No more than the first did the second coming trouble ever come; for Mary Jane has turned out "quite a treasure," nor has she more than the average complaints to make against her situation.

We cannot say that we have "got on as much as we could wish in our profession, but we are pretty "snug," and (except by accident) have never once in all our life been really hungry.

Shall we say anything about the "sore subject of matrimony," as we used to call it in our bachelor days? Only this, that our experience of it is by no means so disagreeable as was the anticipation. My wife is not extravagant, for she saves much of the money formerly spent on cigars, theatre-tickets, and bachelor pleasures generally; so, in spite of her milliner's bills, by means of the economy that is forced upon the gentleman-help, or husband, we contrive to make ends meet. She is not useless, for she can superintend the cook, often keeps me from making a fool of myself; and, though ball-loving, she has surrendered that casus belli in exchange for some habits of mine that irritated her. Of children we have none; SO I need not have fretted about their settlement in life, or the expenses of their little boots and shoes. In your ear, reader, let me whisper that my lonely heart often sighs for little feet to shoe. For some years my wife was a great invalid; but I found that sickness in a house is by no means as bad a thing as I thought it would be. My endeavours to please her prevented that thinking and feeling of self which cankers the happiness of so many bachelors, old maids, and even of married people, who have not yet discovered how foolish Stern was, when, after reading for his text the words, "It is better to go to the house of mourning than to go to the house of feasting," he commenced his sermon with the words -"that I deny." My wife's sick room has taught me, among other things, that this criticism of the humorous preacher was very unphilosophical; for there I learned that troubles can, if we allow them, cure us of much of our querulous, peevish selfishness.

There is a healthy, happy way of living in the present that should be aimed at by those who torment themselves with too much looking before and after. Burying the past out of sight, and staying our souls with the anchor of hope against coming storms, we should endeavour to throw ourselves intensely into every action and pleasure, however small, however simple. "Rejoice in your youth, ere the days come when you shall say, I have no pleasure;" for he who says, "I will be happy some day," never will be happy at all. "With what I most enjoy contented least," or, worse still," whose only pleasure is to be displeased,"-this is a condition of mind that comes from not living enough in the present, from not saying, Now is the accepted time.

Consider the lilies of the field and the fowls of the air, how they

are cared for without fretful anxiety on their part. This calming advice of a loving Teacher should not be slighted by a generation wearied with the fretful stir unprofitable, and fever of "getting or the no-less-sad, but excusable and even praiseworthy, "heavy trouble and bewildering care, that weigh us down who live and earn our bread." Of course, to a certain extent, a man ought to be both careful and anxious. We must take a moderate amount of thought for the morrow if we are to continue alive in these times so hard upon all but butchers. Indeed, those young persons are very culpable who carelessly enter upon engagements which they cannot keep. Doing so, they trifle with laws of social wellbeing, ordained by God himself, and bring upon all connected with them most burdensome consequences. And as regards the sin and disgrace of idleness, the old Jewish proverb well says, "That if any man do not teach his son a trade he teaches him to steal.”

Idleness, however, is far from being the besetting sin of Englishmen of our day. Our danger, in this age of competitionwhen every driver on the road of life is nothing unless, Jehu-like, he can pass all others-is propter vitam vivendi perdere causas.

The too earnest pursuit of what we call success and a "comfortable" maintenance is taking all comfort out of our lives. We cannot make ourselves sufficiently easy to absorb the sunshine of the moment. To-day may be well-enough, we admit ; but what of the possible woes that are laid up in the future? Mr. TakeCredit will never be able to pay for the goods he has ordered. A company has failed, why may not the one in which my money is invested also fail? We have just posted a business letter, and we begin to fret if a reply does not arrive even before the next delivery. The future hides in it both gladness and sorrow; why, then, should we in this way render ourselves wretched by expecting only the sorrow?

This dread of coming troubles is so great in some people that they spend years speculating on what they ought to do in any crisis of their lives-years that would have been better employed in doing it. They forget that "not to resolve is to resolve." Lady Macduff is made to say, "when our actions do not, our fears do make us traitors," and certainly if fears do not make us traitors to others, they very often prevent us from making the most of ourselves.

When we come, in our walk through life, to a river difficult to cross, we shall never get on if we stand on the bank looking into the dark waters, instead of making a plunge. Had Napoleon allowed his native hue of resolution to be sicklied o'er with the pale cast of Hamlet's thought, enterprises of great pith and moment would have lost the name of action. When the great general was

once asked how he could possibly have won a certain victory with such odds against him, "By my rashness,' was his reply. In such matters as the choice of a profession or of a wife there must be a certain venture of faith, and in this unintelligible world there is a rashness which is not always folly.

E. J. HARDY.

NEW-YEAR'S EVE.'

TWICE-treasured flowers, relics of love's dear thought,
Upon my heart to-night the dead years lie;
The lily isle of childhood loometh nigh;
The fairy-land that fades so soon to nought,
When the first sight hath cruel havoc wrought

Amongst the clustered dew-drops: Time doth fly
With careless flight to reach Eternity,

Heeding no moan of death-in vain besought

To hover with hushed wing above one hour

That liveth as a joy-resplendent rose

In a rich flush of noon; his grasp of power
Doth rend the soul asunder from repose,

Onward we hie, through storm, and sun, and shower,
Knowing deep roots will future blooms disclose.

ELLIS ERLE.

WILLIAM AND HETTY.

THE village bells were ringing,

Ringing a merry peal,

The tiny birds were singing
The joys that birds can feel.

The sun across the meadows,
His beams benignant shed.
Beneath the drooping willows,
The brook pellucid sped.

The air was filled with gladness
And sweetness of the flowers,
That found no cause for sadness,
In their wild, fragrant bowers.

How joyous were the voices
Of village man and maid!
The village self rejoices,
In summer bloom arrayed.

But there was one repining,
Who heard the gladsome strain,
To whom the summer's shining

Brought nought but grief and pain.

Scarce twelve short months have flitted

Since "William" first had woo'd

The maid by all admitted

As fair, and chaste, and good.

What though her birth was lowly,

And he of high degree,

True love is pure and holy,

And scorns the world's decree.

He whisper'd his devotion

And called (to prove his love),

The billows of the ocean,

The stars of Heaven above,

She loved him well and truly,

Alas, that it was so;

For love is still unruly,

And her's was doomed to woe.

When summon'd to the City
(Cursed be that fatal day),
Fondly he kissed poor Hetty,
Then tore himself away.

Though only for a season,
It wrung her faithful breast,
Like one bereft of reason,
Her fears could find no rest.

She strove to quell the feeling
Which racked her aching heart,
The sad, stern truth revealing,
That they had now to part.

Calm as the evening, like a statue still,
Intent upon one object down the hill,

She pensive gazed, the tear-drop in her eye,
When Willian turned, and waved his last "gool-bye."

Cold as the snow, on winter's rugged steep,
She pressed her throbbing bosom to allay
Its sinking, and it's grief, too full to weep,
Her chamber sought, to hope, to fear, to pray.

Oh, Lord! protect and guide him,
My prayer shall ever be ;

With faith and truth provide him,
And bring him back to me.

Hoping, yet fearing (such is woman's love),
Like Noah's messenger, the faithful dove,
Trusting to find some footing to alight
Amidst the darkness of creation's might,
Fearing across the broad expanse to sail,

And doubting lest her drooping wing should fail.

And all that autunın long she hoped.
Poor Hetty hoped and feared,
And now and then a letter came,
And then her soul was cheered.