waited at table between whiles, and, throughout
"the half" kept the boxes in severe
custody. He was morose, even to the Chief,
and never smiled, except at breaking-up,
when, in acknowledgment of the toast,
"Success to Phil! Hooray!" he would slowly
carve a grin out of his wooden face, where it
would remain until we were all gone.
Nevertheless, one time when we had the scarlet
fever in the school, Phil nursed all the sick
boys of his own accord, and was like a mother
to them.

There was another school not far off, and of
course our school could have nothing to say
to that school. It is mostly the way with
schools, whether of boys or men. Well! the
railway has swallowed up ours, and the
locomotives now run smoothly over its ashes.

    So fades and languishes, grows dim and dies,
    All that this world is proud of,

—and is not proud of, too. It had little
reason to be proud of Our School, and has
done much better since in that way, and will
do far better yet.

THE SPENDTHRIFT'S DAUGHTER.
IN SIX CHAPTERS.
CHAPTER THE FIRST.

"FRUGALITY is a virtue which will
contribute continually and most essentially to
your comfort. Without it, it is impossible
that you should do well; and we know not
how much, or how soon, it may be needed."

So writes Southey to his son, Cuthbert, just
then starting at Oxford.

The proposition might have been expanded
from the particular to the universal. Southey
might have said, that in no condition of life,
from that of her who sitteth upon the throne,
to that of the handmaiden who grindeth behind
the mill, can frugality—in other words, system
and self-denial as regards the expenditure of
money—be dispensed with. Self-denial and
diligent attention in the management of this
great talent, are necessary in all.

No one of the gifts of Providence appears
to the casual observer to be bestowed with
less regard to individual merit than wealth.
It would almost seem, as an old divine has
written, as if God would mark his contempt
of mere material riches by the hands into
which he suffers them to fall. Although,
fall where they will, and on whom they will,
one thing is certain;—that they will prove but
a delusive snare to those who know not how
to order them;—when to husband, and when
to spare; when to spend, or when to bestow.

These reflections arose from a story with
which, not long ago, I became acquainted.
A common tale enough—one among a thousand
illustrations of what Butler affirms to be
the indispensable condition upon which it has
pleased our Creator that we should hold our
being:—that of controlling our own actions;
either by prudence to pass our days in ease
and quiet; or, by rashness, ungoverned
passion, wilfulness, or negligence, to make
ourselves miserable.

He is sitting on the bottom stone of a
magnificent flight of steps, which lead up to a
handsome door, situated in the centre of a
large many-windowed house, which, fronted
with handsome iron rails round the area, is
built of fine brick, and ornamented with
abundance of stone-work, in cornices and
architraves. This house stands in one of the best
streets in the neighbourhood of Grosvenor
Square.

He is clothed in garments that once were
fashionable; but now are discoloured with
much wear and long exposure to wind and
weather; so much so, that, in several places,
they are falling into tatters. His face—the
features of which are very finely cut, and still
bear the traces of a once very remarkable
beauty—is wan, attenuated, and begrimed with
dust, dirt, and neglect. His eyes are haggard;
his hair dusty and dishevelled—his beard
ragged and untrimmed.

He is the picture of physical decay, and of
the lowest depths of moral degradation.
He sits there upon the stone, sometimes
watching the street-sweeper—a little tattered
boy, cheerily whistling over his work—
now and then casting up his eyes at the
closed windows of the handsome house, upon
which the beams of the rising sun are
beginning to shine; but to shine in vain at
present; for it is only about six o'clock in the
morning, and life has not yet begun to stir
within the mansion.

His cheek rests upon his thin, withered,
and unwashed hand, as he casts his eyes first
upwards, then downwards, then slowly, and
with a sort of gloomy indifference, around.

He looks upward. Is it towards the sky;
where the great lord of earthly light—type
of that more Glorious Sun which should arise
"with healing on its wings"—is diffusing the
cheering effulgence of the dawn, calling forth
the fresh and wholesome airs of morning,
and literally chasing away the noisome spirits
of the night? Is he looking there?

No; he is no seeker of the light; he feels
not its blessed influence; he heeds not the
sweet fresh rising of the morning as it
breathes over the polluted city, and pours, for
a few short moments, its fresh, crisp, cheering
airs into the closest and most noisome of her
quarters. He cares not for that delicious
brightness which gives to the vast town
a pure and peculiar clearness for a few half
hours, whilst all the world are asleep, and the
streets are yet guiltless of sin and sea-coal.

What has light; the pure breath of the
morning; the white rays of the early sun;
and the soft, quiet, and refreshing stillness of
the hour, to do with him? He only lifts up his
eyes to examine a house: he only casts them
around to observe what goes on in the streets;