"'To make yourself understood by others, you must first learn tounderstand yourself, ' said he, as he came forward. Then, taking myhand, he continued, --'What if you should give up all this abortivelabour, take a new pupil, and, instead of imparting to others whatyou have not very firmly grasped yourself, try if you can make ahuman being of me?'

"I looked into his large gray eyes, and saw the truth andearnestness shining in their depths, like pebbles at the bottom of apellucid spring. I never once thought of giving him a conventionalreply. On the contrary, I stammered out, "'I am full, of faults and errors; I could never do you any good. '

"'I have studied your character attentively, ' returned he, 'and Iknow you have faults, but they are unlike mine; and I think that youmight be of great service to me; or, if the expression suits youbetter, that we might be of great aid to each other. Become my wife, and I will promise to improve more rapidly than any pupil in yourclass. '

"And I did become his wife, but not until a much longer acquaintancehad convinced me, that in so doing, I should not exchange one formof dependence for another, more galling and more hopeless. "

"Then this eccentric young man was Uncle Robert?"

"Precisely. But you see he has made great improvement, since. "

"Well, Aunt Frances, I thank you for your story; and now for themoral. What do you think I had better do?"

"I will tell you what you can do, if you choose. Your uncle has justreturned from a visit to his mother. He finds her a mere child, gentle and amiable, but wholly unfit to take charge of herself. Herclothes have taken fire repeatedly, from her want of judgment withregard to fuel and lights, and she needs a companion for everymoment of the day. This, with their present family, is impossible, and they are desirous to secure some one who will devote herself toyour grandmother during the hours when your aunt and the domesticsare necessarily engaged. You were always a favourite there, and Iknow they would be very much relieved if you would take this officefor a time, but they feel a delicacy in making any such proposal. You can have all your favourites about you--books, flowers, andpiano; for the dear old lady delights to hear reading or music, andwill sit for hours with a vacant smile upon her pale, faded face. Then your afternoons will be entirely your own, and Robert isempowered to pay any reliable person a salary of a fixed and ampleamount, which will make you independent for the time. "

"But, aunt, you will laugh at me, I know, yet I do really fear thatKate will feel this arrangement as a disappointment. "

"Suppose I send her a note, stating that you have given me someencouragement of assuming this important duty, but that you couldnot think of deciding without showing a grateful deference to herwishes?"

"That will be just the thing. We shall get a reply to-morrow. " Withto-morrow came the following note:--

"_My Dear Aunt Frances_:--Your favour of yesterday took us a littleby surprise, I must own I had promised myself a great deal ofpleasure in the society of our Mary; but since she is inclined (andI think it is very noble in her) to foster with the dew of her youththe graceful but fallen stem that lent beauty to us all, I cannotsay a word to prevent it. Indeed, it has occurred to me, since thereceipt of your note, that we shall need the room we had reservedfor Mary, to accommodate little Willie, Mr. Howard's pet nephew, whohas the misfortune to be lame. His physicians insist upon countryair, and a room upon the first floor. So tell Mary I love her athousand times better for her self-sacrifice, and will try toimitate it by doing all in my power for the poor little invalid thatis coming. 

"With the kindest regards, I remain "Your affectionate niece, "KATE HOWARD. "

"Are you now decided, Mary?" asked Aunt Frances, after their jointperusal of the letter. 

"Not only decided, but grateful. I have lost my fortune, it is true;but while youth and health remain, I shall hardly feel tempted totaste the luxuries of dependence. "

TWO RIDES WITH THE DOCTOR. 

JUMP in, if you would ride with the doctor. You have no time tolose, for the patient horse, thankful for the unusual blessing whichhe has enjoyed in obtaining a good night's rest, stands early at thedoor this rainy morning, and the worthy doctor himself is already inhis seat, and is hastily gathering up the reins, for there have beenno less than six rings at his bell within as many minutes, andimmediate attendance is requested in several different places. 

It is not exactly the day one might select for a ride, for the stormis a regular north-easter, and your hands and feet are benumbed withthe piercing cold wind, while you are drenched with the drivingrain. 

But the doctor is used to all this, and, unmindful of wind and rain, he urges his faithful horse to his utmost speed, eager to reach thespot where the most pressing duty calls. He has at least thesatisfaction of being welcome. Anxious eyes are watching for hiswell-known vehicle from the window; the door is opened ere he putshis hand upon the lock, and the heartfelt exclamation, "Oh, doctor, I am so thankful you have come!" greets him as heenters. 

Hastily the anxious father leads the way to the room where hishalf-distracted wife is bending in agony over their first-born, alovely infant of some ten months, who is now in strong convulsions. The mother clasps her hands, and raises her eyes in gratitude toheaven, as the doctor enters, -he is her only earthly hope. Promptand efficient remedies are resorted to, and in an hour the restoredlittle one is sleeping tranquilly in his mother's arms. 

The doctor departs amid a shower of blessings, and again urging hishorse to speed, reaches his second place of destination. It is astately mansion. A spruce waiter hastens to answer his ring, but thelady herself meets him as he enters the hall. 

"We have been expecting you anxiously, doctor. Mr. Palmer is quiteill, this morning. Walk up, if you please. "

The doctor obeys, and is eagerly welcomed by his patient. 

"Do exert your utmost skill to save me from a fever, doctor. Thesymptoms are much the same which I experienced last year, previousto that long siege with the typhoid. It distracts me to think of it. At this particular juncture I should lose thousands by absence frommy business. "

The doctor's feelings are enlisted, --his feelings of humanity andhis feelings of self-interest, for doctors must live as well asother people; and the thought of the round sum which would find itsway to his own purse, if he could but succeed in preventing the lossof thousands to his patient, was by no means unpleasing. 

The most careful examination of the symptoms is made, andwell-chosen prescriptions given. He is requested to call as often aspossible through the day, which he readily promises to do, althoughpress of business and a pouring rain render it somewhat difficult. 

The result, however, will be favourable to his wishes. His secondand third call give him great encouragement, and on the second dayafter the attack, the merchant returns to his counting-room exultingin the skill of his physician. 

But we must resume our ride. On, on goes the doctor; rain pouring, wind blowing, mud splashing. Ever and anon he checks his horse'sspeed, at his various posts of duty. High and low, rich and pooranxiously await his coming. He may not shrink from the ghastlyspectacle of human suffering and death. Humanity, in its mostloathsome forms, is presented to him. 

The nearest and dearest may turn away in grief and horror, but thedoctor blenches not. 

Again we are digressing. The doctor's well-known tap is heard at thedoor of a sick-room, where for many days he has been in constantattendance. Noiselessly he is admitted. The young husband kneels atthe side of the bed where lies his dearest earthly treasure. Thecalm but deeply-afflicted mother advances to the doctor, andwhispers fearfully low, "There is a change. She sleeps. Is it--oh! can it be the sleep ofdeath?"

Quickly the physician is at the bedside, and anxiously bending overhis patient. 

Another moment and he grasps the husband's hand, while the gladwords "She will live, " burst from his lips. 

We may not picture forth their joy. On, on, we are riding with thedoctor. Once more we are at his own door. Hastily he enters, andtakes up the slate containing the list of calls during his absence. At half a dozen places his presence is requested without delay. 

A quick step is heard on the stairs, and his gentle wife hastens towelcome him. 

"I am so glad you have come; how wet you must be!"

The parlour door is thrown open. What a cheerful fire, and howinviting look the dressing-gown and the nicely warmed slippers!

"Take off your wet clothes, dear; dinner will soon be ready, " urgesthe wife. 

"It is impossible, Mary. There are several places to visit yet. Nay, never look so sad. Have not six years taught you what a doctor'swife must expect?"

"I shall never feel easy when you are working so hard, Henry; butsurely you will take a cup of hot coffee; I have it all ready. Itwill delay you but a moment. "

The doctor consents; and while the coffee is preparing, childishvoices are heard, and little feet come quickly through the hall. 

"Papa has come home!" shouts a manly little fellow of four years, ashe almost drags his younger sister to the spot where he has heardhis father's voice. 

The father's heart is gladdened by their innocent joy, as they clingaround him; but there is no time for delay. A kiss to each, one goodjump for the baby, the cup of coffee is hastily swallowed, the wifereceives her embrace with tearful eyes, and as the doctor springsquickly into his chaise, and wheels around the corner, she sighsdeeply as she looks at the dressing-gown and slippers, and thinks ofthe favourite dish which she had prepared for dinner; and now it maybe night before he comes again. But she becomes more cheerful as sheremembers that a less busy season will come, and then they willenjoy the recompense of this hard labour. 

The day wears away, and at length comes the happy hour when gown andslippers may be brought into requisition. The storm still rageswithout, but there is quiet happiness within. The babies aresleeping, and father and mother are in that snug little parlour, with its bright light and cheerful fire. The husband is not tooweary to read aloud, and the wife listens, while her hands arebusied with woman's never-ending work. 

But their happiness is of short duration. A loud ring at the bell. 

"Patient in the office, sir, " announces the attendant. 

The doctor utters a half-impatient exclamation; but the wifeexpresses only thankfulness that it is an office patient. 

"Fine night for a sick person to come out!" muttered the doctor, ashe unwillingly lays down his book, and rises from the comfortablelounge. 

But he is himself again by the time his hand is on the door of theoffice, and it is with real interest that he greets his patient. 

"Tooth to be extracted? Sit down, sir. Here, Biddy, bring water anda brighter lamp. Have courage, sir; one moment will end it. "

The hall door closes on the relieved sufferer, and the doctor throwshimself again on the lounge, and smilingly puts the bright halfdollar in his pocket. 

"That was not so bad, after all, Mary. I like to make fifty cents inthat way. "

"Cruel creature! Do not mention it. "

"Cruel! The poor man blessed me in his heart. Did I not relieve himfrom the most intense suffering?"

"Well, never mind. I hope there will be no more calls to-night. "

"So do I. Where is the book? I will read again. " No moreinterruptions. Another hour, and all, are sleeping quietly. 

Midnight has passed, when the sound of the bell falls on thedoctor's wakeful ear. As quickly as possible he answers it inperson, but another peal is heard ere he reaches the door. 

A gentleman to whose family he has frequently been called, appears. 

"Oh! doctor, lose not a moment; my little Willie is dying with thecroup!"

There is no resisting this appeal. The still wet overcoat and bootsare drawn on; medicine case hastily seized, and the doctor rushesforth again into the storm. 

Pity for his faithful horse induces him to traverse the distance onfoot, and a rapid walk of half a mile brings him to the house. 

It was no needless alarm. The attack was a severe one, and all hisskill was required to save the life of the little one. It wasdaylight ere he could leave him with safety. Then, as he was aboutdeparting for his own home, an express messenger arrived to entreathim to go immediately to another place nearly a mile in an oppositedirection. 

Breakfast was over ere he reached his own house. His thoughtful wifesuggested a nap; but a glance at the already well-filled slateshowed this to be out of the question. A hasty toilet, and stillhastier breakfast, and the doctor is again seated in his chaise, going on his accustomed rounds; but we will not now accompany him. 

Let us pass over two or three months, and invite ourselves toanother ride. One pleasant morning, when less pressed with business, he walks leisurely from the house to the chaise, and gathering upthe reins with a remarkably thoughtful air, rides slowly down thestreet. 

But few patients are on his list, and these are first attended to. 

The doctor then pauses for consideration. He has set apart this dayfor _collecting_. Past experience has taught him that the task is byno means an agreeable one. It is necessary, however--absolutelyso--for, as we have said before, doctors must live as well as otherpeople; their house-rent must be paid, food and clothing must besupplied. 

A moment only pauses the doctor, and then we are again movingonward. A short ride brings us to the door of a pleasantly-situatedhouse. We remember it well. It is where the little one lay in fitswhen we last rode out with the doctor. We recall the scene: theconvulsed countenance of the child; the despair of the parents, andthe happiness which succeeded when their beloved one was restored tothem. 

Surely they will now welcome the doctor. Thankfully will they paythe paltry sum he claims as a recompense for his services. We aremore confident than the doctor. Experience is a sure teacher. Thedoor does not now fly open at his approach. He gives his name to thegirl who answers the bell, and in due time the lady of the houseappears. 

"Ah! doctor, how do you do? You are quite a stranger! Delightfulweather, " &c. 

The doctor replies politely, and inquires if her husband is in. 

"Yes, he is in; but I regret to say he is exceedingly engaged thismorning. His business is frequently of a nature which cannot sufferinterruption. He would have been pleased to have seen you. "

The doctor's pocket-book is produced, and the neatly drawn bill ispresented. 

"If convenient to Mr. Lawton, the amount would be acceptable. "

"I will hand it to him when he is at leisure. He will attend to it, no doubt. "

The doctor sighs involuntarily as he recalls similar indefinitepromises; but it is impossible to insist upon interrupting importantbusiness. He ventures another remark, implying that prompt paymentwould oblige him; bows, and retires. 

On, on goes the faithful horse. Where is to be our nextstopping-place? At the wealthy merchant's, who owed so much to thedoctor's skill some two months since. Even the doctor feelsconfidence here. Thousands saved by the prevention of that fever. Thirty dollars is not to be thought of in comparison. 

All is favourable. Mr. Palmer is at home, and receives his visiterin a cordial manner. Compliments are passed. Now for the bill. 

"Our little account, Mr. Palmer. "

"Ah! I recollect; I am a trifle in your debt. Let us see: thirtydollars! So much? I had forgotten that we had needed medical advice, excepting in my slight indisposition a few weeks since. "

Slight indisposition! What a memory some people are blessed with!

The doctor smothers his rising indignation. 

"Eight visits, Mr. Palmer, and at such a distance. You will find thecharge a moderate one. "

"Oh! very well; I dare say it is all right. I am sorry I have notthe money for you to-day, doctor. Very tight just at present; youknow how it is with men of business. "

"It would be a great accommodation if I could have it at once. "

"Impossible, doctor! I wish I could oblige you. In a week, orfortnight, at the farthest, I will call at your office. "

A week or fortnight! The disappointed doctor once more seats himselfin his chaise, and urges his horse to speed. He is growing desperatenow, and is eager to reach his next place of destination. Suddenlyhe checks the horse. A gentleman is passing whom he recognises asthe young husband whose idolized wife has so lately been snatchedfrom the borders of the grave. 

"Glad to see you, Mr. Wilton; I was about calling at your house. "

"Pray, do so, doctor; Mrs. Wilton will be pleased to see you. "

"Thank you; but my call was on business, to-day. I believe I musttrouble you with my bill for attendance during your wife's illness. "

"Ah! yes; I recollect. Have you it with you? Fifty dollars!Impossible! Why, she was not ill above three weeks. "

"Very true; but think of the urgency of the case. Three or fourcalls during twenty-four hours were necessary, and two whole nightsI passed at her bedside. "

"And yet the charge appears to me enormous. Call it forty, and Iwill hand you the amount at once. "

The doctor hesitates. "I cannot afford to lose ten dollars, which isjustly my due, Mr. Wilton. "

"Suit yourself, doctor. Take forty, and receipt the bill, or stickto your first charge, and wait till I am ready to pay it. Fiftydollars is no trifle, I can tell you. "

And this is the man whose life might have been a blank but for thedoctor's skill!

Again we are travelling onward. The unpaid bill is left in Mr. Wilton's hand, and yet the doctor half regrets that he had notsubmitted to the imposition. Money is greatly needed just now, andthere seems little prospect of getting any. 

Again and again the horse is stopped at some well-known post. A poorwelcome has the doctor to-day. Some bills are collected, but theiramount is discouragingly small. Everybody appears to feelastonishingly healthy, and have almost forgotten that they ever hadoccasion for a physician. There is one consolation, however:sickness will come again, and then, perhaps, the unpaid bill may berecollected. Homeward goes the doctor. He is naturally of a cheerfuldisposition; but now he is seriously threatened with a fit of theblues. A list of calls upon his slate has little effect to raise hisspirits. "All work and no pay, " he mutters to himself, as he puts onhis dressing-gown and slippers; and, throwing himself upon thelounge, turns a deaf ear to the little ones, while he indulges in arevery as to the best mode of paying the doctor. 

KEEP IN STEP. 

Those who would walk together must keep in step. 

--OLD PROVERB. 

