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THE LIGHTHOUSE.

It was a bright, glad, summer afternoon, on which, by invitation, we were seated in a carriage with a party of young friends, all of them as bright and glad as the day. Our aim was a magnificent sea-view at Marblehead Neck. We love scenery, as did also our company, and we should like much to describe the delightful pictures of land and water on the way, and the ocean grandeur at the termination of our ride. But we have in our present writing a particular and rather uncommon theme for public attention ; so to this we will con

We came to gaze on the dark, blue spaciousness of the waters, but we found that which sunk deeper into our memories and hearts than this, inasmuch as it was a sort of unexpected discovery, fraught with instruction profitable to go with us through life.

There was the Lighthouse-our fair companions must look at a novelty like this. As the lofty seabeacon could not come up to the city, it was not

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well to lose the opportunity of visiting it on its rocky stand. So thither we turned our steps, just to take a glance, as we supposed, and then away. As we gazed towards the little cluster of buildings occupied by the keeper, we could not but observe the air of convenience and neatness of every thing around. The first object of a domestic nature we arrived at was a little yard, the home and bed of the family cow of a summer night. Every thing about it, down to the stool of the milker and the fastening of the gate, arrested our attention on account of the ingenuity of contrivance and cleanliness of condition. We passed through an enclosure, and over what would be called a lawn, if fashion dwelt there, and came to an outhouse, where the keeper was industriously mending a sail. He seemed about sixty years of age, with a skyblue eye, and an expression beaming therefrom as bright and kindly as a star. A plump chest, and a full, ruddy cheek indicated that threescore years seldom rejoiced in happier health than in him who now welcomed us to his premises. We found him most agreeably communicative concerning matters around, of which we wished to know. Some of his intelligence we should like here to put down, would our principal aim allow us time and space. At the slightest expression of our desire to see the lighthouse, our entertainer conducted us to the edi. fice. But before we describe the spectacle at its top, let us first touch on things below. The old shop where our friend labored was a pattern of neat

ness.

The various implements there sheltered, were arranged in the utmost order, and there was so little dust that our ladies could sit on bench, block or old timber, without the slightest soiling of garments. We could not but observe, as we passed, the exceeding tidiness of the dwelling-house, not only in front, but on the back side where less exposed, and so also of all the appurtenances around. Had it been the summer retreat of city opulence, whatever else might have been, there could not have existed an order and cleanliness superior to the present. The fences of rude stones from the pastures and shores were not disfigured by unsightly gaps at the top, or rubbish along the base. The little patches of cultivation showed not a weed, tosteal from the useful vegetables the nutriment of the soil, or the now needed dews from the air. These little spots, won and softened from sterile nature, forcibly reminded us of what we had read about Swiss industry and thrift.

Now to the tower. The keeper leads us up the stairway, which is as clean as if all the maids in Marblehead had watched over its scrubbing, or the notable witches of Salem had nightly trooped over it with their brooms. We reach the lantern, and find ourselves encompassed by glass, with a July sun blazing in with melting potency. But we scarcely heed our bodily discomfort, so interested are we in the objects before the eye, and the explanations kindly proffered to the ear. The floor is of stone, and as unsoiled and polished as the

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hearth of a drawing-room. There are ten lamps, if we rightly remember, to be kept burning from twilight to twilight. Of course, there is the daily business of filling with oil, and the nightly care of snuffing the wicks and keeping them at their best flame. In these operations all know the liabilities of spilling oil and of dropping the black, filthy snuffings around. Yet there was not the slightest appearance of any such mishap or carelessness here. The stand of an astral in the most tasteful home could not less have betokened the above-mentioned processes, than did this dome and every thing therein, -although so secluded and unexposed to visitation. The metal and glasses of the lanıps, and all the complicated machinery, were as free from all soil as the genteelest housewifery could desire in the domestic domain. The reflectors corresponding with the ten lamps were of the highest polish, and reflecting, as some of them now did, the direct rays of an intense sun, our eyes could hardly bear their dazzling brilliancy.

So much for appearances. Now how came they so perfect, so unequalled by any similar establishment that we had ever seen? In the first place, the keeper had an innate love of order and neatness, or he had trained himself thereto. Besides this, he exercised an inventive talent and constructive tact, by which he produced numerous little contrivances for abbreviating labor, and by which he avoided those uncleanly nuisances which otherwise might have accumulated. But chiefly, he was moved by

a determination to do his duty to the utmost, and more even than his employer, the Government, would ordinarily consider his duty. He would conform not merely to the common custom and expectations appertaining to his post, but he would ascend to the mark prescribed by his own lofty conscience. He would gratify, moreover, those delicate tastes, whether inborn or acquired, which in another situation, and with wealth, might have spread beauty around, and collected elegancies within the costly mansion for the entertainment of refined acquaintance. As it was, he made the most of his position. He might say with Paul, “I ma nify mine office.

And now, a word as to the compensation of such faithful care, and gratuitous, unnoticed, unpraised propriety. This man had once held with honor the responsible station of Gunner on board of one of the distinguished and victorious vessels of the last war.

He had been for years in the perilous service of his country. He still serves the public in this seclusion for the stipend of four hundred dollars, together with the use of the little plot of land and buildings appertaining to his charge. . A miserable reward for such industry by day, and watchings by night, and solitude at all times ! Here he must abide, not only through the more bland and agreeable seasons, but through the long, long, dreary winter, cut off from church and school in the town by an arm of the sea. He must not only be at the expense of boarding his children out for

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