it till we succumb to the universal defeat,
preparatory to the immortal victory.

When one thinks of death — of how brief, at
best, is our little day, and how quickly comes
the end that levels all things, what folly seems
the habit of misery?—for it grows into a mere
habit, quite independent of causes. Why keep
up this perpetual moan, and always about
ourselves, because we are not rich enough, or
handsome enough, or loved enough — because
other people have better luck than we? Possibly
they have; — and possibly not; for we all know
our own private cares, but few of us know our
neighbour's. And so we go on, always finding
some pet grievance to nurse, and coaxing it from
a trifling vexation into an incurable grief or an
unpardonable wrong. Little matter what it is;
to a man of this temperament any peg will do
whereon to hang the gloomy pall, self-woven, of
perpetual sorrow. Or else he spins it, spider-
like, out of his own bowels, and when its filmy
meshes grow into great bars between him and the
sky, he thinks with his petty web he has blurred
the whole creation.

Poor wretch! if he could only pull it down
and sweep it away! — if he could accept his lot,
even though a hard one, an afflicted stomach,
sensitive nerves, a naturally bad temper, or an
unnaturally empty purse. Still, my friend, grin
and bear it! Be sure you do not suffer alone;
many another is much worse off than you. Why
not try to give him a helping hand, and strengthen
yourself by the giving of it? For we do not
wish to make a mock of you, you miserable
misery-monger, since you are much to be pitied;
and there is a sad reality at the bottom of your
most contemptible shams. We would rather
rouse you to forget yourself, and then, be sure,
you will gradually forget your sufferings. And
supposing these should remain in greater or less
degree, as the necessary accompaniment of your
individual lot or peculiar idiosyncrasy, still,
according to the common-sense argument of the
sage author of " Original Poems," remonstrating
with an unwashed child,

    If the water is cold, and the comb hurts your head,
        What good will it do you to cry?

Alack! we are all exceedingly like naughty
children; we do not enjoy being made clean.

And yet, some of us who have gone through
a rather severe course of lavatory education,
can understand the blessing of a sunshiny face—
ay, even in the midst of inevitable sorrow.
Some of us feel the peace that dwells ever at
the core of a contented heart, which, though it
has ceased to expect much happiness for itself,
is ever ready to rejoice in the happiness of
others. And many of us still show in daily life
the quiet dignity of endurance; of not dwelling
upon or exaggerating unavoidable misfortune;
of putting small annoyances in one's pocket,
instead of flourishing them abroad in other
people's faces, like the jilted spinster who
"rushed into novel-writing, and made her private
wrong a public nuisance." How much wiser
is it to hide our wrongs, to smother our
vexations, to bear our illnesses, whether of body or
mind, as privately and silently as we can.
Also, so far as it is possible, to bear them
ourselves alone, thankful for sympathy, find help
too, when it comes; but not going about
beseeching for it, or angry when we do not get it,
having strength enough to do without it, and
rely solely on the Help divine.

For to that point it must always come. The
man who is incurably and permanently
miserable is not only an offence to his fellow-
creatures, but a sinner against his God. He is
perpetually saying to his Creator, " Why hast Thou
made me thus? Why not have made me as I
wanted to be, and have given me such and
such things which I desired to have? I know
they would have been good for me, and then I
should have been happy. I am far wiser than
Thou. Make me what I choose, and grant me
what I require, or else I will be perpetually
miserable."

And so he lives, holding up his melancholy
face, poor fool! as an unceasing protest against
the wisdom eternal — against the sunshiny sky,
the pleasant earth, and the happy loving hearts
that are always to be found somewhere therein.
Overclouded at times, doubtless, yet never quite
losing their happiness while there is something
left them to love — ay, though it be but a dirty
crying child in the streets, whom they can
comfort with a smile or a halfpenny.

Such people may be unhappy—may have to
suffer acutely for a time — but they will never
become misery-mongers. Theirs is a healthiness
of nature which has the power of throwing off
disease to the final hour of worn-out nature.
Their souls, like their bodies, will last to the
utmost limit of a green old age, giving and
taking comfort, a blessedness to themselves and
all about them. In their course of life many a
storm may come; but it never finds them
unprepared. They are sound good ships, well
rigged, well ballasted; if affliction comes, they
just " make all snug," as the sailors say, and so
are able to ride through seas of sorrow into a
harbour of peace — finally, into that last
harbour, where may Heaven bring at last every
mortal soul, even misery-mongers!

SPEECHLESS BONES.

WHEN the worthy tenant of Milcote manor
was apprised of the circumstance that about
three thousand skeletons were reposing within
sixty paces of his house door, it probably did
not occur to him that, on the first day after
publication of the news, a similar number of skeletons
encased in living flesh would wait upon him to
luncheon. Such, however, was the case, and such
the hospitality with which they were received,
that, had this influx of archæologists continued
many days, good Mr. Adkins would have been as
effectually eaten out of house and home, as if the
warriors who had so long maintained this invisible
leaguer round the mansion could have resumed