AY, the world keeps moving forward, Like an army marching by;Hear you not its heavy footfall, That resoundeth to the sky?Some bold spirits bear the banner-- Souls of sweetness chant the song, --Lips of energy and fervour Make the timid-hearted strong!Like brave soldiers we march forward; If you linger or turn back, You must look to get a jostling While you stand upon our track. Keep in step. 

My good neighbour, Master Standstill, Gazes on it as it goes;Not quite sure but he is dreaming, In his afternoon's repose!"Nothing good, " he says, "can issue From this endless moving on;Ancient laws and institutions Are decaying, or are gone. We are rushing on to ruin, With our mad, new-fangled ways. "While he speaks a thousand voices, As the heart of one man, says-- "Keep in step!"

Gentle neighbour, will you join us, Or return to "_good old ways?_"Take again the fig-leaf apron Of Old Adam's ancient days;--Or become a hardy Briton-- Beard the lion in his lair, And lie down in dainty slumber Wrapped in skins of shaggy bear, --Rear the hut amid the forest, Skim the wave in light canoe?Ah, I see! you do not like it. Then if these "old ways" won't do, Keep in step. 

Be assured, good Master Standstill, All-wise Providence designedAspiration and progression For the yearning human mind. Generations left their blessings, In the relies of their skill, Generations yet are longing For a greater glory still;And the shades of our forefathers Are not jealous of our deed--We but follow where they beckon, We but go where they do lead! Keep in step. 

One detachment of our army May encamp upon the hill, While another in the valley May enjoy its own sweet will;This, may answer to one watchword, That, may echo to another;But in unity and concord, They discern that each is brother!Breast to breast they're marching onward, In a good now peaceful way;You'll be jostled if you hinder, So don't offer let or stay-- Keep in step. 

JOHNNY COLE. 

"I GUESS we will have to put out our Johnny, " said Mrs. Cole, with asigh, as she drew closer to the fire, one cold day in autumn. Thisremark was addressed to her husband, a sleepy, lazy-looking man, whowas stretched on a bench, with his eyes half closed. The wife, withtwo little girls of eight and ten, were knitting as fast as theirfingers could fly; the baby was sound asleep in the cradle; whileJohnny, a boy of thirteen, and a brother of four, were seated on thewide hearth making a snare for rabbits. The room they occupied wascold and cheerless; the warmth of the scanty fire being scarcelyfelt; yet the floor, and every article of furniture, mean as theywere, were scrupulously neat and clean. 

The appearance of this family indicated that they were very poor. They were all thin and pale, really for want of proper food, andtheir clothes had been patched until it was difficult to decide whatthe original fabric had been; yet this very circumstance spokevolume in favour of the mother. She was, a woman of great energy ofcharacter, unfortunately united to a man whose habits were such, that, for the greater part of the time, he was a dead weight uponher hands; although not habitually intemperate, he was indolent andgood-for-nothing to a degree, lying in the sun half his time, whenthe weather was warm, and never doing a stroke of work until drivento it by the pangs of hunger. 

As for the wife, by taking in sewing, knitting, and spinning for thefarmers' families in the neighbourhood, she managed to pay a rent oftwenty dollars for the cabin in which they lived; while she andJohnny, with what assistance they could occasionally get from Jerry, her husband, tilled the half acre of ground attached; and thevegetables thus obtained, were their main dependance during the longwinter just at hand. Having thus introduced the Coles to our reader, we will continue the conversation. 

"I guess we will have to put out Johnny, and you will try and helpus a little more, Jerry, dear. "

"Why, what's got into the woman now?" muttered Jerry, stretching hisarms, and yawning to the utmost capacity of his mouth. The childrenlaughed at their father's uncouth gestures, and even Mrs. Cole'sserious face relaxed into a smile, as she answered, "Don't swallow us all, and I will tell you. The winter is beginningearly, and promises to be cold. Our potatoes didn't turn out as wellas I expected, and the truth is, we cannot get along so. We won'thave victuals to last us half the time; and, manage as I will, Ican't much more than pay the rent, I get so little for the kind ofwork I do. Now, if Johnny gets a place, it will make one less toprovide for; and he will be learning to do something for himself. "

"Yes, but mother, " said the boy, moving close to her side, andlaying his head on her knee, "yes, but who'll help you when I amgone? Who'll dig the lot, and hoe, and cut the wood, and carry thewater? You can't go away down to the spring in the deep snow. Andwho'll make the fire in the cold mornings?"

The mother looked sorry enough, as her darling boy--for he was theobject around which the fondest affections of her heart had entwinedthemselves--she looked sorry enough, as he enumerated the turns hewas in the habit of doing for her; but, woman-like, she could sufferand be still; so she answered cheerfully, "May be father will, dear; and when you grow bigger, and learn howto do everything, you'll be such a help to us all. "

"Don't depend on me, " said Jerry, now arousing himself andsauntering to the fire; "I hardly ever feel well, "--complaining wasJerry's especial forte, an excuse for all his laziness; yet hisappetite never failed; and when, as was sometimes the case, one ofthe neighbours sent a small piece of meat, or any little article offood to his wife, under the plea of ill health he managed toappropriate nearly the whole of it. He was selfishness embodied, anda serious injury to his family, as few cared to keep him up in hislaziness. 

One evening, a few days later, Mrs. Cole, who had been absentseveral hours, came in looking very tired, and after laying asideher old bonnet and shawl, informed them that she had obtained aplace for Johnny. It was four miles distant, and the farmer's manwould stop for him on his way from town, the next afternoon. What abeautiful object was farmer Watkins's homestead, lying as it did onthe sunny slope of a hill; its gray stone walls, peeping out frombetween the giant trees that overshadowed it, while everythingaround and about gave evidence of abundance and comfort. The thriftyorchard; the huge barn with its overflowing granaries; the sleek, well-fed cattle; even the low-roofed spring-house, with itssuperabundance of shining pails and pans, formed an item which couldhardly be dispensed with, in the _tout ensemble_ of this pleasanthome. 

Farmer Watkins was an honest, hard-working man, somewhat past middleage, with a heart not naturally devoid of kindness, but, where hishirelings were concerned, so strongly encrusted with a layer ofhabits, that they acted as an effectual check upon his betterfeelings. His family consisted of a wife, said to be a notablemanager, and five or six children, the eldest, a son, at college. Inthis household, work, work, was the order of the day; the farmerhimself, with his great brown fists, set the example, and theothers, willing or unwilling, were obliged to follow his lead. Hehad agreed to take John Cole, as he said, more to get rid of hismother's importunities, than for any benefit he expected to derivefrom him; and when remonstrated with by his wife for his folly ingiving her the trouble of another brat, he answered shortly: "Neverfear, I'll get the worth of his victuals and clothes out of him. "Johnny was to have his boarding, clothes, and a dollar a month, fortwo years. This dollar a month was the great item in Mrs. Cole'scalculations; twelve dollars a year, she argued, would almost payher rent, and when the tears stood in Johnny's great brown eyes (forhe was a pretty, gentle-hearted boy), as he was bidding them allgood-bye, and kissing the baby over and over again, she told himabout the money he would earn, and nerved his little heart with herglowing representations, until he was able to choke back the tears, and leave home almost cheerfully. 

_Home_--yes, it was home; for they had much to redeem the miseriesof want within those bare cabin walls, for gentle hearts and kindlysmiles were there. There

"The mother sang at the twilight fall, To the babe half slumbering on her knee. "

There his brother and sisters played; there his associations, hishopes, his wishes, were all centered. When he arrived at farmerWatkins's, and was sent into the large carpeted kitchen, everythingwas so unlike this home, that his fortitude almost gave way, and itwas as much as he could do, as he told his mother afterwards, "tokeep from bursting right out. " Mrs. Watkins looked very cross, nordid she notice him, except to order him to stand out of the way ofthe red-armed girl who was preparing supper and placing it on atable in the ample apartment. Johnny looked with amazement at thegreat dishes of meat, and plates of hot biscuit, but the odour ofthe steaming coffee, and the heat, were almost too much for him, ashe had eaten nothing since morning, for he was too sorry to leavehome to care about dinner. The girl, noticing that his pale facegrew paler, laughingly drew her mistress's attention to "master'snew boy. "

"Go out and bring in some wood for the stove, " said Mrs. Watkins, sharply; "the air will do you good. "

Johnny went out, and, in a few minutes, felt revived. Looking about, he soon found the wood-shed; there was plenty of wood, but none cutof a suitable length; it was all in cord sticks. Taking an axe, hechopped an armful, and on taking it into the house, found thefamily, had finished their suppers; the biscuits and meat were alleaten. 

"Come on here to your supper, " said the maid-servant, angrily. "Whathave you been doing?" and, without waiting for an answer, she filleda tin basin with mush and skimmed milk, and set it before him. Thelittle boy did not attempt to speak, but sat down and ate what wasgiven him. Immediately after, he was sent into a loft to bed, wherehe cried himself to sleep. Ah! when we count the thousand pulsationsthat yield pain or pleasure to the human mind, what a power to dogood or evil is possessed by every one; and how often would a kindword, or one sympathizing glance, gladden the hearts of those thusprematurely forced upon the anxieties of the world! But how fewthere are who care to bestow them! The next morning, long beforedawn, the farmer's family, with the exception of the youngerchildren were astir. The cattle were to be fed and attended to, thehorses harnessed, the oxen yoked, and great was the bustle until allhands were fairly at work. As for Johnny, he was taken into thefield to assist in husking corn. The wind was keen, and the stalks, from recent rain, were wet, and filled with ice. His scanty clothingscarcely afforded any protection from the cold, and his hands soonbecame so numb that he could scarcely use them; but, if he stoppedone moment to rap them, or breathe upon them, in the hope ofimparting some warmth, the farmer who was close at hand, in warmwoollen clothes and thick husking gloves, would call out, "Hurry up, hurry up, my boy! no idle bread must be eaten here!"

And bravely did Johnny struggle not to mind the cold and pain, butit would not do; he began to cry, when the master, who never thoughtof exercising anything but severity towards those who laboured forhim, told him sternly that if he did not stop his bawling in amoment, he would send him home. This was enough for Johnny; anythingwas better than to go back and be a burden on his mother; he workedto the best of his ability until noon. At noon, he managed to getthoroughly warm, behind the stove, while eating his dinner. Still, the sufferings of the child, with his insufficient clothing, werevery great; but nobody seemed to think of the _hired boy_ being anobject of sympathy, and thus it continued. The rule seemed to be toget all that was possible out of him, and his little frame was soweary at night, that he had hardly time to feel rested, until calledwith the dawn to renew his labour. A monthly Sunday however, was thegolden period looked forward to in his day-dreams, for it had beenstipulated by his parent, that on Saturday evening every four weeks, he was to come home, and stay all the next day. And when the timearrived, how nimbly did he get over the ground that stretchedbetween him and the goal of his wishes! How much he had to tell! Butas soon as he began to complain, his mother would say cheerfully, although her heart bled for the hardships of her child, "Never mind, you will get used to work, and after awhile, when yougrow up, you can rent a farm, and take me to keep house for you. "

This was the impulse that prompted to action. No one can be utterlymiserable who has a hope, even a remote one, of bettering hiscondition; and with a motive such as this to cheer him, Johnnypersevered; young as he was, he understood the necessity. But howoften, during the four weary weeks that succeeded, did the memory ofthe Saturday night he had spent at home come up before his mentalvision! The fresh loaf of rye bread, baked in honour of his arrival, and eaten for supper, with maple molasses--the very molasses he hadhelped to boil on shares with Farmer Thrifty's boys in the spring. What a feast they had! Then the long evening afterwards, when theblaze of the hickory fires righted up the timbers of the old cabinwith a mellow glow, and mother looked so cheerful and smiled sokindly as she sat spinning in its warmth and light. And how evenfather had helped to pop corn in the iron pot. 

Ah! that was a time long to be remembered; and he had ampleopportunity to draw comparisons, for he often thought his mastercared more for his cattle than he did for him, and it is quiteprobable he did; for while they were warmly housed he was needlesslyexposed, and his comfort utterly disregarded. If there was brush tocut, or fence to make, or any out-door labour to perform, a wet, cold, or windy day was sure to be selected, while in _fine weather_the wood was required to be chopped, and, generally speaking, allthe work that could be done under shelter. Yet we dare say FarmerWatkins never thought of the inhumanity of this, or the advantage hewould himself derive by arranging it otherwise. 

John Cole had been living out perhaps a year. He had not grown muchin this period; his frame had always been slight, and his sunkencheeks and wasted limbs spoke of the hard usage and suffering of hispresent situation. The family had many delicacies for themselves, but the _work boy_ they knew never was used to such things, and theywere indifferent, as to what his fare chanced to be. He generallymanaged to satisfy the cravings of hunger on the coarse food givenhim, but that was all. About this time it happened that the farmerwas digging a ditch, and as he was afraid winter would set in beforeit was completed, Johnny and himself were at work upon it early andlate, notwithstanding the wind whistled, and it was so cold theycould hardly handle the tools. While thus employed, it chanced thatthey got wet to the skin with a drizzling rain, and on returning tothe house the farmer changed his clothes, drank some hot mulledcider, and spent the remainder of the evening in his high-backedchair before a comfortable fire; while the boy was sent to grease awagon in an open shed, and at night crept to his straw pallet, shaking as though in an ague fit. The next morning he was in a highfever, and with many a "wonder of what had got into him, " butwithout one word of sympathy, or any other manifestation ofgood-will, he was sent home to his mother. Late in the evening ofthe same day a compassionate physician was surprised to see a womanenter his office; her garments wet and travel-stained, and, withstreaming eyes, she besought him to come and see her son. 

"My Johnny, my Johnny, sir!" she cried, "he has been raving wild allday, and we are afraid he will die. "

Mistaking the cause of the good man's hesitation, she added, with afresh burst of grief, "Oh! I will work my fingers to the bone to payyou, sir, if you will only come. We live in the Gap. "

A few inquiries were all that was necessary to learn the state ofthe case. The benevolent doctor took the woman in his vehicle, andproceeded, over a mountainous road of six miles, to see his patient. But vain was the help of man! Johnny continued delirious; it waswork, work, always at work; and pitiful was it to hear hiscomplaints of being cold and tired, while his heart-broken parenthung over him, and denied herself the necessaries of life tominister to his wants. After being ill about a fortnight, he awokeone evening apparently free from fever. His expression was natural, but he seemed so weak he could not speak. His mother, with a heartoverflowing with joy at the change she imagined favourable, bentover him. With a great effort he placed his arms about her neck; shekissed his pale lips; a smile of strange meaning passed over hisface, and ere she could unwind that loving clasp her little Johnnywas no more. He had gone where the wicked cease from troubling, andthe weary are at rest; but her hopes were blasted; her house wasleft unto her desolate; and as she watched, through the long hoursof night, beside the dead body, it was to our Father who art inHeaven her anguished heart poured itself out in prayer. Think ofthis, ye rich! who morning and evening breathe the same petition byyour own hearthstones. Think of it, ye who have authority tooppress! Do not deprive the poor man or woman of the "ewe lamb" thatis their sole possession; and remember that He whose ear is everopen to the cry of the distressed, has power to avenge their cause. 

THE THIEF AND HIS BENEFACTOR. 

"CIRCUMSTANCES made me what I am, " said a condemned criminal to abenevolent man who visited him in prison. "I was driven by necessityto steal. "

"Not so, " replied the keeper, who was standing by. "Rather say, thatyour own character made the circumstances by which you weresurrounded. God never places upon any creature the necessity ofbreaking his commandments. You stole, because, in heart, you were athief. "

The benevolent man reproved the keeper for what he called harshwords. He believed that, alone, by the force of externalcircumstances, men were made criminals. That, if society weredifferently arranged, there would be little or no crime in theworld. And so he made interest for the criminal, and, in the end, secured his release from prison. Nor did his benevolence stop here. He took the man into his service, and intrusted to him his money andhis goods. 

"I will remove from him all temptation to steal, " said he, "by aliberal supply of his wants. "

"Have you a wife?" he asked of the man, when he took him fromprison. 

"No, " was replied. 

"Nor any one but yourself to support?"

