which no after pacification could ever quite root
out. Parents, whatever you do, be humble
enough never to attempt to play Providence
with your children!

But suppose it is not so. Suppose that
Mary's father forbids Mr. Charles his house, or
Charles's kindred, having taken an insurmountable
prejudice against Mary, swear that if he
marries her they will never have anything more
to say to him? What are the young couple to
do? Are they to sacrifice the happiness of
their mutual lives? Is Charles to sail for
Australia, and Mary to go mourning all her
days? Some strict moralists might say, " Yes.
Break your hearts, both of you, but dare not to
disobey your parents." Easy-going worldly-
wise reasoners might agree that there would be
no heart-break in the matter, that both would
soon "get over it," and marry somebody else.
Possibly; but the risk is considerable, involving
great responsibility to the parents.

Also to the lovers themselves, who, from the
instant that they have acknowledged mutual
affection, have a right to one another and a
duty to perform to one another, little less sacred
than that of husband and wife. Their trial is no
doubt most sharp—hard in the present, sad in
the future—for how bitter it must be to give
to possible children the opportunity of one day
saying, " You married without your parents'
consent—you cannot blame me if I do the
same." Yet, granting its full weight to every
argument, the decision arrived at in so cruel a
conjuncture must, in all calmly judging minds,
be surely one and the same.

Unquestionably, a deliberate, patiently-
delayed, well-thought-of marriage, open to no
rational objection, and breaking no law either
human or divine, ought to be carried out, with
or without the consent of parents.

No clandestine proceedings can ever be
justifiable. But when all efforts to break down
prejudice and win esteem have failed, a son, or
even a daughter, though that seems harder, has
a perfect right to quit, openly and honestly, the
parental roof. " Farewell," either must say—
ah how sorrowfully! yet it ought to be said—
"I have tried my utmost to win you over, and
it is in vain. I am not called upon to sacrifice
not only my own happiness but another's. The
just God be judge between us. I must go."

A terrible alternative, yet there can be no
other; and surely if the parents never relent—
never forgive—the just God would judge it
tenderly, and the "curse causeless" would not come.

But such a crisis rarely occurs in a family where
the parents have themselves done their duty.
No wise father would ever bring into the intimate
society of his daughters a young fellow of whom,
as a son-in-law, he would utterly, and with fair
reasons, disapprove. And, reckless as men's
passions sometimes are, very few sons of really good
mothers would be likely so to have lost that ideal
of womanhood which it is a mother's own fault
if she does not set before all her sons, that they
would desire to bring into the family any girl so
altogether unworthy and objectionable that her
entrance therein ought to be prevented by every
lawful means. The safest and only way to make
children marry rightly is by setting before them
such ensamples of true manhood and womanhood
that they would shrink from choosing a wife or
husband inferior to their father or mother.

And when such is the case, when home is
really home, what a haven of rest it is! How
the children, married or single, will remember
it, yearn over it, delight to revisit it, as the
safest, sunniest nest. And as years roll on, and
they have long ceased to be "the children" to
anybody but the old father and mother, how
strong is that parental influence which has
succeeded the resigned authority—how perfect
the love which casts out even the shadow of
fear. Duty—sacrifice—the words are a mere
name, a pleasant jest, if by means of them can
be given the smallest pleasure to the good
parents. No self-denial seems too great if it
can requite them—no, they never can be
requited—but show them in some degree their
children's appreciation of their innumerable self-
denials, never fully understood till now, when
the children have become parents themselves.

And when they really grow old—though the
second generation will never quite believe it—
how their weaknesses are held sacred, and their
utmost infirmities dear. How the third generation
are taught from babyhood to consider it the
greatest honour to be of any use to grandpapa
and grandmamma. How their sayings are
repeated, their wisdom upheld, and their virtues
canonised into a family tradition, ay, years after
the beloved heads, white and reverend, have been
laid tenderly " under the daisies."

For parents, real parents, are never forgotten.
Good old maids and kindly old bachelors may
be remembered for many a year; but those
others on whom has been conferred, with all the
sorrows and cares, the great honour and happiness
of parenthood, have mingled their life with
the permanent life of the world. Their qualities
descend, and their influence is felt, through
uncounted generations. Thorny and difficult may
have been their mortal path, many their anxieties
and sharp their pangs, but they have done their
work, and they inherit its blessing. They die,
but in their posterity they enjoy a perpetual
immortality.

NORWEGIAN SOCIALITY.

IT was five o'clock on a Tuesday morning
when I arrived in Christiania. I had with me
a letter of introduction to a Norwegian gentleman,
one of the most hospitable fellows I ever
met with. We were good friends directly.

"My friend tells me," he said, glancing over
the contents of the letter, " that you want to
see something of our town life before going up
country. Nothing could be more fortunate. I
am giving a ball to-night, so come and make
your observations on us. By the way," he
added, " take this," giving me a pink piece of
paper, with the following printed on it: