know, in my own line (and I have three large
manufactories devoted exclusively to the
construction of pins' heads), quite as much as
other people in theirs; I only want, what
everybody else wants, a little general
information, and (except when I thus write
anonymously) the courage to ask for it. In every
grade of life, and especially in the higher
grades, there is a like, or worse ignorance
upon all matters that do not quite concern
itself. I will conclude with an illustration of
this fact; it only bears out, I am sure, the
experience of almost every one of us. The authoress
of Our Village, used to relate, that during
the success of her Rienzi, at the London
theatres, one of the judges of the realm inquired
of her, whether there really had been such a
hero, and if her drama was founded on
fact? Wishing further to know, how far the
sympathy she had excited in him was authorised
by the real events, he wanted to borrow
the history.

"What do you mean," she said, " Gibbon?"
"Yes, I suppose, Gibbon," said he. And
his lordship took away the first volume!

WORK FOR HEAVEN.

    IF thou have thrown a glorious thought
        Upon life's common ways,
    Should other men the gain have caught,
        Fret not to lose the praise.

    Great thinker, often shall thou find,
        While folly plunders fame,
    To thy rich store the crowd is blind,
        Nor knows thy very name.

    What matter that, if thou uncoil
        The soul that God has given;
    Not in the world's mean eye to toil,
        But in the sight of Heaven?

    If thou art true, yet in thee lurks
        For fame a human sigh,
    To Nature go and see how works
        That handmaid of the sky.

    Her own deep bounty she forgets,
       Is full of germs and seeds;
    Nor glorifies herself, nor sets
        Her flowers above her weeds.

    She hides the modest leaves between,
        She loves untrodden roads;
    Her richest treasures are not seen
        By any eye but God's.

    Accept the lesson. Look not for
        Reward; from out thee chase
    All selfish ends, and ask no more
        Than to fulfil thy place.

SENTIMENT AND ACTION.

IN SEVEN CHAPTERS. CHAPTER VII.

MAGDALEN accused of forgery—standing in
the felon's dock, and commented on as the
criminal—felt proud and innocent. Magdalen
re-established before the world: Magdalen, in
the solitude and silence of her own chamber,
feels guilty. She could not give her conscience
a name for its reproach; but she could not deny
that she had cause for self-reproach. She could
not say what she had done wrong; but she
felt ashamed and afraid to pray. Horace,
too, was changed to her. He never spoke to
her when he could help it, and never would
be alone with her for a moment.

He was quite right, she would argue.
Why should she care about seeing him
alone; was she not an affianced woman?
What did it signify to her whether he liked
her society or not; had she no more pride
than to be sorry because any man in the
world avoided her? Then she tried to look
indifferent; and descended the stairs with the
gait and manner of a Juno. At other times
she tried to congratulate herself on having
such a friend as Rutherford. He was her real
practical friend in life, and she was sure he
would always do all he could for her: and
was not that enough? She, herself, felt
nothing more for him but mere simple friendship.
She pictured him married and happy.
She thought how happy she would be
to hear of it. She would go and see
them both, and be very fond of his wife.
She would be her sister—her darling sister.
She fancied her standing in the door-way,
like a lovely picture enframed, waiting to-
receive him when he came home. She saw
her go down the steps, and place her arm in
his; perhaps he put his round her waist;
and then she saw them both go into their
pretty cottage, and shut the door between
their loving happiness and the cold world
outside. They shut out her as well. O!
how happy that wife would be. How justly
proud of her noble lord, of her wifely name,
and that golden badge of union on her
hand! Then Magdalen would weep, though
angry with herself as she felt the tears steal
down her face; saying, sometimes aloud, in
a tone of vexation, " What folly this is?
What am I crying for? I shall soon be as
bad as Paul."

The expression of Magdalen's face was
changing. It had gone through two different
phases already, as the circumstances of her
life had changed. From the calm dreaming
of her girlhood—when she looked as if she
lived in beautiful visions, and as if the present,
was only the passage-place to a glorious
future; when Paul's mind had been her guide,
and Paul's poetry her reality—from that phase
of misty hopes and undeclared visions, it had
changed to the cold concentrated grieved
expression of one suffering under a sorrow
that hardened and did not chasten. It had
gained more strength of purpose during that
time—but it was the strength of iron—the
force of granite; it was not the strength of
love. Now, a third expression had come; and
the most beautiful of all. Her face had
gained a power it never had had before—the
power of intensest feeling. There was a
strange depth and darkness in her eyes;
a flash, not of pride as of old and of the