"I am alone in the world. "

"You have received a good education; and can serve me as a clerk. Itherefore take you into my employment, at a fair salary. Will fivehundred dollars be enough?"

"It will be an abundance, " said the man, with evident surprise at anoffer so unexpectedly liberal. 

"Very well. That will place you above temptation. "

"And I will be innocent and happy. You are my benefactor. You havesaved me. "

"I believe it, " said the man of benevolence. 

And so he intrusted his goods and his money to the man he hadreformed by placing him in different circumstances. 

But it is in the heart of man that evil lies; and from the heart'simpulses spring all our actions. That must cease to be a bitterfountain before it can send forth sweet water. The thief was a thiefstill. Not a month elapsed ere he was devising the means to enablehim to get from his kind, but mistaken friend, more than the liberalsum for which he had agreed to serve him. He coveted his neighbour'sgoods whenever his eyes fell upon them; and restlessly sought toacquire their possession. In order to make more sure the attainmentof his ends, he affected sentiments of morality, and even went sofar as to cover his purposes by a show of religion. And thus he wasable to deceive and rob his kind friend. 

Time went on; and the thief, apparently reformed by a change ofrelation to society, continued in his post of responsibility. How itwas, the benefactor could not make out; but his affairs graduallybecame less prosperous. He made investigations into his business, but was unable to find anything wrong. 

"Are you aware that your clerk is a purchaser of property to aconsiderable extent?" said a mercantile friend to him one day. 

"My clerk! It cannot be. His income is only five hundred dollars ayear. "

"He bought a piece of property for five thousand last week. "

"Impossible!"

"I know it to be true. Are you aware that he was once a convict inthe State's Prison?"

"Oh yes. I took him from prison myself, and gave him a chance forhis life. I do not believe in hunting men down for a single crime, the result of circumstances rather than a bad heart. "

"A truly honest man, let me tell you, " replied the merchant, "willbe honest in any and all circumstances. And a rogue will be a rogue, place him where you will. The evil is radical, and must be curedradically. Your reformed thief has robbed you, without doubt. "

"I have reason to fear that he has been most ungrateful, " repliedthe kind-hearted man, who, with the harmlessness of the dove, didnot unite the wisdom of the serpent. 

And so it proved. His clerk had robbed him of over twenty thousanddollars in less than five years, and so sapped the foundations ofhis prosperity, that he recovered with great difficulty. 

"You told me, when in prison, " said the wronged merchant to hisclerk, "that circumstances made you what you were. This you cannotsay now. "

"I can, " was the reply. "Circumstances made me poor, and I desiredto be rich. The means of attaining wealth were placed in my hands, and I used them. Is it strange that I should have done so? It isthis social inequality that makes crime. Your own doctrine, and Isubscribe to it fully. "

"Ungrateful wretch!" said the merchant, indignantly, "it is the evilof your own heart that prompts to crime. You would be a thief and arobber if you possessed millions. "

And he again handed him over to the law, and let the prison wallsprotect society from his depredations. 

No, it is not true that in external circumstances lie the origins ofevil. God tempts no man by these. In the very extremes of poverty wesee examples of honesty; and among the wealthiest, find those whocovet their neighbour's goods, and gain dishonest possessionthereof. Reformers must seek to elevate the personal character, ifthey would regenerate society. To accomplish the desired good by adifferent external arrangement, is hopeless; for in the heart of manlies the evil, --there is the fountain from which flow forth thebitter and blighting waters of crime. 

JOHN AND MARGARET GREYLSTON. 

"AND you will really send Reuben to cut down that clump of pines?"

"Yes, Margaret. Well, now, it is necessary, for more reasonsthan"----

"Don't tell me so, John, " impetuously interrupted MargaretGreylston. "I am sure there is no necessity in the case, and I amsorry to the very heart that you have no more feeling than to order_those_ trees to be cut down. "

"Feeling! well, maybe I have more than you think; yet I don't chooseto let it make a fool of me, for all that. But I wish you would sayno more about those trees, Margaret; they really must come down; Ihave reasoned with you on this matter till I am sick of it. "

Miss Greylston got up from her chair, and walked out on the shadedporch; then she turned and called her brother. 

"Will you come here, John?"

"And what have you to say?"

"Nothing, just now; I only want you to stand here and look at theold pines. "

And so John Greylston did; and he saw the distant woods grave andfading beneath the autumn wind--while the old pines upreared theirstately heads against the blue sky, unchanged in beauty, fresh andgreen as ever. 

"You see those trees, John, and so do I; and standing here, withthem full in view, let me plead for them; they are very old, thosepines, older than either of us; we played beneath them when we werechildren; but there is still a stronger tie: our mother lovedthem--our dear, sainted mother. Thirty years it has been since shedied, but I can never forget or cease to love anything she loved. Oh! John, you remember just as well as I do, how often she would sitbeneath those trees and read or talk sweetly to us; and of the dearband who gathered there with her, only we are left, and the oldpines. Let them stand, John; time enough to cut them down when Ihave gone to sit with those dear ones beneath the trees of heaven;"and somewhat breathless from long talking, Miss Margaret paused. 

John Greylston was really touched, and he laid his hand kindly onhis sister's shoulder. 

"Come, come, Madge, don't talk so sadly. I remember and love thosethings as well as you do, but then you see I cannot afford toneglect my interests for weak sentiment. Now the road must be made, and that clump of trees stand directly in its course, and they mustcome down, or the road will have to take a curve nearly half a mileround, striking into one of my best meadows, and a good deal moreexpense this will be, too. No, no, " he continued, eagerly, "I can'toblige you in this thing. This place is mine, and I will improve itas I please. I have kept back from making many a change for yoursake, but just here I am determined to go on. " And all this was saidwith a raised voice and a flushed face. 

"You never spoke so harshly to me in your life before, John, and, after all, what have I done? Call my feelings on this matter weaksentiment, if you choose, but it is hard to hear such words fromyour lips;" and, with a reproachful sigh, Miss Margaret walked intothe house. 

They had been a large family, those Greylstons, in their day, butnow all were gone; all but John and Margaret, the two eldest--thetwin brother and sister. They lived alone in their beautiful countryhome; neither had ever been married. John had once loved a fairyoung creature, with eyes like heaven's stars, and rose-tingedcheeks and lips, but she fell asleep just one month before herwedding-day, and John Greylston was left to mourn over her earlygrave, and his shivered happiness. Dearly Margaret loved her twinbrother, and tenderly she nursed him through the long and fearfulillness which came upon him after Ellen Day's death. MargaretGreylston was radiant in the bloom of young womanhood when thisgreat grief first smote her brother, but from that very hour she putaway from her the gayeties of life, and sat down by his side, to beto him a sweet, unselfish controller for evermore, and no lovercould ever tempt her from her post. 

"John Greylston will soon get over his sorrow; in a year or twoEllen will be forgotten for a new face. "

So said the world; Margaret knew better. Her brother's heart laybefore her like an open book, and she saw indelible lines of griefand anguish there. The old homestead, with its wide lands, belongedto John Greylston. He had bought it years before from the otherheirs; and Margaret, the only remaining one, possessed neither claimnor right in it. She had a handsome annuity, however, and nearly allthe rich plate and linen with which the house was stocked, togetherwith some valuable pieces of furniture, belonged to her. And Johnand Margaret Greylston lived on in their quiet and beautiful home, in peace and happiness; their solitude being but now and theninvaded by a flock of nieces and nephews, from the neighbouringcity--their only and well-beloved relatives. 

It was long after sunset. For two full hours the moon and stars hadwatched John Greylston, sitting so moodily alone upon the porch. Nowhe got up from his chair, and tossing his cigar away in the longgrass, walked slowly into the house. Miss Margaret did not raise herhead; her eyes, as well as her fingers, seemed intent upon theknitting she held. So her brother, after a hurried "Good-night, "took a candle and went up to his own room, never speaking one gentleword; for he said to himself, "I am not going to worry and coax withMargaret any longer about the old pines. She is really troublesomewith her sentimental notions. " Yet, after all, John Greylston'sheart reproached him, and he felt restless and ill at ease. 

Miss Margaret sat very quietly by the low table, knitting steadilyon, but she was not thinking of her work, neither did she delight inthe beauty of that still autumn evening; the tears came into hereyes, but she hastily brushed them away; just as though she fearedJohn might unawares come back and find her crying. 

Ah! these _way-side_ thorns are little, but sometimes they pierce assharply as the gleaming sword. 

"Good-morning, John!"

At the sound of that voice, Mr. Greylston turned suddenly from thebook-case, and his sister was standing near him, her face lit upwith a sweet, yet somewhat anxious smile. He threw down in a hurrythe papers he had been tying together, and the bit of red tape, andholding out his hand, said fervently, "I was very harsh last night. I am really sorry for it; will you notforgive me, Margaret?"

"To be sure I will; for indeed, John, I was quite as much to blameas you. "

"No, Madge, you were not, " he quickly answered; "but let it pass, now. We will think and say no more about it;" and, as though he wereperfectly satisfied, and really wished the matter dropped, JohnGreylston turned to his papers again. 

So Miss Margaret was silent. She was delighted to have peace again, even though she felt anxious about the pines, and when her brothertook his seat at the breakfast table, looking and speaking sokindly, she felt comforted to think the cloud had passed away; andJohn Greylston himself was very glad. So the two went on eatingtheir breakfast quite happily. But alas! the storm is not alwaysover when the sky grows light. Reuben crossed the lawn, followed bythe gardener, and Miss Margaret's quick eye caught the gleaming ofthe axes swung over their shoulders. She hurriedly set down thecoffee-pot. 

"Where are those men going? Reuben and Tom I mean. "

"Only to the woods, " was the careless answer. 

"But what woods, John? Oh! I can tell by your face; you aredetermined to have the pines cut down. "

"I am. " And John Greylston folded his arms, and looked fixedly athis sister, but she did not heed him. She talked on eagerly--

"I love the old trees; I will do anything to save them. John, youspoke last night of additional expense, should the road take thatcurve. I will make it up to you; I can afford to do this very well. Now listen to reason, and let the trees stand. "

"Listen to reason, yourself, " he answered more gently. "I will nottake a cent from you. Margaret, you are a perfect enthusiast aboutsome things. Now, I love my parents and old times, I am sure, aswell as you do, and that love is not one bit the colder, because Ido not let it stand in the way of interest. Don't say anything more. My mind is made up in this matter. The place is mine, and I cannotsee that you have any right to interfere in the improvements Ichoose to make on it. "

A deep flush stole over Miss Greylston's face. 

"I have indeed no legal right to counsel or plead with you aboutthese things, " she answered sadly, "but I have a sister's right, that of affection--you cannot deny this, John. Once again, I beg ofyou to let the old pines alone. "

"And once again, I tell you I will do as I please in this matter, "and this was said sharply and decidedly. 

Margaret Greylston said not another word, but pushing back herchair, she arose from the breakfast-table and went quickly from theroom, even before her brother could call to her. Reuben and hiscompanion had just got in the last meadow when Miss Greylstonovertook them. 

"You, will let the pines alone to-day, " she calmly said, "go to anyother work you choose, but remember those trees are not to betouched. "

"Very well, Miss Margaret, " and Reuben touched his hat respectfully, "Mr. John is very changeable in his notions, " burst in Tom; "not anhour ago he was in such a hurry to get us at the pine. "

"Never mind, " authoritatively said Miss Greylston; "do just as youare bid, without any remarks;" and she turned away, and went downthe meadow path, even as she came, within quick step, without abonnet, shading her eyes from the morning sun with her handkerchief. 

John Greylston still sat at the breakfast-table, half dreamilybalancing the spoon across the saucer's edge. When his sister camein again, he raised his head, and mutely-inquiringly looked at her, and she spoke, --

"I left this room just to go after Reuben and Tom; I overtook thembefore they had crossed the last meadow, and I told them not totouch the pine trees, but to go, instead, to any other work theychoose. I am sure you will be angry with me for all this; but, John, I cannot help it if you are. "

"Don't say so, Margaret, " Mr. Greylston sharply answered, getting upat the same time from his chair, "don't tell me you could not helpit. I have talked and reasoned with you about those trees, until mypatience is completely worn out; there is no necessity for you to besuch an obstinate fool. "

"Oh! John, hush, hush!"

"I will not, " he thundered. "I am master here, and I will speak andact in this house as I see fit. Now, who gave you liberty tocountermand my orders; to send my servants back from the Work I hadset for them to do? Margaret, I warn you; for, any more such freaks, you and I, brother and sister though we be, will live no longerunder the same roof. "

"Be still, John Greylston! Remember _her_ patient, self-sacrificinglove. Remember the past--be still. "

But he would not; relentlessly, stubbornly, the waves of passionraged on in his soul. 

"Now, you hear all this; do not forget it; and have done with yoursilly obstinacy as soon as possible, for I will be worried no longerwith it;" and roughly pushing away the slight hand which was laidupon his arm, Mr. Greylston stalked out of the house. 

For a moment, Margaret stood where her brother had left her, just inthe centre of the floor. Her cheeks were very white, but quickly acrimson flush came over them, and her eyes filled with tears; thenshe sat down upon the white chintz-covered settle, and hiding herface in the pillows, wept violently for a long time. 

"I have consulted Margaret's will always; in many things I havegiven up to it, but here, where reason is so fully on my side, Iwill go on. I have no patience with her weak stubbornness, nopatience with her presumption in forbidding my servants to do as Ihave told them; such measures I will never allow in my house;" andJohn Greylston, in his angry musings, struck his cane smartlyagainst a tall crimson dahlia, which grew in the grass-plat. It fellquivering across his path, but he walked on, never heeding what hehad done. There was a faint sense of shame rising in his heart, afeeble conviction of having been himself to blame; but just thenthey seemed only to fan and increase his keen indignation. Yet inthe midst of his anger, John Greylston had the delicateconsideration for his sister and himself to repeat to the men thecommand she had given them. 

"Do as Miss Greylston bade you; let the trees stand until furtherorders. " But pride prompted this, for he said to himself, "IfMargaret and I keep at this childish work of unsaying each other'scommands, that sharp old fellow, Reuben, will suspect that we havequarrelled. "

Mr. Greylston's wrath did not abate; and when he came home atdinner-time, and found the table so nicely set, and no one but thelittle servant to wait upon him, Margaret away, shut up with a badheadache, in her own room, he somehow felt relieved, --just then hedid not want to see her. But when eventide came, and he sat down tosupper, and missed again his sister's calm and pleasant face, ahalf-regretful feeling stole over him, and he grew lonely, for JohnGreylston's heart was the home of every kindly affection. He lovedMargaret dearly. Still, pride and anger kept him aloof from her;still his soul was full of harsh, unforgiving thoughts. And MargaretGreylston, as she lay with a throbbing head and an aching heart uponher snowy pillow, thought the hours of that bright afternoon andevening very long and very weary. And yet those hours were full oflight, and melody, and fragrance, for the sun shone, and the sky wasblue, the birds sang, and the waters rippled; even the autumnflowers were giving their sweet, last kisses to the air. Earth wasfair, --why, then, should not human hearts rejoice? Ah! _Nature's_loveliness _alone_ cannot cheer the soul. There was once a day whenthe beauty even of _Eden_ ceased to gladden two guilty tremblers whohid in its bowers. 

"A soft answer turneth away wrath, but grievous words stir upanger. " When Margaret Greylston came across that verse, she closedher Bible, and sat down beside the window to muse. "Ah, " shethought, "how true is that saying of the wise man! If I had onlyfrom the first given John soft answers, instead of grievous words, we might now have been at peace. I knew his quick temper so well; Ishould have been more gentle with him. " Then she recalled all John'sconstant and tender attention to her wishes; the many instances inwhich he had gone back from his own pleasure to gratify her; butwhilst she remembered these things, never once did her noble, unselfish heart dwell upon the sacrifices, great and numerous, whichshe had made for his sake. Miss Margaret began to think she hadindeed acted very weakly and unjustly towards her brother. She hadhalf a mind just then to go to him, and make this confession. Butshe looked out and saw the dear old trees, so stately and beautiful, and then the memory of all John's harsh and cruel words rushed backupon her. She struggled vainly to banish them from her mind, shestrove to quell the angry feelings which arose with those memories. At last she knelt and prayed. When she got up from her knees tracesof tears were on her face, but her heart was calm. MargaretGreylston had been enabled, in the strength of "that grace whichcometh from above, " to forgive her brother freely, yet she scarcelyhoped that he would give her the opportunity to tell him this. 

