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and worried; some, because a sense of character keeps them from all things unbecoming manliness; and' some, from an overflow of what may be called in part animal spirits, and in part, also, hopeful and cheerful dispositions.

5. But whatever be the cause or reason, is there anything else that so much blesses a man in human life as this voluntary or involuntary good nature? Is there anything else that converts all things so much into enjoyment to him? And then what a glow and light he carries with him to others! Some men come upon you like a cloud passing over the sun. You do not know what ails you, but you feel cold and chilly while they are about, and need an extra handful of coal on the fire whenever they tarry long. Others rise upon you like

daylight.

6. How many times does a cheerful and hopeful physician cure his patients by what he carries in his heart and face, more than by what he has in his medical case! How often does the coming of a happy-hearted friend lift you up out of deep despondency; and, before you are aware, inspire you with hope and cheer. What a gift it is to make all men better and happier without knowing it! We don't suppose that flowers know how sweet they are. We have watched them. But as far as we can find out their thoughts, flowers are just as modest as they are beautiful.

7. These roses before me, salfataine, lamarque, and saf frano, with their geranium leaves (rose) and carnations and abutilon, have made me happy for a day. Yet they stand huddled together in my pitcher without seeming to know my thoughts of them, or the gracious work which they are doing! And how much more is it to have a disposition that carries with it, involuntarily, sweetness, calmness, courage, hope, and happiness, to all who are such? Yet this is a portion of good-nature in a real, large-minded, strong-natured man! When it has made him happy it has scarcely begun its office!

8. In this world, where there is so much real sorrow, and so much unnecessary grief of fret and worry; where burdens are so heavy and the way so long; where men stumble in rough paths, and so many push them down rather than help them up; where tears are as common as smiles, and hearts ache so easily, but are poorly fed on higher joys, how grate

ful ought we to be that God sends along, here and there, a natural heart-singer, a man whose nature is large and luminous, and who, by his very carriage and spontaneous actions, calms, cheers, and helps his fellows. God bless the good-natured, for they bless everybody else!

XCIII. THE USES OF SUFFERING.

CORA CORNWALL.

1. What beauty were there in a sky
Where naught but azure met the eye;
Where ne'er a cloud its heavy fold
Of lurid ebon o'er it rolled;
Where ne'er a wispy vapor flew
Betwixt the yellow sun and you;
But endless blue and endless light
Eternal met the deadened sight?

2. Change, change alone gives all things worth
Above, below, upon the earth.

The sweetest sunbeam is the one

That cometh when the storm is done,-
When, round the dark horizon, lie
The wearied tempests heavily.

8. Who, that hath done no toiling, knows
The blessedness of sweet repose?
Who, that hath never shed a tear,
Can whisper comfort in the ear?
Who hath not, time or other, pressed
Some hidden grief back in the breast?
Can such know how, with nicest touch,
To probe, nor harshly nor too much,
The quivering heart that fain, unknown,
Would bear its burden all alone?

4. Know only those who've wept can weep
With those who mourning vigils keep;
And with the joyous none know how
So well to wear a laughing brow,
As those whom suffering hath taught
To value gladness as they ought.

XCIV.-CLOSE OF THE HOLIDAYS.

A. K. H. BOYD.

1. Come, my friend, and let us walk backwards and forwards along the graveled path, already beaten by my solitary feet for an hour past. It is not a carriage drive, It is broad but a path intended for saunterers on foot. enough for two, and the more especially if one of them, through the force of circumstances, chances to take up no space. And to-day you are at Constantinople; and I am here. I am not quite sure as to the precise number of miles between us; but there are many hundreds, I know.

2. You know this place well; and you would like this walk. On one hand, there is a level plot of closely mown grass, of what may be esteemed considerable extent by a man of moderate ideas. And the prominent object on that side is a pretty Gothic house, built of red sandstone, set upon a green terrace. The house is backed by a wooded cliff a cliff wooded from base to summit. For, in every crevice of the rock, trees have rooted themselves that is, have been planted without man's help. And the cliff looks like a warm bank of thick foliage, now crisp and russet. That cliff is ninety feet high: no very great height; yet, let me say, rather higher than the rocks at the Land's End.

