money fast; there is no reason reason why he should always remain buried in this town. Use your influence, as they do-daily, hourly, constantly to predispose him to take you to another sphere. Do not always shrink and yield; do not conceal and assimilate and endeavor to persuade him and yourself that you are happy; do not put the very best face to him on it all; do not tolerate his relapses daily and hourly into his habitual cold, inexpressive manner; and don't lay aside your own little impulsive, outspoken ways. Respect your own nature, and assert it; woo him, argue with him; use all a woman's weapons to keep him from falling back into the old Castle Doubting where he lived till you let him out. pute your mother's hateful dogma that love is to be taken for granted without daily proof between lovers; cry down latent caloric in the market; insist that the mere fact of being a wife is not enough, that the words spoken once years ago are not enough, that love needs new leaves every summer of life as much as your elm trees, and new branches to grow broader and wider, and new flowers at the root to cover the ground."

Dis

"Oh, but I have heard that there is no surer way to lose love than to be exacting, and that it never comes for a woman's reproaches."

"All true as gospel, Emmy. I am not speaking of reproaches or of unreasonable

self-assertion or of ill-temper; you could not use any of these forces if you would, you poor little chick! I am speaking now of the highest duty we owe our friends, the noblest, the most sacred-that of keeping their own nobleness, goodness, pure and incorrupt. Thoughtless, instinctive, unreasoning love and self-sacrifice such as many women long to bestow on husband and children soil and lower the very objects of their love. You may grow saintly by self-sacrifice, but do your husband and children grow saintly by accepting it without return? I have seen a verse which says,

'They who kneel at woman's shrine
Breathe on it as they bow.'

Is not this true of all unreasoning love and self-devotion? If we let our friend become cold and selfish and exacting without a remonstrance, we are no true lover, no true friend. Any good man soon learns to discriminate between the remonstrance that comes from a woman's love to his soul, her concern for his honor, her anxiety for his moral development, and the pettish cry which comes from her own personal wants. It will be your own fault if, for lack of anything you can do, your husband relapses into these cold, undemonstrative habits which have robbed his life of so much beauty and enjoyment. These dead, barren ways of living are as unchristian as they are disagreeable, and you, as a good little Christian sworn to fight heroically under Christ's banner, must make headway against this sort of family antichrist, though it comes with a show of superior sanctity and self-sacrifice. Remember, dear, that the Master's family had its outward tokens of love as well as

its inward life. The beloved leaned on his bosom, and the traitor could not have had a sign for his treachery had there not been a daily kiss at meeting and parting with his children."

"I am glad you have said all this," said Emily, "because now I feel stronger for it. It does not now seem so selfish for me to want what it is better for John to give. Yes, I must seek what will be best for him."

And so the little one, put on the track of self-sacrifice, began to see her way clearer, as many little women of her sort do. Make them look on self-assertion as one form of martyrdom, and they will come into it.

But, for all my eloquence on this evening, the house was built in the selfsame spot as projected, and the family-life went on under the shadow of Judge Evans's elms much as if I had not spoken. Emmy became mother of two fine, lovely boys, and waxed dimmer and fainter, while with her physical decay came increasing need of the rule of the household of mamma and sisters, who took her up energetically on eagles' wings and kept her house and managed her children; for what can be done when a woman hovers half her time between life and death ?

At last I spoke out to John that the climate and atmosphere were too severe for her who had become so dear to him-to them all; and then they consented that the change much talked of and urged, but always opposed by the parents, should be made.

John bought a pretty cottage in our neighborhood and brought his wife and boys, and the effect of change of moral atmosphere verified all my predictions. In a year we

| had our own blooming, joyous, impulsive little Emily once more, full of life, full of cheer, full of energy, looking to the ways of her household-the merry companion of her growing boys, the blithe empress over her husband, who took to her genial sway as in the old happy days of courtship. The nightmare was past, and John was joyous as any of us in his freedom. As Emmy said, he was turned right side out for life, and we all admired the pattern. And that is the end of my story.