"Good-morning, " John Greylston said, curtly and chillingly enough tohis sister. Somehow she was disappointed, even though she knew hisproud temper so well, yet she had prayed that there would have beensome kindly relentings towards her; but there seemed none. So sheanswered him sadly, and the two sat down to their gloomy, silentbreakfast. And thus it was all that day. Mr. Greylston still muteand ungracious; his sister shrank away from him. In that mood shescarcely knew him; and her face was grave, and her voice so sad, even the servants wondered what was the matter. Margaret Greylstonhad fully overcome all angry, reproachful feelings against herbrother. So far her soul had peace, yet she mourned for his love, his kind words, and pleasant smiles; and she longed to tell himthis, but his coldness held her back. Mr. Greylston found hiscomfort in every way consulted; favourite dishes were silentlyplaced before him; sweet flowers, as of old, laid upon his table. Heknew the hand which wrought these loving acts. But did thisknowledge melt his heart? In a little while we shall see. 

And the third morning dawned. Yet the cloud seemed in no wiselifted. John Greylston's portrait hung in the parlour; it waspainted in his young days, when he was very handsome. His sistercould not weary of looking at it; to her this picture seemed thevery embodiment of beauty. Dear, unconscious soul, she never thoughthow much it was like herself, or even the portrait of her which hungin the opposite recess--for brother and sister strikingly resembledeach other. Both had the same high brows, the same deep blue eyesand finely chiselled features, the same sweet and pleasant smiles;there was but one difference: Miss Margaret's hair was of a palegolden colour, and yet unchanged; she wore it now put back verysmoothly and plainly from her face. When John was young, his curlswere of so dark a brown as to look almost black in the shade. Theywere bleached a good deal by time, but yet they clustered round hisbrow in the same careless, boyish fashion as of old. 

Just now Miss Margaret could only look at her brother's picture withtears. On that very morning she stood before it, her spirit so fullof tender memories, so crowded with sad yearnings, she felt asthough they would crush her to the earth. Oh, weary heart! endureyet "a little while" longer. Even now the angel of reconciliation ison the wing. 

Whilst John Greylston sat alone upon the foot of the porch at thefront of the house, and his sister stood so sadly in the parlour, the city stage came whirling along the dusty turnpike. It stoppedfor a few minutes opposite the lane which led to John Greylston'splace. The door was opened, and a grave-looking young man sprangout. He was followed by a fairy little creature, who clapped herhands, and danced for joy when she saw the white chimneys andvine-covered porches of "Greylston Cottage. "

"Annie! Annie!" but she only laughed, and gathering up the folds ofher travelling dress, managed to get so quickly and skilfully overthe fence, that her brother, who was unfastening the gate, looked ather in perfect amazement. 

"What in the world, " he asked, with a smile on his grave face, "possessed you to get over the fence in that monkey fashion? Allthose people looking at you, too. For shame, Annie! Will you neverbe done with those childish capers?"

"Yes, maybe when I am a gray-haired old woman; not before. Don'tscold now, Richard; you know very well you, and the passengersbeside, would give your ears to climb a fence as gracefully as I didjust now. There, won't you hand me my basket, please?"

He did so, and then, with a gentle smile, took the white, unglovedfingers in his. 

"My darling Annie, remember"--

"Stage waits, " cried the driver. 

So Richard Bermon's lecture was cut short; he had only time to bidhis merry young sister good-bye. Soon he was lost to sight. 

Annie Bermon hurried down the lane, swinging her light willow basketcarelessly on her arm, and humming a joyous air all the way. Just asshe opened the outer lawn gate, the great Newfoundland dog cametowards her with a low growl; it changed directly though into a gladbark. 

"I was sure you would know me, you dear old fellow; but I can't stopto talk to you just now. " And Annie patted his silken ears, and thenwent on to the house, the dog bounding on before her, as though hehad found an old playmate. 

John Greylston rubbed his eyes. No, it was not a dream. His darlingniece was really by his side, her soft curls touching his cheek; heflung his arms tightly around her. 

"Dear child, I was just dreaming about you; how glad I am to seeyour sweet face again. "

"I was sure you would be, Uncle John, " she answered gayly, "and so Istarted off from home this morning just, in a hurry. I took a suddenfancy that I would come, and they could not keep me. But where isdear Aunt Margaret? Oh, I know what I will do. I'll just run in andtake her by surprise. How well you look, uncle--so noble and grandtoo; by the way, I always think King Robert Bruce must just havebeen such a man like you. "

"No laughing at your old uncle, you little rogue, " said JohnGreylston pleasantly, "but run and find your aunt. She is somewherein the house. " And he looked after her with a loving smile as sheflitted by him. Annie Bermon passed quickly through the shadedsitting-room into the cool and matted hall, catching glimpses as shewent of the pretty parlour and wide library; but her aunt was inneither of these rooms; so she hurried up stairs, and stealing ontiptoe, with gentle fingers she pushed open the door. MargaretGreylston was sitting by the table, sewing; her face was flushed, and her eyes red and swollen as with weeping. Annie stood still inwonder. But Miss Margaret suddenly looked up, and her niece sprang, with a glad cry, into her arms. 

"You are not well, Aunt Margaret? Oh! how sorry I am to hear that, but it seems to me I could never get sick in this sweet place;everything looks so bright and lovely here. And I _would_ come thismorning, Aunt Margaret, in spite of everything Sophy and all of themcould say. They told me I had been here once before this summer, andstayed a long time, and if I would, come again, my welcome would beworn out, just as if I was going to believe _such_ nonsense;" andAnnie tossed her head. "But I persevered, and you see, aunty dear, Iam here, we will trust for some good purpose, as Richard would say. "

A silent Amen to this rose up in Miss Margaret's heart, and with itcame a hope dim and shadowy, yet beautiful withal; she hardly daredto cherish it. Annie went on talking, --

"I can only stay two weeks with you--school commences then, and Imust hurry back to it; but I am always so glad to get here, awayfrom the noise and dust of the city; this is the best place in theworld. Do you know when we were travelling this summer, I was piningall the time to get here. I was so tired of Newport and Saratoga, and all the crowds we met. "

"You are singular in your tastes, some would think, Annie, " saidMiss Greylston, smiling fondly on her darling. 

"So Madge and Sophy were always saying; even Clare laughed at me, and my brothers, too, --only Richard, --Oh! by the way, I did tormenthim this morning, he is so grave and good, and he was just beginninga nice lecture at the gate, when the driver called, and poor Richardhad only time to send his love to you. Wasn't it droll, though, thatlecture being cut so short?" and Annie threw herself down in thegreat cushioned chair, and laughed heartily. 

Annie Bermond was the youngest of John and Margaret Greylston'snieces and nephews. Her beauty, her sweet and sunny temper made hera favourite at home and abroad. John Greylston loved her dearly; healways thought she looked like his chosen bride, Ellen Day. Perhapsthere was some likeness, for Annie had the same bright eyes, and thesame pouting, rose-bud lips--but Margaret thought she was more liketheir own family. She loved to trace a resemblance in the smilingface, rich golden curls, and slight figure of Annie to her youngsister Edith, who died when Annie was a little baby. Just sixteenyears old was Annie, and wild and active as any deer, as hercity-bred sisters sometimes declared half mournfully. 

Somehow, Annie Bermond thought it uncommonly grave and dull at thedinner-table, yet why should it be so? Her uncle and aunt, as kindand dear as ever, were there; she, herself, a blithe fairy, sat inher accustomed seat; the day was bright, birds were singing, flowerswere gleaming, but there was a change. What could it be? Annie knewnot, yet her quick perception warned her of the presence of sometrouble--some cloud. In her haste to talk and cheer her uncle andaunt, the poor child said what would have been best left unsaid. 

"How beautiful those trees are; I mean those pines on the hill;don't you admire them very much, Uncle John?"

"Tolerably, " was the rather short answer. "I am too well used totrees to go into the raptures of my little city niece about them;"and all this time Margaret looked fixedly down upon the floor. 

"Don't you frown so, uncle, or I will run right home to-morrow, "said Annie, with the assurance of a privileged pet; "but I was goingto ask you about the rock just back of those pines. Do you and AuntMargaret still go there to see the sunset? I was thinking about youthese two past evenings, when the sunsets were so grand, and wishingI was with you on the rock; and you were both there, weren't you?"

This time John Greylston gave no answer, but his sister saidbriefly, "No, Annie, we have not been at the rock for several evenings;" andthen a rather painful silence followed. 

Annie at last spoke:

"You both, somehow, seem so changed and dull; I would just like toknow the reason. May be aunty is going to be married. Is that it, Uncle John?"

Miss Margaret smiled, but the colour came brightly to her face. 

"If this is really so, I don't wonder you are sad and grave; you, especially, Uncle John; how lonely and wretched you would be! Oh!would you not be very sorry if Aunt Madge should leave you, never tocome back again? Would not your heart almost break?"

John Greylston threw down his knife and fork violently upon thetable, and pushing back his chair, went from the room. 

Annie Bermond looked in perfect bewilderment at her aunt, but MissMargaret was silent and tearful. 

"Aunt! darling aunt! don't look so distressed;" and Annie put herarms around her neck; "but tell me what have I done; what is thematter?"

Miss Greylston shook her head. 

"You will not speak now, Aunt Margaret; you might tell me; I am suresomething has happened to distress you. Just as soon as I came here, I saw a change, but I could not understand it. I cannot yet. Tellme, dear aunt!" and she knelt beside her. 

So Miss Greylston told her niece the whole story, softening, as faras truth would permit, many of John's harsh speeches; but she was, not slow to blame herself. Annie listened attentively. Young as shewas, her heart took in with the deepest sympathy the sorrow whichshaded her beloved friends. 

"Oh! I am so very sorry for all this, " she said half crying; "butaunty, dear, I do not think uncle will have those nice old trees cutdown. He loves you too much to do it; I am sure he is sorry now forall those sharp things he said; but his pride keeps him back fromtelling you this, and maybe he thinks you are angry with him still. Aunt Margaret, let me go and say to him that your love is as warm asever, and that you forgive him freely. Oh! it may do so much good. May I not go?"

But Miss Greylston tightened her grasp on the young girl's hand. 

"Annie, you do not know your uncle as well as I do. Such a step cando no good, --love, you cannot help us. "

"Only let me try, " she returned, earnestly; "Uncle John loves me somuch, and on the first day of my visit, he will not refuse to hearme. I will tell him all the sweet things you said about him. I willtell him there is not one bit of anger in your heart, and that youforgive and love him dearly. I am sure when he hears this he will beglad. Any way, it will not make matters worse. Now, do have someconfidence in me. Indeed I am not so childish as I seem. I am turnedof sixteen now, and Richard and Sophy often say I have the heart ofa woman, even if I have the ways of a child. Let me go now, dearAunt Margaret; I will soon come back to you with such good news. "

Miss Greylston stooped down and kissed Annie's brow solemnly, tenderly. "Go, my darling, and may God be with you. " Then she turnedaway. 

And with willing feet Annie Bermond went forth upon her blessederrand. She soon found her uncle. He was sitting beneath the shadeof the old pines, and he seemed to be in very deep thought. Anniegot down on the grass beside him, and laid her soft cheek upon hissunburnt hand. How gently he spoke--

"What did you come here for, sweet bird?"

"Because I love you so much, Uncle John; that is the reason; butwon't you tell me why you look so very sad and grave? I wish I knewyour thoughts just now. "

"And if you did, fairy, they would not make you any prettier orbetter than you are. "

"I wonder if they do you any good, uncle?" she quickly replied; buther companion made no answer; he only smiled. 

Let me write here what John Greylston's tongue refused to say. Thosethoughts, indeed, had done him good; they were tender, self-upbraiding, loving thoughts, mingled, all the while, withtouching memories, mournful glimpses of the past--the days of hissore bereavement, when the coffin-lid was first shut down over EllenDay's sweet face, and he was smitten to the earth with anguish. ThenMargaret's sympathy and love, so beautiful in its strength, andunselfishness, so unwearying and sublime in its sacrifices, becameto him a stay and comfort. And had she not, for his sake, uncomplainingly given up the best years of her life, as it seemed?Had her love ever faltered? Had it ever wavered in its sweetendeavours to make him happy? These memories, these thoughts, closedround John Greylston like a circle of rebuking angels. Not for thefirst time were they with him when Annie found him beneath the oldpines. Ever since that morning of violent and unjust anger they hadbeen struggling in his heart, growing stronger, it seemed, everyhour in their reproachful tenderness. Those loving, silentattentions to his wishes John Greylston had noted, and they rankledlike sharp thorns in his soul. He was not worthy of them; this heknew. How he loathed himself for his sharp and angry words! He hadit in his heart to tell his sister this, but an overpowering shameheld him back. 

"If I only knew how Madge felt towards me, " he said many times tohimself, "then I could speak; but I have been such a brute. She cando nothing else but repulse me;" and this threw around him thatchill reserve which kept Margaret's generous and forgiving heart ata distance. 

Even every-day life has its wonders, and perhaps not one of theleast was that this brother and sister, so long fellow-pilgrims, solong readers of each other's hearts, should for a little while bekept asunder by mutual blindness. Yet the hand which is to chase themists from their darkened eyes, even now is raised, what though itbe but small? God in his wisdom and mercy will cause its strength tobe sufficient. 

When John Greylston gave his niece no answer, she looked intently inhis face and said, "You will not tell me what you have been thinking about; but I canguess, Uncle John. I know the reason you did not take Aunt Margaretto the rock to see the sunset. "

"Do you?" he asked, startled from his composure, his face flushingdeeply. 

"Yes; for I would not rest until aunty told me the whole story, andI just came out to talk to you about it. Now, Uncle John, don'tfrown, and draw away your hand; just listen to me a little while; Iam sure you will be glad. " Then she repeated, in her pretty, girlishway, touching in its earnestness, all Miss Greylston had told her. "Oh, if you had only heard her say those sweet things, I know youwould not keep vexed one minute longer! Aunt Margaret told me thatshe did not blame you at all, only herself; that she loved youdearly, and she is so sorry because you seem cold and angry yet, forshe wants so very, very much to beg your forgiveness, and tell youall this, dear Uncle John, if you would only--"

"Annie, " he suddenly interrupted, drawing her closely to his bosom;"Annie, you precious child, in telling me all this you have taken agreat weight off of my heart. You have done your old uncle a worldof good. God bless you a thousand times! If I had known this atonce; if I had been sure, from the first, of Margaret's forgivenessfor my cruel words, how quickly I would have sought it. My dear, noble sister!" The tears filled John Greylston's dark blue eyes, buthis smile was so exceedingly tender and beautiful, that Annie drewcloser to his side. 

"Oh, that lovely smile!" she cried, "how it lights your face; andnow you look so good and forgiving, dearer and better even than aking. Uncle John, kiss me again; my heart is so glad! shall I runnow and tell Aunt Margaret all this sweet news?"

"No, no, darling little peace-maker, stay here; I will go to hermyself;" and he hurried away. 

Annie Bermond sat alone upon the hill, musingly platting the longgrass together, but she heeded not the work of her fingers. Her facewas bright with joy, her heart full of happiness. Dear child! in onebrief hour she had learned the blessedness of that birthright whichis for all God's sons and daughters, if they will but claim it. Imean _the privilege of doing good, of being useful_. 

Miss Greylston sat by the parlour window, just where she could seewho crossed the lawn. She was waiting with a kind of nervousimpatience for Annie. She heard a footstep, but it was only Liddygoing down to the dairy. Then Reuben went by on his way to themeadow, and all was silent again. Where was Annie?--but now quickfeet sounded upon the crisp and faded leaves. Miss Margaret lookedout, and saw her brother coming, --then she was sure Annie had insome way missed him, and she drew back from the window keenlydisappointed, not even a faint suspicion of the blessed truthcrossing her mind. As John Greylston entered the hall, a sudden andirresistible desire prompted Margaret to go and tell him all theloving and forgiving thoughts of her heart, no matter what his moodshould be. So she threw down her work, and went quickly towards theparlour door. And the brother and sister met, just on the threshold. 