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3. But, on the other hand, there is our great sight. the other side of this little graveled walk, which is a hundred and fifty yards in length, and nearly straight, let me tell you what there is. First, there is a border line of grass, the prettiest and least troublesome of all edgings for walks. The well-defined outline of the grass and gravel makes a simple contrast of which one never tires. Then there is a little boundary thicket made of pines of various sizes, also of laurels and yews; with here and there a staring sunflower.

4. Beyond, there is a hedge of thorns, backed by a stone wall, five feet in height, which forms the boundary of this small domain. And though on the farther side of the wall there is a narrow public road, the sea beyond it seems (when

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you look from this side) to wash the foot of that fortification. You feel as though you were walking on a quarter-deck. In fact, the waves are lapping on the large stones within a dozen yards. And so, backwards and forwards by the shore of the great sea.

5. Yet this is not the boundless ocean, over which you look away and away, and think that America is on its other side. This is but an arm of the Atlantic. It is the estuary

of a river, not especially renowned in song. No poet has done for it what Burns did for the Doon, by which he drew his first breath. On the farther side there is an island, rich in soil and genial in climate, where many worn-out sufferers have been able to breathe out in peace their last wintertime in this world. Its name was not a pleasing one to those English folk who hated an unpopular Scotch Prime Minister, many years ago.

6. And over that island you may see a line of mountainpeaks which will bear being looked at, though you may have come straight from Chamouni. Of course they are not so high as Mont Blanc; and they have no solitudes of everlasting snow. Yet that is a glorious outline against the western sky, at sunset or at midday; and no part of the height of those mountains is lost. For the height of mountains is reckoned in feet above the sea-level and here are the sea-level and the mountain-tops together.

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7. This is an autumn afternoon, one of the latest of September. And the fading woods suggest to one's mind a man with gray hair, wearing down. For the autumnal tint upon our head is gray, passing into white. We do not wither in glory, like crimson maples and glowing beeches in the October sun. But to-day there is not the bright crisp frosty sunshine touching declining Nature into pensive beauty; but the light is leaden, and all the sky is made up of clouds that come down very close upon the earth and sea. The sea is dark and gloomy, and it breaks upon the beach with a surgy murmur, as you might think it would upon untrodden shores.

8. Our holiday-time ends to-morrow, and then comes the long stretch of work again. It is pleasant work, but hard work; and you shrink a little from the first plunge

into it. And you know the confused, over-driven feeling of the first days at the collar, with twenty things you would wish to do in the time in which it is possible to do ten. Holiday-time, I think, is something like life. We begin it, with vague anticipations of great rest and enjoyment. We find it, in fact, much less enjoyable than we had expected.

9. And at its end, though we may be conscious of a certain unwillingness to resume our load, yet we feel that our holiday-time is outworn; and we are in some sort of way content to bid it good-by. Yet it is a trial to say good-by to anything; and in bidding farewell to times and places, we feel that we shall never have those things again quite the Even if there should come to none of us any of those great changes which hang over all human beings, there will be the sensible change, in fact and in feeling, that is ever advancing upon all persons and all things here.

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10. Then when you are far away from your home and its duties, all these come to look somewhat misty and undefined. You forget those little ways which make up your habitude of being. And all future time is hidden by a cloud through which we strive in vain to see. You do not know where you are going, nor what trials may be sitting and waiting for you by the wayside, not far on. There is a great uncertainty, and an indefinite fear. You have had your troubles, some of them just as heavy as you could bear and what life has been, it must be.

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11. And many minds know a good deal of the Roman Emperor's foreboding, that if things have long gone well with you, then something amiss is very likely to come. If we could but all rise to the happier argument from the Past to the Future of a certain ancient (and inspired) Poet, and really believe that "The LORD HATH BEEN mindful of us : He WILL bless us!" The more common way of judging certainly is, that since all has been so pleasant for many days or years, now a smash is due. But though this way of judging be common, and though to a superficial glance it seems to be confirmed by facts. it would be very easy to show that it is entirely wrong.

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