HARRIET BEECHER STOWE.

THE DIFFERENCE BETWEEN GOODWILL AND. FRIENDSHIP.

FROM THE GREEK OF ARISTOTLE.

GOOD-WILL resembles friendship, and

yet it is not friendship; for good-will is felt toward people we do not know and without being expressed, but friendship is not. Nor yet is it fondness; for good-will has no earnestness nor desire, but both of these attend upon fondness. And fondness is formed after acquaintance, but good-will may be sudden, as it is when felt for wrestlers; for they wish them well and partake in their wishes, but they would not assist them at all, for, as we have stated, they feel good-will suddenly, and their love is superficial.

It seems, then, to be the beginning of friendship, in the same manner as the pleasure which comes from sight is the beginning of love, for no one feels love unless he has first found pleasure in the form; but he that takes pleasure in the form is not necessarily in love, except he longs for the person when absent and desires his presence. and desires his presence. In the same manner, then, it is impossible to be friends without

having felt good-will. But well-wishers are not necessarily friends; for they only wish good to those for whom they have good-will, but they would not assist them at all, nor take any trouble about them. Wherefore one might call it metaphorically inactive friendship, and say that when it has continued some time, and arrived at familiarity, it becomes friendship, but not that for the useful or the agreeable; for good-will does not arise from those motives. For he that has received a benefit returns good-will for what he has received, therein acting justly, but he that wishes any one to be prosperous, having some hope of plenty through his means, appears to be well disposed, not to the other person, but rather to himself, in the same manner as he is not a friend if he pays attention to him for sake of some profit. On the whole, good-will is formed on account of virtue or some goodness, when any one appears honorable or manly, or something of that kind, to any one, as we have stated it to be in the case of wrestlers. Translation of R. PEARSON.

ON

THE TWO COMFORTERS.
FROM THE FRENCH OF M. DE VOLTAIRE.

NE day the great philosopher Citofile said to a woman who was disconsolate, and who had good reason to be so, Madame, the queen of England, daughter to Henry IV., was as wretched as you she was banished from her kingdoms, was in the utmost danger of losing her life in a storm at sea, and saw her royal spouse expire on a scaffold."

"I am sorry for her," said the lady, and began again to lament her own misfortunes.

'But," said Citofile, "remember the fate of Mary Stuart. She loved, but with a most chaste and virtuous affection, an excellent musician who played admirably on the bassviol. Her husband killed her musician before her face, and in the sequel her good friend and relation Queen Elizabeth caused her head to be cut off on a scaffold covered with black, after having confined her in prison for the space of eighteen years."

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That was very cruel," replied the lady, and presently relapsed into her former melancholy.

"Perhaps," said the comforter, "you have heard of the beautiful Joan of Naples, who was taken prisoner and strangled."

"I have a confused remembrance of her story," said the afflicted lady.

"I must relate to you," added the other, "the adventure of a sovereign princess who within my memory was dethroned after supper, and who died in a desert island."

"I know her whole history," replied the lady.

Well, then, I will tell you what happened to another great princess, whom I instructed in philosophy. She had a lover, as all great and beautiful princesses have; her father surprised the lover, whose countenance was all on fire and his eyes sparkling like a carbuncle. The lady, too, had a very florid complexion. The father was so highly displeased with the young man's countenance that he gave him one of the most terrible blows that had ever been given in his province. The lover took a pair of tongs and broke the head of the father-inlaw, who was cured with great difficulty and still bears the mark of the wound. The lady in a fright leaped out of the window and dis

of a very

person.

located her foot, in consequence of which she still halts, though possessed in other respects handsome The lover was condemned to death for having broken the head of a great prince; you can easily judge in what a deplorable condition the princess must have been when her lover was led to the gallows. I have seen her long ago when she was in prison; she always talked to me of her own misfortunes."

"And why will you not allow me to think of mine?" said the lady.

"Because," said the philosopher, "you ought not to think of them, and, since so many great ladies have been so unfortunate, it ill becomes you to despair. Hecuba, think on Niobe."