"John--John, " she said, falteringly, "I must speak to you; I cannotbear this any longer. "

"Nor can I, Margaret. "

Miss Greylston looked up in her brother's face; it was beaming withlove and tenderness. Then she knew the hour of reconciliation hadcome, and with a quick, glad cry, she sprang into his arms and laidher head down upon his shoulder. 

"Can you ever forgive me, Madge?"

She made no reply--words had melted into tears, but they wereeloquent, and for a little while it was quite still in the parlour. 

"You shall blame yourself no longer, Margaret. All along you havebehaved like a sweet Christian woman as you are, but I have been anold fool, unreasonable and cross from the very beginning. Can youreally forgive me all those harsh words, for which I hated myselfnot ten hours after they were said? Can you, indeed, forgive andforget these? Tell me so again. "

"John, " she said, raising her tearful face from his shoulder, "I doforgive you most completely, with my whole heart, and, O! I wantedso to tell you this two days ago, but your coldness kept me back. Iwas afraid your anger was not over, and that you would repel me. "

"Ah, that coldness was but shame--deep and painful shame. I wasneedlessly harsh with you, and moments of reflection only served tofasten on me the belief that I had lost all claim to your love, thatyou could not forgive me. Yes! I did misjudge you, Madge, I know, but when I looked back upon the past, and all your faithful love forme, I saw you as I had ever seen you, the best of sisters, and thenmy shameful and ungrateful conduct rose up clearly before me. I feltso utterly unworthy. "

Miss Greylston laid her finger upon her brother's lips. "Nor will Ilisten to you blaming yourself so heavily any longer. John, you hadcause to be angry with me; I was unreasonably urgent about thetrees, " and she sighed; "I forgot to be gentle and patient; so yousee I am to blame as well as yourself. "

"But I forgot even common kindness and courtesy;" he said gravely. "What demon was in my heart, Margaret, I do not know. Avarice, I amafraid, was at the bottom of all this, for rich as I am, I somehowfelt very obstinate about running into any more expense or troubleabout the road; and then, you remember, I never could love inanimatethings as you do. But from this time forth I will try--and thepines"--

"Let the pines go down, my dear brother, I see now how unreasonableI have been, " suddenly interrupted Miss Greylston; "and indeed thesefew days past I could not look at them with any pleasure; they onlyreminded me of our separation. Cut them down: I will not say oneword. "

"Now, what a very woman you are, Madge! Just when you have gainedyour will, you want to turn about; but, love, the trees shall notcome down. I will give them to you; and you cannot refuse mypeace-offering; and never, whilst John Greylston lives, shall an axetouch those pines, unless you say so, Margaret. "

He laughed when he said this, but her tears were falling fast. 

"Next month will be November; then comes our birth-day; we will befifty years old, Margaret. Time is hurrying on with us; he has givenme gray locks, and laid some wrinkles on your dear face; but that isnothing if our hearts are untouched. O, for so many long years, eversince my Ellen was snatched from me, "--and here John Greylstonpaused a moment--"you have been to me a sweet, faithful comforter. Madge, dear twin sister, your love has always been a treasure to me;but you well know for many years past it has been my _only_ earthlytreasure. Henceforth, God helping me, I will seek to restrain myevil temper. I will be more watchful; if sometimes I fail, Margaret, will you not love me, and bear with me?"

Was there any need for that question? Miss Margaret only answered byclasping her brother's hand more closely in her own. As they stoodthere in the autumn sunlight, united so lovingly, hand in hand, eachsilently prayed that thus it might be with them always; not onlythrough life's autumn, but in that winter so surely for themapproaching, and which would give place to the fair and beautifulspring of the better land. 

Annie Bermond's bright face looked in timidly at the open door. 

"Come here, darling, come and stand right beside your old uncle andaunt, and let us thank you with all our hearts for the good you havedone us. Don't cry any more, Margaret. Why, fairy, what is thematter with you?" for Annie's tears were falling fast upon his hand. 

"I hardly know, Uncle John; I never felt so glad in my life before, but I cannot help crying. Oh, it is so sweet to think the cloud hasgone. "

"And whose dear hand, under God's blessing, drove the cloud away, but yours, my child?"

Annie was silent; she only clung the tighter to her uncle's arm, andMiss Greylston said, with a beaming smile, "Now, Annie, we see the good purpose God had in sending you hereto-day. You have done for us the blessed work of a peace-maker. "

Annie had always been dear to her uncle and aunt, but from thatgolden autumn day, she became, if such a thing could be, dearer thanever--bound to them by an exceedingly sweet tie. 

Years went by. One snowy evening, a merry Christmas party wasgathered together in the wide parlour at Greylston Cottage, --nearlyall the nephews and nieces were there. Mrs. Lennox, the "Sophy" ofearlier days, with her husband; Richard Bermond and his prettylittle wife were amongst the number; and Annie, dear, brightAnnie--her fair face only the fairer and sweeter for time--sat, talking in a corner with young Walter Selwyn. John Greylston wentslowly to the window, and pushed aside the curtains, and as he stoodthere looking out somewhat gravely in the bleak and wintry night, hefelt a soft hand touch him, and he turned and found Annie Bermond byhis side. 

"You looked so lonely, my dear uncle. "

"And that is the reason you deserted Walter?" he said, laughing. "Well, I will soon send you back to him. But, look out here first, Annie, and tell me what you see;" and she laid her face close to thewindow-pane, and, after a minute's silence, said, "I see the ground white with snow, the sky gleaming with stars, andthe dear old pines, tall and stately as ever. "

"Yes, the pines; that is what I meant, my child. Ah, they have beenmy silent monitors ever since that day; you remember it, Annie!Bless you, child! how much good you did us then. "

But Annie was silently crying beside him. John Greylton wiped hiseyes, and then he called his sister Margaret to the window. 

"Annie and I have been looking at the old pines, and you can guesswhat we were thinking about. As for myself, " he added, "I never seethose trees without feeling saddened and rebuked. I never recallthat season of error, without the deepest shame and grief. And stillthe old pines stand. Well, Madge, one day they will shade ourgraves; and of late I have thought that day would dawn very soon. "

Annie Bermond let the curtain fall very slowly forward, and buriedher face in her hands; but the two old pilgrims by her side, Johnand Margaret Greylston, looked at each other with a smile of hopeand joy. They had long been "good and faithful servants, " and nowthey awaited the coming of "the Master, " with a calm, sweetpatience, knowing it would be well with them, when He would callthem hence. 

The pines creaked mournfully in the winter wind, and the starslooked down upon bleak wastes, and snow-shrouded meadows; yet thered blaze heaped blithely on the hearth, taking in, in its fairlight, the merry circle sitting side by side, and the thoughtfullittle group standing so quietly by the window. And even now thepicture fades, and is gone. The curtain falls--the story of John andMargaret Greylston is ended. 

THE WORLD WOULD BE THE BETTER FOR IT. 

IF men cared less for wealth and fame, And less for battle-fields and glory;If, writ in human hearts, a name Seemed better than in song and story;If men, instead of nursing pride, Would learn to hate and to abhor it-- If more relied On Love to guide, The world would be the better for it. 

If men dealt less in stocks and lands, And more in bonds and deeds fraternal;If Love's work had more willing hands To link this world to the supernal;If men stored up Love's oil and wine, And on bruised human hearts would pour it; If "yours" and "mine" Would once combine, The world would be the better for it. 

If more would act the play of Life, And fewer spoil it in rehearsal;If Bigotry would sheathe its knife Till Good became more universal;If Custom, gray with ages grown, Had fewer blind men to adore it-- If talent shone In truth alone, The world would be the better for it. 

If men were wise in little things-- Affecting less in all their dealings--If hearts had fewer rusted strings To isolate their kindly feelings;If men, when Wrong beats down the Right, Would strike together and restore it-- If Right made Might In every fight, The world would be the better for it. 

TWO SIDES TO A STORY. 

"HAVE you seen much of your new neighbours, yet?" asked Mrs. Morris, as she stepped in to have an hour's social chat with her old friend, Mrs. Freeman. 

"Very little, " was the reply. "Occasionally I have seen the ladywalking in her garden, and have sometimes watched the sports of thechildren on the side-walk, but this is all. It is not like thecountry, you know. One may live here for years, and not becomeacquainted with the next-door neighbours. "

"Some may do so, " replied Mrs. Morris, "but, for my part, I alwayslike to know something of those around me. It is not alwaysdesirable to make the acquaintance of near neighbours, but by alittle observation it is very easy to gain an insight into theircharacters and position in society. The family which has moved intothe house next to yours, for instance, lived near to me for nearlytwo years, and although I never spoke to one of them, I can tell youof some strange transactions which took place in their house. "

"Indeed!" replied Mrs. Freeman, with little manifestation ofinterest or curiosity; but Mrs. Morris was too eager to communicateher information to notice her friend's manner, and lowering hervoice to a confidential tone, continued:--

"There is an old lady in their family whom they abuse in the mostshocking manner. She is very rich, and they by threats andill-treatment extort large sums of money from her. "

"A singular way of inducing any one to bestow favours, " replied Mrs. Freeman, dryly. "Why does not the old lady leave there?"

"Bless your heart, my dear friend, she cannot get an opportunity!They never suffer her to leave the house unattended. Once or twice, indeed, she succeeded in getting into the street, but theydiscovered her in a moment, and actually forced her into the house. You smile incredulously, but if you had been an eye-witness of theirproceedings, as I have, or had heard the screams of the poorcreature, and the heavy blows which they inflict, you would beconvinced of the truth of what I tell you. "

"I do not doubt the truth of your story in the least, my dear Mrs. Morris. I only think that in this case, as in most others, theremust be two sides to the story. It is almost incredible that suchbarbarous treatment could continue for any great length of timewithout discovery and exposure. "

"Oh, as to that, people are not fond of getting themselves intotrouble by meddling with their neighbours' affairs. I am verycautious about it myself. I would not have mentioned this matter toany one but an old friend like yourself. It seemed best to put youon your guard. "

"Thank you, " was the smiling reply. "It is hardly probable that Ishall be called upon to make any acquaintance with my new neighboursbut if I am, I certainly shall not forget your caution. "

Satisfied that she had succeeded, at least partially, in awakeningthe suspicions of her friend, Mrs. Morris took her departure, whileMrs. Freeman, quite undisturbed by her communications, continued herusual quiet round of domestic duties, thinking less of the affairsof her neighbours than of those of her own household. 

Occasionally she saw the old lady whom Mrs. Morris had mentionedwalking in the adjoining garden, sometimes alone, and sometimesaccompanied by the lady of the house, or one of the children. Therewas nothing striking in her appearance. She looked cheerful andcontented, and showed no signs of confinement or abuse. Once, whenMrs. Freeman was in her garden, she had looked over the fence, andpraised the beauty of her flowers, and when a bunch was presented toher, had received them with that almost childish delight which agedpeople often manifest. 

Weeks passed on, and the remarks of Mrs. Morris were almostforgotten, when Mrs. Freeman was aroused one night by loud cries, apparently proceeding from the adjoining house; and on listeningintently could plainly distinguish the sound of heavy blows, andalso the voice of the old lady in question, as if in earnestexpostulation and entreaty. 

Mrs. Freeman aroused her husband, and together they listened inanxiety and alarm. For nearly an hour the sounds continued, but atlength all was again quiet. It was long, however, before they couldcompose themselves to rest. It was certainly strange andunaccountable, and there was something so inhuman in the thought ofabusing an aged woman that their hearts revolted at the idea. 

Still Mrs. Freeman maintained, as was her wont, that there must betwo sides to the story; and after vainly endeavouring to imaginewhat the other side could be, she fell asleep, and was undisturbeduntil morning. 

All seemed quiet the next day, and Mrs. Freeman had somewhatrecovered from the alarm of the previous night, when she was againvisited by her friend, Mrs. Morris. As usual, she had confidentialcommunications to make, and particularly wished the advice of Mrs. Freeman in a matter which she declared weighed heavily upon hermind; and being assured that they should be undisturbed, began atonce to impart the weighty secret. 

"You remember Mrs. Dawson, who went with her husband to Europe, ayear or two ago?"

"Certainly I do, " was the reply. "I was well acquainted with her. "

"Do you recollect a girl who had lived with her for several years? Ithink her name was Mary Berkly. "

"Quite well. Mrs. Dawson placed great confidence in her, and wishedto take her abroad, but Mary was engaged to an honest carpenter, ingood business, and wisely preferred a comfortable house in her owncountry. "

"She had other reasons, I suspect, " replied Mrs. Morris, mysteriously, "but you will hear. This Mary Berkly, or as she is nowcalled, Mary White, lives not far from my present residence. Herhusband is comfortably off, and his wife is not obliged to work, excepting in her own family, but still she will occasionally, as afavour, do up a few muslins for particular persons. You know she wasfamous for her skill in those things. The other day, having a fewpieces which I was particularly anxious to have look nice, I calledupon her to see if she would wash them for me. She was not at home, but her little niece, who lives with her, a child of four years old, said that Aunt Mary would be in directly, and asked me to walk intothe parlour. I did so, and the little thing stood by my sidechattering away like a magpie. In reply to my questions as towhether she liked to live with her aunt, what she amused herselfwith, &c. , &c. , she entered into a long account of her variousplaythings, and ended by saying that she would show me a beautifulnew doll which her good uncle had given her, if I would please tounlock the door of a closet near where I was sitting, as she couldnot turn the key. 

"To please the child I unlocked the door. She threw it wide open, and to my astonishment I saw that it was filled with valuable silverplate, china, and other articles of similar kind, some of which Iparticularly remembered having seen at Mrs. Dawson's. "

"Perhaps she gave them to Mary, " suggested Mrs. Freeman. "She wasquite attached to her. "

"Impossible!" exclaimed Mrs. Morris. "Valuable silver plate is notoften given to servants. But I have not yet finished. Just as thechild had found the doll Mrs. White entered, and on seeing thecloset-door open, said sternly to the child, "'Rosy, you did very wrong to open that door without my leave. Ishall not let you take your doll again for a week;' and looking veryred and confused, she hastily closed it, and turned the key. Now, tomy mind, these are suspicious circumstances, particularly as Irecollect that Mr. And Mrs. Dawson were robbed of silver plateshortly before they went to Europe, and no trace could be found ofthe thieves. "

"True, " replied Mrs. Freeman, thoughtfully; "I recollect the robberyvery well. Still I cannot believe that Mary had anything to do withit. I was always pleased with her modest manner, and thought her anhonest, capable girl. "

"She is very smooth-faced, I know, " answered Mrs. Morris, "butappearances are certainly against her. I am confident that thearticles I saw belonged to Mrs. Dawson. "

"There may be another side to the story, however, " remarked herfriend; "but why not mention your suspicions to Mrs. Dawson? Youknow she has returned, and is boarding in the upper part of thecity. I have her address, somewhere. "

"I know where she lives; but would you really advise me to meddlewith the affair? I shall make enemies of Mr. And Mrs. White, if theyhear of it, and I like to have the good-will of all, both, rich andpoor. "

"I do not believe that Mary would take anything wrongfully, " repliedMrs. Freeman; "but if my suspicions were as fully aroused as yoursseem to be, I presume I should mention what I saw to Mrs. Dawson, ifit were only for the sake of hearing the other side of the story, and thus removing such unpleasant doubts from my mind. And, indeed, if you really think that the articles which you saw were stolen, itbecomes your duty to inform the owners thereof, or you become, in ameasure, a partaker of the theft. "

"That is true, " said Mrs. Morris, rising, "and in that way I mightultimately gain the ill-will of Mrs. Dawson; therefore I think Iwill go at once and tell her my suspicions. "

"Which, I am convinced, you will find erroneous, " replied Mrs. Freeman. 

"We shall see, " was the answer of her friend, accompanied by anominous shake of the head; and promising to call upon Mrs. Freemanon her return, she took leave. 

During her absence, the alarming cries from the next house wereagain heard; and presently the old lady appeared on the side-walk, apparently in great agitation and alarm, and gazing wildly abouther, as if seeking a place of refuge; but she was instantly seizedin the forcible manner Mrs. Morris had described, and carried intothe house. 

"This is dreadful!" exclaimed Mrs. Freeman. "What excuse can therebe for such treatment?" and for a moment her heart was filled withindignation toward her supposed barbarous neighbours; but a littlereflection caused her still to suspend her judgment, and endeavourto learn both sides of the story. 

As she sat ruminating on this singular occurrence, and consideringwhat was her duty in regard to it, she was aroused by the entranceof Mrs. Morris, who, with an air of vexation and disappointment, threw herself upon the nearest chair, exclaiming, "A pretty piece of work I have been about! It is all owing to youradvice, Mrs. Freeman. If it had not been for you I should not havemade such a fool of myself. "

"Why, what has happened to you?" asked Mrs. Freeman, anxiously. "What advice have I given you which has caused trouble?"

"You recommended my calling upon Mrs. Dawson, did you not?"

"Certainly: I thought it the easiest way to relieve your mind frompainful suspicions. What did she say?"

"Say! I wish you could have seen the look she gave me when I toldher what I saw at Mrs. White's. You know her haughty manner? Shethanked me for the trouble I had taken on her account, and beggedleave to assure me that she had perfect confidence in the honesty ofMrs. White. The articles which had caused me so much unnecessaryanxiety were intrusted to her care when they went to Europe, and ithad not yet been convenient to reclaim them. I cannot tell you howcontemptuously she spoke. I never felt so mortified in my life. "

"There is no occasion for feeling so, if your intentions were good, "answered Mrs. Freeman; "and certainly it must be a relief to you tohear the other side of the story. Nothing less would have convincedyou of Mrs. White's honesty. "

Mrs. Morris was prevented from replying by the sudden and violentringing of the bell, and an instant after the door was thrown open, and the old lady, whose supposed unhappy condition had called forththeir sympathies, rushed into the room. 

"Oh, save me! save me!" she exclaimed, frantically. "I ampursued, --protect me, for the love of Heaven!"

"Poor creature!" said Mrs. Morris. "You see that I was not mistakenin this story, at least. There can be no two sides to this. "

"Depend upon it there is, " replied Mrs. Freeman; but she courteouslyinvited her visiter to be seated, and begged to know what hadoccasioned her so much alarm. 

The poor lady told a plausible and piteous tale of ill-treatment, and, indeed, actual abuse. Mrs. Morris listened with a ready ear, and loudly expressed her horror and indignation. Mrs. Freeman wasmore guarded. There was something in the old lady's appearance andmanners that excited an undefinable feeling of fear and aversion. Mrs. Freeman felt much perplexed as to the course she ought topursue, and looked anxiously at the clock to see if the time for herhusband's return was near. 

It still wanted nearly two hours, and after a little moreconsideration she decided to go herself into the next door, ask foran interview with the lady of the house, frankly state what hadtaken place, and demand an explanation. This resolution shecommunicated in a low voice to Mrs. Morris, who opposed it asimprudent and ill-judged. 

"Of course they will deny the charge, " she argued, "and by lettingthem know where the poor creature has taken shelter, you will againexpose her to their cruelty. Besides, you will get yourself intotrouble. My advice to you is to keep quiet until your husbandreturns, and then to assist the poor lady secretly to go to herfriends in the country, who she says will gladly receive her. "

"But I am anxious to hear both sides of the story before I decide toassist her, " replied Mrs. Freeman. 

"Nonsense!" exclaimed her friend. "Even you must see that therecannot be two sides to this story. There is no possible excuse forcruelty, and to an inoffensive, aged woman. "

While they were thus consulting together, their visiter regardedthem with a troubled look, and a fierce gleaming eye, which did not, escape Mrs. Freeman's observation; and just as Mrs. Morris finishedspeaking, the maniac sprang upon her, like a tiger on his prey, and, seizing her by the throat, demanded what new mischief was plottingagainst her. 

The screams of the terrified women drew the attention of the son ofthe old lady, who had just discovered her absence, and was hasteningin search of her. At once suspecting the truth, he rushed withoutceremony into his neighbour's house, and speedily rescued Mrs, Morris from her unpleasant and somewhat dangerous situation. Afterconveying his mother to her own room, and consigning her to strictcustody, he returned, and respectfully apologized to Mrs. Freemanfor what had taken place. 

"His poor mother, " he said, "had for several years been subject tooccasional fits of insanity. Generally she had appeared harmless, excepting as regarded herself. Unless prevented by force, she wouldsometimes beat her own flesh in a shocking manner, uttering at thesame time loud cries and complaints of the abuse of those whom shesupposed to be tormenting her. 

"In her lucid intervals she had so earnestly besought them not toplace her in the asylum for the insane, but to continue to bear withher under their own roof, that they had found it impossible torefuse their solemn promise to comply with her wishes. 

"For themselves, their love for her rendered them willing to bearwith her infirmities, but it should be their earnest care that theirneighbours should not again be disturbed. "

Mrs. Freeman kindly expressed her sympathy and forgiveness for thealarm which she had experienced, and the gentleman took leave. 

Poor Mrs. Morris had remained perfectly silent since her release;but as the door closed on their visiter, and her friend kindlyturned to inquire how she found herself, she recovered her speech, and exclaimed, energetically, "I will never, never say again that there are not two sides to astory. If I am ever tempted to believe one side without waiting tohear the other, I shall surely feel again the hands of that oldwitch upon my throat. "

"Old witch!" repeated Mrs. Freeman. "Surely she demands our sympathyas much as when we thought her suffering under ill-treatment. It isindeed a sad thing to be bereft of reason. But this will be a usefullesson to both of us: for I will readily acknowledge that in thisinstance I was sometimes tempted to forget that there are always'two sides to a story. '"

LITTLE KINDNESSES. 

NOT long since, it was announced that a large fortune had been leftto a citizen of the United States by a foreigner, who, some yearsbefore, had "become ill" while travelling in this country, and whosesick-bed was watched with the utmost care and kindness by thecitizen referred to. The stranger recovered, continued his journey, and finally returned to his own country. The conduct of the Americanat a moment so critical, and when, without relatives or friends, theinvalid was languishing in a strange land, was not forgotten. Heremembered it in his thoughtful and meditative moments, and whenabout to prepare for another world, his gratitude was manifested ina truly signal manner. A year or two ago, an individual in this citywas labouring under great pecuniary difficulty. He was unexpectedlycalled upon for a considerable sum of money; and, although his meanswere abundant, they were not at that time immediately available. Puzzled and perplexed, he hesitated as to his best course, when, bythe merest chance, he met an old acquaintance, and incidentallymentioned the facts of the case. The other referred to an act ofkindness that he had experienced years before, said that he badnever forgotten it, and that nothing would afford him more pleasurethan to extend the relief that was required, and thus show, hisgrateful appreciation of the courtesy of former years! The kindnessalluded to was a mere trifle, comparatively speaking, and itsrecollection had passed entirely from the memory of the individualwho had performed it. Not so, however, with the obliged. He hadnever forgotten it, and the result proved, in the most conclusivemanner, that he was deeply grateful. 

We have mentioned the two incidents with the object of inculcatingthe general policy of courtesy and kindness, of sympathy andassistance, in our daily intercourse with our fellow-creatures. Itis the true course under all circumstances. "Little kindnesses"sometimes make an impression that "lingers and lasts" for years. This is especially the case with the sensitive, the generous, andthe high-minded. And how much may be accomplished by this duty ofcourtesy and humanity! How the paths of life may be smoothed andsoftened! How the present may be cheered, and the future renderedbright and beautiful!

There are, it is true, some selfish spirits, who can neitherappreciate nor reciprocate a courteous or a generous act. They arefor themselves--"now and for ever"--if we may employ such aphrase--and appear never to be satisfied. You can never do enoughfor them. Nay, the deeper the obligation, the colder the heart. Theygrow jealous, distrustful, and finally begin to hate theirbenefactors. But these, we trust, are "the exceptions, " not "therule. " Many a heart has been won, many a friendship has beensecured, many a position has been acquired, through the exercise ofsuch little kindnesses and courtesies as are natural to the generousin spirit and the noble of soul--to all, indeed, who delight, notonly in promoting their own prosperity, but in contributing to thewelfare of every member of the human family. Who cannot remembersome incident of his own life, in which an individual, then andperhaps now a stranger--one who has not been seen for years, andnever may be seen again on this side the grave, manifested the true, the genuine, the gentle spirit of a gentleman and a Christian, insome mere trifle--some little but impulsive and spontaneous act, which nevertheless developed the whole heart, and displayed the realcharacter! Distance and time may separate, and our pursuits andvocations may be in paths distinct, dissimilar, and far apart. Yet, there are moments--quiet, calm, and contemplative, when memory willwander back to the incidents referred to, and we will feel a secretbond of affinity, friendship, and brotherhood. The name will bementioned with respect if not affection, and a desire will beexperienced to repay, in some way or on some occasion, the generouscourtesy of the by-gone time. It is so easy to be civil andobliging, to be kindly and humane! We not only thus assist thecomfort of others, but we promote our own mental enjoyment. Life, moreover, is full of chance's and changes. A few years, sometimes, produce extraordinary revolutions in the fortunes of men. Thehaughty of to-day may be the humble of to-morrow; the feeble may bethe powerful; the rich may be the poor, But, if elevated byaffluence or by position, the greater the necessity, the strongerthe duty to be kindly, courteous, and conciliatory to those lessfortunate. We can afford to be so; and a proper appreciation of ourposition, a due sympathy for the misfortunes of others, and agrateful acknowledge to Divine Providence, require that we should beso. Life is short at best. We are here a few years--we sink into thegrave--and even our memory is phantom-like and evanescent. Howplain, then, is our duty! It is to be true to our position, to ourconscience, and to the obligations imposed upon us by society, bycircumstances, and by our responsibility to the Author of all thatis beneficent and good. 

LEAVING OFF CONTENTION BEFORE IT BE MEDDLED WITH. 

WE are advised to leave off contention before it be meddled with, byone usually accounted a very wise man. Had he never given the worldany other evidence of superior wisdom, this admonition alone wouldhave been sufficient to have established his claims thereto. Itshows that he had power to penetrate to the very root of a largeshare of human misery. For what is the great evil in our conditionhere? Is it not misunderstanding, disagreement, alienation, contention, and the passions and results flowing from these? Are notcontempt, and hatred, and strife, and alteration, and slander, andevil-speaking, the things hardest to bear, and most prolific ofsuffering, in the lot of human life? The worst woes of life are suchas spring from, these sources. 

Is there any cure for these maladies? Is there anything to preventor abate these exquisite sufferings? The wise man directs ourattention to a remedial preventive in the advice above referred to. His counsel to those whose lot unites them in the same localhabitations and name to those who are leagued in friendship orbusiness, in the changes of sympathy and the chances of collision, is, to suppress anger or dissatisfaction, to be candid andcharitable in judging, and, by all means, to leave off contentionbefore it be meddled with. His counsel to all is to endure injurymeekly, not to give expression to the sense of wrong, even when wemight seem justified in resistance or complaint. His counsel is toyield something we might fairly claim, to pardon when we mightpunish, to sacrifice somewhat of our rights for the sake of peaceand friendly affection. His counsel is not to fire at everyprovocation, not to return evil for evil, not to cherish any firesof revenge, burning to be even with the injurious person. Hiscounsel is to curb our imperiousness, to repress our impatience, topause in the burst of another's feeling, to pour water upon thekindling flames, or, at the very least, to abstain from adding anyfresh fuel thereto. 

One proof of the superior wisdom of this counsel is, that few seemto appreciate or perceive it. To many it seems no great virtue orwisdom, no great and splendid thing, in some small issue of feelingor opinion, in the family or among friends, to withhold a little, totighten the rein upon some headlong propensity, and await a calm forfair adjustment. Such a course is not usually held to be a proof ofwisdom or virtue; and men are much more ready to praise and thinkwell of smartness, and spirit, and readiness for an encounter. Toleave off contention before it is meddled with does not command anyvery general admiration; it is too quiet a virtue, with no strikingattitudes, and with lips which answer nothing. This is too oftenmistaken for dullness, and want of proper spirit. It requiresdiscernment and superior wisdom to see a beauty in such repose andself-control, beyond the explosions of anger and retaliation. Withthe multitude, self-restraining meekness under provocation is avirtue which stands quite low in the catalogue. It is veryfrequently set down as pusillanimity and cravenness of spirit. Butit is not so; for there is a self-restraint under provocation whichis far from being cowardice, or want of feeling, or shrinking fromconsequences; there is a victory over passionate impulses which ismore difficult and more meritorious than a victory on the bloodybattle-field. It requires more power, more self-command, often, toleave off contention, when provocation and passion are causing theblood to boil, than to rush into it. 

Were this virtue more duly appreciated, and the admonition of theWise Man more extensively heeded, what a change would be effected inhuman life! How many of its keenest sufferings would be annihilated!The spark which kindles many great fires would be withheld; and, great as are the evils and sufferings caused by war, they are not asgreat, probably, as those originating in impatience and want oftemper. The fretfulness of human life, it seems not hard to believe, is a greater evil, and destroys more happiness, than all the bloodyscenes of the, battle-field. The evils of war have generallysomething to lighten the burden of them in a sense of necessity, orof rights or honour invaded; but there is nothing of like importanceto alleviate the sufferings caused by fretfulness, impatience, wantof temper. The excitable peevishness which kindles at trifles, thatroughens the daily experience of a million families, that scattersits little stings at the table and by the hearth-stone, what doesthis but unmixed harm? What ingredient does it furnish but of gall?Its fine wounding may be of petty consequence in any given case, andits tiny darts easily extracted; but, when habitually carried intothe whole texture of life, it destroys more peace than plague andfamine and the sword. It is a deeper anguish than grief; it is asharper pang than the afflicted moan with; it is a heavier pressurefrom human hands than when affliction lays her hand upon you. Allthis deduction from human comfort, all this addition to humansuffering, may be saved, by heeding the admonition of wisdom givenby one of her sons. When provoked by the follies or the passions, the offences or neglects, the angry words or evil-speaking ofothers, restrain your propensity to complain or contend; leave offcontention before you take the first step towards it. You will thenbe greater than he that taketh a city. You will be a genialcompanion in your family and among your neighbours. You will beloved at home and blessed abroad. You will be a source of comfort toothers, and carry a consciousness of praiseworthiness in your ownbosom. On the contrary, an acrid disposition, a readiness to enterinto contention, is like vinegar to the teeth, like caustic to anopen sore. It eats out all the beauty, tenderness, and affection ofdomestic and social life. For all this the remedy is simple. Put arestraint upon your feelings; give up a little; take less thanbelongs to you; endure more than should be put upon you; makeallowance for another's judgment or educational defects; considercircumstances and constitution; leave off contention before it bemeddled with. If you do otherwise, quick resentment and stiffmaintenance of your position will breed endless disputes andbitterness. But happy will be the results of the opposite course, accomplished every day and every hour in the family, with friends, with companions, with all with whom you have any dealings or anycommerce in life. 

Let any one set himself to the cultivation of this virtue ofmeekness and self-restraint, and he will find that it cannot besecured by one or a few efforts, however resolute; by a fewstruggles, however severe. It requires industrious culture; itrequires that he improve every little occasion to quench strife andfan concord, till a constant sweetness smooths the face of domesticlife, and kindness and tenderness become the very expression of thecountenance. This virtue of self-control must grow by degrees. Itmust grow by a succession of abstinences from returning evil forevil, by a succession of leaving off contention before the firstangry word escapes. 

It may help to cultivate this virtue, to practise some forethought. When tempted to irritable, censorious speech, one might withadvantage call to recollection the times, perhaps frequent, whenwords uttered in haste have caused sorrow or repentance. Then, again, the fact might be called to mind, that when we lose a friend, every harsh word we may have spoken rises to condemn us. There is aresurrection, not for the dead only, but for the injuries we havefixed in their hearts--in hearts, it may be, bound to our own, andto which we owed gentleness instead of harshness. The shafts ofreproach, which come from the graves of those who have been woundedby our fretfulness and irritability, are often hard to bear. Letmeek forbearance and self-control prevent such suffering, and guardus against the condemnations of the tribunal within. 