Think on

"Ah!" said the lady; "had I lived in their time, or in that of so many beautiful princesses, and had you endeavored to console them by a relation of my misfortunes, would they have listened to you, do you imagine?"

Next day the philosopher lost his only son, and was like to have died with grief. The lady caused a catalogue to be drawn up of all the kings who had lost their children, and carried it to the philosopher. He read it, found it very exact, and wept nevertheless. Three months after, they renewed their visits, and were surprised to find each other in such gay and sprightly humor. They caused to be erected a beautiful statue to Time, with this inscription: "To him who comforts."

Translation of ALEXANDER WHITELAW.

OH, the heart is a free and a fetterless thing, A wave of the ocean, a bird on the wing!

JULIA PARDOE.

HAVE rarely known any one of either

sex who deliberated upon the matrimonial question until their hair silvered and their eye dimmed, and then became numbered among the "newly wed," who did not, according to the old story, "take the crooked stick at last."

All, doubtless, will remember the tale how the maiden was sent into a green and beautiful lane garnished on either side by tall and well-formed trees, and directed to choose, cut and carry off the most straight and seemly branch she could find. She might, if she pleased, wander on to the end, but her choice. must be made there if not made before, the power of retracing her steps without the stick being forbidden. Straight and fair to look upon were the charming boughs of the lofty trees-fit scions of such noble ancestry-and each would have felt honored by her preference; but the silly maid went on and on, and thought within herself that at the termination of her journey she could find as perfect a stick as any of those which then courted her acceptance. By and by the aspect of things changed, and the branches she now encountered were cramped and scragged, disfigured with blurs and unseemly warts. And when she arrived at the termination of her journey, behold! one miserable, blighted wand, the most deformed she had ever beheld, was all that remained within her reach. Bitter was the punishment of her indecision and caprice. She was obliged to take the crooked stick and return with

her hateful choice amid the taunts and the sneers of the straight tall trees, who,

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Mountainous !"

Such expressive eyes?"

Volcanoes!"

Pshaw! Such grace?"

Harry," replied the young nobleman, smiling according to the most approved Chesterfield principle, removing his eyeglass and looking at his friend with much composure, “you had better, I think, marry Lady Frances yourself."

"You are a strange being, my good lord," replied his friend, after a pause. "I would wager a good round sum that, notwithstanding your rank, fortune and personal advantages, you will die-or, at all events, not marry until you are a veritable old bachelor. I pray thee tell me, what do you require? A Venus? A Diana? A Juno? A-a-"

"Simply a woman, my dear fellow-not, indeed, one of those beings arrayed in drapery whom you see moving along our streets with Chinese feathers, smoke-dried skins and limbs that might rival those of a Hercules, nor yet one of your bescented, spider-waisted priminies who lisp and amble, assume a delicacy which they never felt and grace which they never possessed. My ideas of woman's perfections—of the perfections, in fact, which I desire-and I may say " (Lord Charles Villiers was certainly a very handsome and a very fashionable man, and yet his modesty, I suppose, made him hesitate in pronouncing the latter word)—"I may, I think, say— deserve," gaining courage as he proceeded, "are not as extravagant as those required by your favorite Henri Quatre. He insisted on seven perfections; I should feel blessed if the lady of my love were possessed of six."

"Moderate and modest," observed his

friend, laughing. "I pray you tell me what they are."

"Noble birth, beauty, prudence, wit, gentleness and fidelity.”

Sir Harry Beauclerc drew forth his tablets and on the corner of the curiously-wrought memorials engraved the qualities Lord Charles had enumerated, not with fragile lead, but with the sharp point of his penknife.

"Shall I add," he inquired, "that these requisites are indispensable?" "Most undoubtedly," replied His Lordship.

"Adieu, then, Charles. Lady Frances's carriage is returning, and, as you declare fairly off, I truly tell you that I will try to make an impression on her gentle heart; you certainly were first in the field, but, as