There is another tribunal, also, which it were wise to think of. Therule of that tribunal is, that if we forgive not those who trespassagainst us, we ourselves shall not be forgiven. "He shall havejudgment without mercy that hath showed no mercy. " Only, then, if wedo not need, and expect never to beg the mercy of the Lord toourselves, may we withhold our mercy from our fellow-men. 

"ALL THE DAY IDLE. "

WHEREFORE idle?--when the harvest beckoning, Nods its ripe tassels to the brightening sky?Arise and labour ere the time of reckoning, Ere the long shadows and the night draw night. 

Wherefore idle?--Swing the sickle stoutly! Bind thy rich sheaves exultingly and fast!Nothing dismayed, do thy great task devoutly-- Patient and strong, and hopeful to the last!

Wherefore idle?--Labour, not inaction, Is the soul's birthright, and its truest rest;Up to thy work!--It is Nature's fit exaction-- He who toils humblest, bravest, toils the best. 

Wherefore idle?--God himself is working; His great thought wearieth not, nor standeth still, In every throb of his vast heart is lurking Some mighty purpose of his mightier will. 

Wherefore idle?--Not a leaf's slight rustle But chides thee in thy vain, inglorious rest;Be a strong actor in the great world, --bustle, -- Not a, weak minion or a pampered guest!

Wherefore idle?--Oh I _my_ faint soul, wherefore? Shake first from thine own powers dull sloth's control;Then lift thy voice with an exulting "Therefore Thou, too, shalt conquer, oh, thou striving soul!"

THE BUSHEL OF CORN. 

FARMER GRAY had a neighbour who was not the best-tempered man in theworld though mainly kind and obliging. He was shoemaker. His namewas Barton. One day, in harvest-time, when every man on the farm wasas busy as a bee, this man came over to Farmer Gray's, and said, inrather a petulant tone of voice, "Mr. Gray, I wish you would send over, and drive your geese home. "

"Why so, Mr. Barton; what have my geese been doing?" said thefarmer, in a mild, quiet-tone. 

"They pick my pigs' ears when they are eating, and go into mygarden, and I will not have it!" the neighbour replied, in a stillmore petulant voice. 

"I am really sorry it, Neighbour Barton, but what can I do?"

"Why, yoke them, and thus keep them on your own premises. It's nokind of a way to let your geese run all over every farm and gardenin the neighborhood. "

"But I cannot see to it, now. It is harvest-time, Friend Barton, andevery man, woman, and child on the farm has as much as he or she cando. Try and bear it for a week or so, and then I will see if I canpossibly remedy the evil. "

"I can't bear it, and I won't bear it any longer!" said theshoemaker. "So if you do not take care of them, Friend Gray, I shallhave to take care of them for you. "

"Well, Neighbour Barton, you can do as you please, " Farmer Grayreplied, in his usual quiet tone. "I am sorry that they trouble you, but I cannot attend to them now. "

"I'll attend to them for you, see if I don't, " said the shoemaker, still more angrily than when he first called upon Farmer Gray; andthen turned upon his heel, and strode off hastily towards his ownhouse, which was quite near to the old farmer's. 

"What upon earth can be the matter with them geese?" said Mrs. Gray, about fifteen minutes afterwards. 

"I really cannot tell, unless Neighbour Barton is taking care ofthem. He threatened to do so, if I didn't yoke them right off. "

"Taking care of them! How taking care of them?"

"As to that, I am quite in the dark. Killing them, perhaps. He saidthey picked at his pigs' ears, and drove them away when they wereeating, and that he wouldn't have it. He wanted me to yoke themright off, but that I could not do, now, as all the hands are busy. So, I suppose, he is engaged in the neighbourly business of takingcare of our geese. "

"John! William! run over and see what Mr. Barton is doing with mygeese, " said Mrs. Gray, in a quick and anxious tone, to two littleboys who were playing near. 

The urchins scampered off, well pleased to perform any errand. 

"Oh, if he has dared to do anything to my geese, I will neverforgive him!" the good wife said, angrily. 

"H-u-s-h, Sally! make no rash speeches. It is more than probablethat he has killed some two or three of them. But never mind, if hehas. He will get over this pet, and be sorry for it. "

"Yes; but what good will his being sorry do me? Will it bring mygeese to life?"

"Ah, well, Sally, never mind. Let us wait until we learn what allthis disturbance is about. "

In about ten minutes the children came home, bearing the bodies ofthree geese, each without a head. 

"Oh, is not that too much for human endurance?" cried Mrs. Gray. "Where did you find them?"

"We found them lying out in the road, " said the oldest of the twochildren, "and when we picked them up, Mr. Barton said, 'Tell yourfather that I have yoked his geese for him, to save him the trouble, as his hands are all too busy to do it. '"

"I'd sue him for it!" said Mrs. Gray, in an indignant tone. 

"And what good would that do, Sally?"

"Why, it would do a great deal of good. It would teach him bettermanners. It would punish him; and he deserves punishment. "

"And punish us into the bargain. We have lost three geese, now, butwe still have their good fat bodies to eat. A lawsuit would cost usmany geese, and not leave us even so much as the feathers, besidesgiving us a world of trouble and vexation. No, no, Sally; just letit rest, and he will be sorry for it, I know. "

"Sorry for it, indeed! And what good will his being sorry for it dous, I should like to know? Next he will kill a cow, and then we mustbe satisfied with his being sorry for it! Now, I can tell you, thatI don't believe in that doctrine. Nor do I believe anything abouthis being sorry--the crabbed, ill-natured wretch!"

"Don't call hard names, Sally, " said Farmer Gray, in a mild, soothing tone. "Neighbour Barton was not himself when he killed thegeese. Like every other angry person, he was a little insane, anddid what he would not have done had he been perfectly in his rightmind. When you are a little excited, you know, Sally, that even youdo and say unreasonable things. "

"Me do and say unreasonable things!" exclaimed Mrs. Gray, with alook and tone of indignant astonishment; "me do and say unreasonablethings, when I am angry! I don't understand you, Mr. Gray. "

"May-be I can help you a little. Don't you remember how angry youwere when Mr. Mellon's old brindle got into our garden, and trampledover your lettuce-bed, and how you struck her with the oven-pole, and knocked off one of her horns?"

"But I didn't mean to do that, though. "

"No; but then you were angry, and struck old Brindle with a rightgood will. And if Mr. Mellon had felt disposed, he might haveprosecuted for damages. "

"But she had no business there. "

"Of course not. Neither had our geese any business in NeighbourBarton's yard. But, perhaps, I can help you to another instance, that will be more conclusive, in regard to your doing and sayingunreasonable things, when you are angry. You remember the patentchurn?"

"Yes; but never mind about that. "

"So you have not forgotten how unreasonable you was about the churn. It wasn't good for anything--you knew it wasn't; and you'd never puta jar of cream into it as long as you lived--that you wouldn't. Andyet, on trial, you found that churn the best you had ever used, andyou wouldn't part with it on any consideration. So you see, Sally, thai even you can say and do unreasonable things, when you areangry, just as well as Mr. Barton can. Let us then consider him alittle, and give him time to get over his angry fit. It will be muchbetter to do so. "

Mrs. Gray saw that her husband was right, but still she feltindignant at the outrage committed on her geese. She did not, however, say anything about suing the shoemaker--for old Brindle'shead, from which the horn had been knocked off, was not yet entirelywell, and one prosecution very naturally suggested the idea ofanother. So she took her three fat geese, and after stripping offtheir feathers, had them prepared for the table. 

On the next morning, as Farmer Gray was going along the road, he metthe shoemaker, and as they had to pass very near to each other, thefarmer smiled, and bowed, and spoke kindly. Mr. Barton looked andfelt very uneasy, but Farmer Gray did not seem to remember theunpleasant incident of the day before. 

It was about eleven o'clock of the same day that one of FarmerGray's little boys came running to him, and crying, "Oh, father! father! Mr. Barton's hogs are in our cornfield. "

"Then I must go and drive them out, " said Mr. Gray, in a quiet tone. 

"Drive them out!" ejaculated Mrs. Gray; "drive 'em out, indeed! I'dshoot them, that's what I'd do! I'd serve them as he served my geeseyesterday. "

"But that wouldn't bring the geese to life again, Sally. "

"I don't care if it wouldn't. It would be paying him in his owncoin, and that's all he deserves. "

"You know what the Bible says, Sally, about grievous words, and theyapply with stronger force to grievous actions. No, no, I will returnNeighbour Barton good for evil. That is the best way. He has donewrong, and I am sure is sorry for it. And as I wish him still toremain sorry for so unkind and unneighbourly an action, I intendmaking use of the best means for keeping him sorry. "

"Then you will be revenged on him, anyhow. "

"No, Sally--not revenged. I hope I have no such feeling. For I amnot angry with Neighbour Barton, who has done himself a much greaterwrong than he has done me. But I wish him to see clearly how wronghe acted, that he may do so no more. And then we shall not have anycause to complain of him, nor he any to be grieved, as I am sure heis, at his own hasty conduct. But while I am talking here, his hogsare destroying my corn. "

And so saying, Farmer Gray hurried off, towards his cornfield. Whenhe arrived there, he found four large hogs tearing down the stalks, and pulling off and eating the ripe ears of corn. They had alreadydestroyed a good deal. But he drove them out very calmly, and put upthe bars through which they had entered, and then commencedgathering up the half-eaten ears of corn, and throwing them out intothe lane for the hogs, that had been so suddenly disturbed in theprocess of obtaining a liberal meal. As he was thus engaged, Mr. Barton, who had from his own house seen the farmer turn the hogs outof his cornfield, came hurriedly up, and said, "I am very sorry, Mr. Gray, indeed I am, that my hogs have donethis! I will most cheerfully pay you for what they have destroyed. "

"Oh, never mind, Friend Barton--never mind. Such things will happen, occasionally. My geese, you know, annoy you very much, sometimes. "

"Don't speak of it, Mr. Gray. They didn't annoy me half as much as Iimagined they did. But how much corn do you think my hogs havedestroyed? One bushel, or two bushels? or how much? Let it beestimated, and I will pay for it most cheerfully. "

"Oh, no. Not for the world, Friend Barton. Such things will happensometimes. And, besides, some of my men must have left the barsdown, or your hogs could never have got in. So don't think any moreabout it. It would be dreadful if one neighbour could not bear alittle with another. "

All this cut poor Mr. Barton to the heart. His own ill-naturedlanguage and conduct, at a much smaller trespass on his rights, presented itself to his mind, and deeply mortified him. After a fewmoments' silence, he said, "The fact is, Mr. Gray, I shall feel better if you will let me payfor this corn. My hogs should not be fattened at your expense, and Iwill not consent to its being done. So I shall insist on paying youfor at least one bushel of corn, for I am sure they have destroyedthat much, if not more. "

But Mr. Gray shook his head and smiled pleasantly, as he replied, "Don't think anything more about it, Neighbour Barton. It is amatter deserving no consideration. No doubt my cattle have oftentrespassed on you and will trespass on you again. Let us then bearand forbear. "

All this cut the shoemaker still deeper, and he felt still less atease in mind after he parted from the farmer than he did before. Buton one thing he resolved, and that was, to pay Mr. Gray for the cornwhich his hogs had eaten. 

"You told him your mind pretty plainly, I hope, " said Mrs. Gray, asher husband came in. 

"I certainly did, " was the quiet reply. 

"And I am glad you had spirit enough to do it! I reckon he willthink twice before he kills any more of my geese!"

"I expect you are right, Sally. I don't think we shall be troubledagain. "

"And what did you say to him? And what did he say for himself?"

"Why he wanted very much to pay me for the corn his pigs had eaten, but I wouldn't hear to it. I told him that it made no difference inthe world; that such accidents would happen sometimes. "

"You did?"

"Certainly, I did. "

"And that's the way you spoke your mind to him?"

"Precisely. And it had the desired effect. It made him feel tentimes worse than if I had spoken angrily to him. He is exceedinglypained at what he has done, and says he will never rest until he haspaid for that corn. But I am resolved never to take a cent for it. It will be the best possible guarantee I can have for his kind andneighbourly conduct hereafter. "

"Well, perhaps you are right, " said Mrs. Gray, after a few momentsof thoughtful silence. "I like Mrs. Barton very much--and now I cometo think of it, I should not wish to have any difference between ourfamilies. "

"And so do I like Mr. Barton. He has read a good deal, and I find itvery pleasant to sit with him, occasionally, during the long winterevenings. His only fault is his quick temper--but I am sure it ismuch better for us to bear with and soothe that, than to oppose randexcite it and thus keep both his family and our own in hot water. "

"You are certainly right, " replied Mrs. Gray; "and I only wish thatI could always think and feel as you do. But I am little quick, asthey say. "

"And so is Mr. Barton. Now just the same consideration that youwould desire others to have for you, should you exercise towards Mr. Barton, or any one else whose hasty temper leads him into words oractions that, in calmer and more thoughtful moments, are subjects ofregret. "

On the next day, while Mr. Gray stood in his own door, from which hecould see over the two or three acres of ground that the shoemakercultivated, he observed two of his cows in his neighbour'scornfield, browsing away in quite a contented manner. As he wasgoing to call one of the farm hands to go over and drive them out, he perceived that Mr. Barton had become aware of the mischief thatwas going on, and had already started for the field of corn. 

"Now we will see the effect of yesterday's lesson, " said the farmerto himself; and then paused to observe the manner of the shoemakertowards his cattle in driving them out of the field. In a fewminutes Mr. Barton came up to the cows, but, instead of throwingstones at them, or striking them with a stick, he merely drove themout in a quiet way, and put up the bars through which they hadentered. 

"Admirable!" ejaculated Farmer Gray. 

"What is admirable?" asked his wife, who came within hearingdistance at the moment. 

"Why the lesson I gave our friend Barton yesterday. It worksadmirably. "

"How so?"

"Two of our cows were in his cornfield a few minutes ago, destroyingthe corn at a rapid rate. "

"Well! what did he do to them?" in a quick, anxious tone. 

"He drove them out. "

"Did he stone them, or beat them?"

"Oh no. He was gentle as a child towards them. "

"You are certainly jesting. "

"Not I. Friend Barton has not forgotten that his pigs were in mycornfield yesterday, and that I turned them out without hurting ahair of one of them. Now, suppose I had got angry and beaten hispigs, what do you think the result would have been? Why, it is muchmore than probable that one or both of our fine cows would have beenat this moment in the condition of Mr. Mellon's old Brindle. "

"I wish you wouldn't say anything more about old Brindle, " said Mrs. Gray, trying to laugh, while her face grew red in spite of herefforts to keep down her feelings. 

"Well, I won't, Sally, if it worries you. But it is such a goodillustration that I can't help using it sometimes. "

"I am glad he didn't hurt the cows, " said Mrs. Gray, after a pause. 

"And so am I, Sally. Glad on more than one account. It shows that hehas made an effort to keep down his hasty, irritable temper--and ifhe can do that, it will be a favour conferred on the wholeneighbourhood, for almost every one complains, at times, of thisfault in his character. "

"It is certainly the best policy, to keep fair weather with him, "Mrs. Gray remarked, "for a man of his temper could annoy us a gooddeal. "

"That word policy, Sally, is not a good word, " replied her husband. "It conveys a thoroughly selfish idea. Now, we ought to look forsome higher motives of action than mere policy--motives grounded incorrect and unselfish principles. "

"But what other motive but policy could we possibly have for puttingup with Mr. Barton's outrageous conduct?"

"Other, and far higher motives, it seems to me. We should reflectthat Mr. Barton has naturally a hasty temper, and that when excitedhe does things for which he is sorry afterwards--and that, in ninecases out of ten, he is a greater sufferer from those outbreaks thanany one else. In our actions towards him, then, it is a much higherand better motive for us to be governed by a desire to aid him inthe correction of this evil, than to look merely to the protectionof ourselves from its effects. Do you not think so?"

"Yes. It does seem so. "

"When thus moved to action, we are, in a degree, regarding the wholeneighbourhood, for the evil of which we speak affects all. And inthus suffering ourselves to be governed by such elevated andunselfish motives, we gain all that we possibly could have gainedunder the mere instigation of policy--and a great deal more. But tobring the matter into a still narrower compass. In all our actionstowards him and every one else, we should be governed by the simpleconsideration--is it right? If a spirit of retaliation be not right, then it cannot be indulged without a mutual injury. Of course, then, it should never prompt us to action. If cows or hogs get into myfield or garden, and destroy my property, who is to blame most? Ofcourse, myself. I should have kept my fences in better repair, or mygate closed. The animals, certainly, are not to blame, for theyfollow only the promptings of nature; and their owners should not becensured, for they know nothing about it. It would then be verywrong for me to injure both the animals and their owners for my ownneglect, would it not?"

"Yes, --I suppose it would. "

"So, at least, it seems to me. Then, of course, I ought not toinjure Neighbour Barton's cows or hogs, even if they do break intomy cornfield or garden, simply because it would be wrong to do so. This is the principle upon which we should act, and not from anyselfish policy. "

After this there was no trouble about Farmer Gray's geese or cattle. Sometimes the geese would get among Mr. Barton's hogs, and annoythem while eating, but it did not worry him as it did formerly. Ifthey became too troublesome he would drive them away, but not bythrowing sticks and stones at them as he once did. 

Late in the fall the shoemaker brought in his bill for work. It wasa pretty large bill, with sundry credits. 

"Pay-day has come at last, " said Farmer Gray, good-humouredly, asthe shoemaker presented his account. 

"Well, let us see!" and he took the bill to examine it item afteritem. 

"What is this?" he asked, reading aloud. 

"'Cr. By one bushel of corn, fifty cents. '"

"It's some corn I had from you. "

"I reckon you must be mistaken. You never got any corn from me. "

"Oh, yes I did. I remember it perfectly. It is all right. "

"But when did you get it, Friend Barton? I am sure that I haven'tthe most distant recollection of it. "

"My hogs got it, " the shoemaker said, in rather a low and hesitatingtone. 

"Your hogs!"

"Yes. Don't you remember when my hogs broke into your field, anddestroyed your corn?"

"Oh, dear! is that it? Oh, no, no, Friend Barton! Ii cannot allowthat item in the bill. "

"Yes, but you must. It is perfectly just, and I shall never restuntil it is paid. "

"I can't, indeed. You couldn't help the hogs getting into my field;and then you know, Friend Barton (lowering his tone), my geese werevery troublesome!"

The shoemaker blushed and looked confused; but Farmer Gray slappedhim familiarly on the shoulder, and said, in a lively, cheerful way, "Don't think any more about it, Friend Barton! And hereafter let usendeavour to 'do as we would be done by, ' and then everything willgo on as smooth as clock-work. "

"But you will allow that item in the bill?" the shoemaker urgedperseveringly. 

"Oh, no, I couldn't do that. I should think it wrong to make you payfor my own or some of my men's negligence in leaving the bars down. "

"But then (hesitatingly), those geese--I killed three. Let it go forthem. "

"If you did kill them, we ate them. So that is even. No, no, let thepast be forgotten, and if it makes better neighbours and friends ofus, we never need regret what has happened. "

Farmer Gray remained firm, and the bill was settled, omitting theitem of "corn. " From that time forth he never had a better neighbourthan the shoemaker. The cows, hogs, and geese of both wouldoccasionally trespass, but the trespassers were always kindlyremoved. The lesson was not lost on either of them--for even FarmerGray used to feel, sometimes, a little annoyed when his neighbour'scattle broke into his field. But in teaching the shoemaker a lesson, he had taken a little of it himself. 

THE ACCOUNT. 

THE clock from the city hall struck one;The merchant's task was not yet done;He knew the old year was passing away, And his accounts must all be settled that day;He must know for a truth how much he should win, So fast the money was rolling in. 

He took the last cash-book, from the pile, And he summed it up with a happy smile;For a just and upright man was he, Dealing with all most righteously, And now he was sure how much he should win, How fast the money was rolling in. 

He heard not the soft touch on the door--He heard not the tread on the carpeted floor--So still was her coming, he thought him alone, Till she spake in a sweet and silvery tone:"Thou knowest not yet how much thou shalt win--How fast the money is rolling in. "

Then from 'neath her white, fair arm, she tookA golden-clasped, and, beautiful book--"'Tis my account thou hast to pay, In the coming of the New Year's day--Read--ere thou knowest how much thou shalt win, How fast the money is rolling in. "

He open'd the clasps with a trembling hand--Therein was Charity's firm demand:"To the widow, the orphan, the needy, the poor, Much owest thou of thy yearly store;Give, ere thou knowest how much thou shalt win--While fast the money is rolling in. "

The merchant took from his box of goldA goodly sum for the lady bold;His heart was richer than e'er before, As she bore the prize from the chamber door. Ye who would know how much ye can win, Give, when the money is rolling in. 

CONTENTMENT BETTER THAN WEALTH. 

"IT is vain, to urge, Brother Robert. Out into the world I must go. The impulse is on me. I should die of inaction here. "

"You need not be inactive. There is work to do. I shall never beidle. "

"And such work! Delving in, and grovelling close to the ground. Andfor what? Oh no Robert. My ambition soars beyond your 'quiet cottagein a sheltered vale. ' My appetite craves something more than simpleherbs, and water from the brook. I have set my heart on attainingwealth; and where there is a will there is always a way. "

"Contentment is better than wealth. "

"A proverb for drones. "

"No, William, it is a proverb for the wise. "

"Be it for the wise or simple, as commonly, understood, it is noproverb for me. As poor plodder along the way of life, it wereimpossible for me to know content. So urge no farther, Robert. I amgoing out into the world a wealth-seeker, and not until wealth isgained do I purpose to return. "

"What of Ellen, Robert?"

The young man turned quickly towards his brother, visibly disturbed, and fixed his eyes upon him with an earnest expression. 

"I love her as my life, " he said, with a strong emphasis on hiswords. 

"Do you love wealth more than life, William?"

"Robert!"

"If you love Ellen as your life, and leave her for the sake ofgetting riches, then you must love money more than life. "

"Don't talk to me after this fashion. I love her tenderly and truly. I am going forth as well for her sake as my own. In all the goodfortune that comes as a meed of effort, she will be the sharer. "

"You will see her before you leave us?"

"No; I will neither pain her nor myself by a parting interview. Sendher this letter and this ring. "

A few hours later, and there brothers stood with tightly-graspedhands, gazing into each other's faces. 

"Farewell, Robert. "

"Farewell, William. Think of the old homestead as still your home. Though it is mine, in the division of our patrimony, let your heartcome back to it as yours. Think of it as home; and, should Fortunecheat you with the apples of Sodom, return to it again. Its doorswill ever be open, and its hearth-fire bright for you as of old. Farewell!"

And they turned from each other, one going out into the restlessworld, an eager seeker for its wealth and honours; the other tolinger among the pleasant places dear to him by every association ofchildhood, there to fill up the measure of his days--not idly, forhe was no drone in the social hive. 

On the evening of that day two maidens sat alone, each in thesanctuary of her own chamber. There was a warm glow on the cheeks ofone, and a glad light in her eyes. Pale was the other's face, andwet her drooping lashes. And she that sorrowed held an open letterin her hand. It was full of tender words; but the writer lovedwealth more than the maiden, and had gone forth to seek the mistressof his soul. He would "come back, " but when? Ah, what a veil ofuncertainty was upon the future! Poor, stricken heart! The othermaiden--she of the glowing cheeks and dancing eyes--held also aletter in her hand. It was from the brother of the wealth-seeker;and it was also full of loving words; and it said that, on themorrow, he would come to bear her as his bride to his pleasant home. Happy maiden!

Ten years have passed. And what of the wealth-seeker? Has he won theglittering prize? What of the pale-faced maiden he left in tears?Has he returned to her? Does she share now his wealth and honour?Not since the day he went forth from the home of his childhood has aword of intelligence from the wanderer been received; and to thosehe left behind him he is as one who has passed the final bourne. Yethe still dwells among the living. 

In a far-away, sunny clime stands a stately mansion. We will notlinger to describe the elegant interior, to hold up before thereader's imagination a picture of rural beauty, exquisitelyheightened by art, but enter its spacious hall, and pass up to oneof its most luxurious chambers. How hushed and solemn the pervadingatmosphere! The inmates, few in number, are grouped around one onwhose white forehead Time's trembling finger has written the word"Death!" Over her bends a manly form. There--his face is towardsyou. Ah! you recognise the wanderer--the wealth-seeker. What does hehere? What to him is the dying one? His wife! And has he, then, forgotten the maiden whose dark lashes lay wet on her pale cheeksfor many hours after she read his parting words? He has notforgotten, but been false to her. Eagerly sought he the prize, tocontend for which he went forth. Years came and departed; yet stillhope mocked him with ever-attractive and ever-fading illusions. To-day he stood with his hand just ready to seize the object of hiswishes, to-morrow a shadow mocked him. At last, in an evil hour, hebowed down his manhood prostrate even to the dust in woman worship, and took to himself a bride, rich in golden, attractions, but pooreras a woman than ever the beggar at her father's gate. What a thornin his side she proved! A thorn ever sharp and ever piercing. Thecloser he attempted to draw her to his bosom, the deeper went thepoints into his own, until, in the anguish of his soul, again andagain he flung her passionately from him. 

Five years of such a life! Oh, what is there of earthly good tocompensate therefor? But in this last desperate throw did theworldling gain the wealth, station, and honour he coveted? He hadwedded the only child of a man whose treasure might be counted byhundreds of thousands; but, in doing so, he had failed to secure thefather's approval or confidence. The stern old man regarded him as amercenary interloper, and ever treated him as such. For five years, therefore, he fretted and chafed in the narrow prison whose gildedbars his own hands had forged. How often, during that time, had hisheart wandered back to the dear old home, and the beloved ones withwhom he had passed his early years! And, ah! how many, many timescame between him and the almost hated countenance of his wife thegentle, the loving face of that one to whom he had been false! Howoften her soft blue eyes rested on his own How often he started andlooked up suddenly, as if her sweet voice came floating on the air!

And so the years moved on, the chain galling more deeply, and abitter sense of humiliation as well as bondage robbing him of allpleasure in his life. 

Thus it is with him when, after ten years, we find him waiting, inthe chamber of death, for the stroke that is to break the fettersthat so long have bound him. It has fallen. He is free again. Indying, the sufferer made no sign. Suddenly she plunged into the darkprofound, so impenetrable to mortal eyes, and as the turbid wavesclosed, sighing over her, he who had called her wife turned from thecouch on which her frail body remained, with an inward "Thank God! Iam a man again!"

One more bitter dreg yet remained for his cup. Not a week had goneby ere the father of his dead wife spoke to him these cuttingwords:--

"You were nothing to me while my daughter lived--you are less thannothing to me now. It was my wealth, not my child you loved. She haspassed away. What affection would have given to her, dislike willnever bestow on you. Henceforth we are strangers. "

When the next sun went down on that stately mansion, which thewealth-seeker had coveted, he was a wanderer again--poor, humiliated, broken in spirit. 

How bitter had been the mockery of all his early hopes! How terriblethe punishment he had suffered!

One more eager, almost fierce struggle with alluring fortune, withwhich the worldling came near steeping his soul in crime, and thenfruitless ambition died in his bosom. 

"My brother said well, " he murmured, as a ray of light fell suddenlyon the darkness of his spirit; "'contentment is better than wealth. 'Dear brother! Dear old home! Sweet Ellen! Ah, why did I leave you?Too late! too late! A cup, full of the wine of life, was at my lips;but, I turned my head away, asking for a more fiery and excitingdraught. How vividly comes before me now that parting scene! I amlooking into my brother's face. I feel the tight grasp of his hand. His voice is in my ears. Dear brother! And his parting words, I hearthem now, even more earnestly than when they were first spoken. 'Should fortune cheat you with the apples of Sodom, return to yourhome again. Its doors will ever be open, and its hearth-fires brightfor you as of old. ' Ah, do the fires still burn? How many years havepassed since I went forth! And Ellen? Even if she be living andunchanged in her affections, I can never lay this false heart at herfeet. Her look of love would smite me as with a whip of scorpions. "

The step of time has fallen so lightly on the flowery path of thoseto whom contentment was a higher boon than wealth, but few footmarkswere visible. Yet there had been changes in the old homestead. Asthe smiling years went by, each, as it looked in at the cottagewindow, saw the home circle widening, or new beauty crowning theangel brows of happy children. No thorn to his side had Robert'sgentle wife proved. As time passed on, closer and closer was shedrawn to his bosom; yet never a point had pierced him. Their homewas a type of Paradise. 

It is near the close of a summer day. The evening meal is spread, and they are about gathering round the table, when a strangerenters. His words are vague and brief, his manner singular, his airslightly mysterious. Furtive, yet eager glances go from face toface. 

"Are these all your children?" he asks, surprise and admirationmingling in his tones. 

"All ours, and, thank God, the little flock is yet unbroken. "

The stranger averts his face. He is disturbed by emotions that it isimpossible to conceal. 

"Contentment is better than wealth, " he murmurs. "Oh that I hadcomprehended the truth. "

The words were not meant for others; but the utterance had been toodistinct. They have reached the ears of Robert, who instantlyrecognises in the stranger his long-wandering, long-mourned brother. 

"William!"

The stranger is on his feet. A moment or two the brothers standgazing at each other, then tenderly embrace. 

"William!"

How the stranger starts and trembles! He had not seen, in the quietmaiden, moving among and ministering to the children sounobtrusively, the one he had parted from years before--the one towhom he had been so false. But her voice has startled his ears withthe familiar tones of yesterday. 

"Ellen!" Here is an instant oblivion of all the intervening years. He has leaped back over the gulf, and stands now as he stood ereambition and lust for gold lured him away from the side of his firstand only love. It is well both for him and the faithful maiden thathe cannot so forget the past as to take her in his arms and claspher almost wildly to his heart. But for this, conscious shame wouldhave betrayed his deeply-repented perfidy. 

And here we leave them, reader. "Contentment is better than wealth. "So the worldling proved, after a bitter experience, which may you bespared! It is far better to realize a truth perceptibly, and thencemake it a rule of action, than to prove its verity in a life ofsharp agony. But how few are able to rise into such a realization!

RAINBOWS EVERYWHERE. 

BENDING over a steamer's side, a face looked down into the clear, green depths of Lake Erie, where the early moonbeams were showeringrainbows through the dancing spray, and chasing the white-crustedwaves with serpents of gold. The face was clouded with thought, ashade too sombre, yet there glowed over it something like areflection from the iris-hues beneath. A voice of using was borneaway into the purple and vermilion haze that twilight began to foldover the bosom of the lake. 

"Rainbows! Ye follow me everywhere! Gloriously your arches arosefrom the horizon of the prairies, when the storm-king and the god ofday met within them to proclaim a treaty and an alliance. Youspanned the Father of Waters with a bridge that put to the laughman's clumsy structures of chain, and timber, and wire. You floatedin a softening veil before the awful grandeur of Niagara; and hereyou gleam out from the light foam in the steamboat's wake. 

"Grateful am I for you, oh rainbows! for the clouds, the drops, andthe sunshine of which you are wrought, and for the gift of visionthrough which my spirit quaffs the wine of your beauty. 

"Grateful also for faith, which hangs an ethereal halo over thefountains of earthly joy, and wraps grief in robes so resplendentthat, like Iris of the olden time, she is at once recognised as amessenger from Heaven. 

"Blessings on sorrow, whether past or to come! for in the clearshining of heavenly love, every tear-drop becomes a pearl. The stormof affliction crushes weak human nature to the dust; the glory ofthe eternal light overpowers it; but, in the softened union of both, the stricken spirit beholds the bow of promise, and knows that itshall not utterly be destroyed. When we say that for us there isnothing but darkness and tears, it is because we are weakly broodingover the shadows within us. If we dared look up, and face oursorrow, we should see upon it the seal of God's love, and be calm. 

"Grant me, Father of Light, whenever my eyes droop heavily with therain of grief, at least to see the reflection of thy signet-bow uponthe waves over which I am sailing unto thee. And through the steadytoiling of the voyage, through the smiles and tears of every day'sprogress, let the iris-flash appear, even as now it brightens thespray that rebounds from the labouring wheels. "

The voice died away into darkness which returned no answer to itsmurmurings. The face vanished from the boat's side, but a flood oflight was pouring into the serene depths of a trusting soul. 

THE END.