Thousands of new steamships have to be built. Thousands on thousands of miles of railroads and telegraphs have to be added to those now in use." "Is plenty of work to do, I'll acknowledge!" "That's not all, all the thousand new evils of this new age have to be held down and strangled. Intemperance has to be banished; quackery in science and politics has to be unmasked and killed. The world, my dear fellow, has a vast deal to do, and a vast deal of evil to be kept from doing." "But I don't have to do all this!" Very true; but suppose everybody was to sit on his goods-box and say the same, would anything be done then ?" My lazy friend put an almond in his mouth, and slowly cracked it, as he meditated my question. "Theophilus," continued I, hoping the glacier of his mind was slowly detaching itself under the warmth of my eloquence, and was about to move. "Theophilus," said I, "tell me; what have you done since your father died?" 'Except eating your meals and sleeping, and sitting out here in the sun, without a bit more real thought than occupies a bullfrog squatted on a log. "You said you wouldn't get angry, you know," said I, and I laid one hand on each of his shoulders, and looked him steadily in the eyes, while I continued, with all the earnestness I was capable of. "Theophilus, in that head of yours there sleeps a mind which you might waken to think and will, in such a way as to make you a blessing to yourself and everybody. In that breast of yours there slumbers a heart, which might be roused to such a love to God and man, as would warm you and all around you through and through! You might do so much more; you might be so much happier if you only would. I hate to see you live on in such idleness. Why, I would almost as leave see you lying in the gutter there, in the mud, dead drunk all the time. Why, man, you are a living corpse! There is almost as little stir about you, you do almost as little in the town, as if you were in the graveyard, instead of your This goods-box is your coffin; you are just as useless, sitting idle on it, as if you were lying store. dead in it." "I believe you are half right, Doctor." "I am whole right. Just look at it. If you were only to devote every hour to doing something, enlarging your business, or improving your mind by reading, or doing something or other, it doesn't matter what, so that it be something!-the habit of activity would grow upon you; your business and your money would increase; your mind would act more, the more you used it; your heart would warm; you would be a new man. You would feel like a healthy man after a brisk walk on a cold bright morning-cheerful, hearty, happy. You would enjoy your very meals more. You would be far more respected. You would become, at least, very well off. You would be able to marry Jane; for I believe she loves you in spite of your present laziness, though she would have the sense never to marry you, even if her mother would let her, while you are what you have been all along. You could build up a bright and happy | home. You could hope to be elected to any office, almost, in the land. You see, a broad and indefinite course of usefulness, and honour, and happiness is before you, if you will only waken out of the mud of your sloth, and think, and act, and | live!" Theophilus had risen from the box, and stood before me really awakened. That picture of Jane and housekeeping touched him. "You may be as happy and as prosperous as you please, by being active. You will sink lower and lower into brutal sloth, by being-just as you are. You ain't thirty years old, Theophilus," continued I; "if now, in the spring and heat of young blood, you are so lazy, what on earth will you be when you get older? What on earth, but a poor, miserable, idling, drivelling, chattering, good-fornothing old loafer; rotting before you are dead; your soul dwindled and dead within you, like the kernel of a frost-bitten peach." "Strikes me, you talk plain enough, Doctor!" "Have to hollar when one talks to the deaf; have to cut and slash when the limb is mortified; have to apply mustard plaster where we want action to follow." "Well, Doctor, what would you have me to do?" "Do? Why, split this box into kitchen-wood; rise two hours earlier to-morrow morning; subscribe this evening for a good newspaper, and a magazine-there's 'Sartain's Union; clean out your shop, and paint it, and fill it with more goods, and advertise. When you do talk, and when other people talk with you, talk yourself, and make them talk about something. When you go to church, listen to every word, sung or prayed or preached, if it be only for the sake of keeping your mind busy. You are in a comatose statestir about with all your might, or your lethargy will become fixed." Here the tavern bell rung for supper, and I arose. "Much obliged for your visit, Doctor; believe I'll take your mustard and medicine-don't know -see." Shall, if I can make him!" said the voice of his sister, who had been sitting near the door inside, listening, with female curiosity, to our talk, but keeping unseen and still. As she spoke, she came to the door. Her eyes were really awake, her cheek flushed, and I knew my visit had not been lost, at least, upon her. I could see the Venus starting out from the block! "Bye, Doctor," said both, as they shook me warmly by the hand, which was unnecessary, as I was not going to be absent from town. Ianswered cordially, and walked slowly down the street toward the old tavern. The sun was just down. "Rose at four," murmured I, recalling the events of the day; "read two hours; did that strabismus case; rode over to Squire Smithers'; read up Mrs. Milson's case; had a talk with that lazy fellow, Theophilus Scall. Put that down in note-book among my 'Cases in Pikesville,' as Case of Mental Catalepsy;'-write out treatment; watch effects!" HUMANITY. BY MRS. SARAH T. BOLTON. ABOVE us the clouds are wild and black, The winds are howling on our track; The shivering trees are bare and bleak, They turned me away from the rich man's door, My heart was cold, and the demons came, Far down o'er the white sands busily." The world will turn from the hideous stain They bade me remember the bright old time, I grasped, in the strength of my deep despair, How quiet and rigid and cold thou art! My hand!-God! let me not think of it! We'll make us a bed in the snow so deep; But where is the father of that dead child, He is revelling now, where the lamps are bright; The bride is a creature of love and youth, Oh! little she deems that a wretch defamed, claimed The love she is fondly cherishing. For he is a model of manly grace, Where the censers breathe, and the jewels shine, Allude to his victim's history. No, fill the cup to the sparkling brim, In the penal code of this righteous world, At the kind, but frail, the lip is curled, With sure, unvarying parity; But over the monster, mean and vile, We throw the pure mantle of charity. And many a heart, that faints and fails, Of sorrow, and wrong, and misery, THE WIDOW'S DAUGHTER. A TALE OF REAL LIFE. BY ELIZABETH BOGART. ON the borders of the Thames, not many miles distant from London, stood, in the days of "lang syne," a spacious and elegant mansion, the residence of Mr. Stanhope, an English gentleman of large fortune and highly estimable character. It may, or it may not stand there yet: but whether any vestige of its former beauty still remains, or whether time and neglect has left it to crumble into ruins, is not for me to say. It is more than probable that those who once knew it, would know it now no more. It is more than probable that the capricious tyranny of fashion has newmodelled or removed the ancient edifice, whose original owner sleeps peacefully near the spot, unconscious of the change. At the period of which we speak, however, the family of Mr. Stanhope was flourishing in full prosperity. There were two daughters, Margaret and Frances, Margaret was a reputed beauty; but as we shall then just springing up into early womanhood. seldom have occasion to mention her in the succeeding pages, a particular description is unnecessary. Frances, though the younger sister, must have an introduction to the reader, from the circumstance of her being closely associated throughout with the heroine of our tale. Frances Stanhope, at fifteen years of age, was the gayest, and most joyous being in existence; frank and warm-hearted-ever ready to oblige, and aiming always to give pleasure to othersgenerous, unselfish, and unsuspicious-yet endowed with a quickness of perception, and an intuitive knowledge of human nature, which shielded her from the imposition of pretended friendship, or the imprudence of indulging un guardedly in her own benevolent feelings. She | Dark hair, so very dark that it was only not black, brows curved in the exact line of beauty, and long, soft lashes, shading a pair of brilliant hazel eyes, were all in unison with his other features. His mouth and teeth were exquisite-scarcely to be equalled-while the full, rich, and melodious tones of his voice, found a certain echo in the hearts of his listeners. Of Mrs. Linden, however, it would be more difficult to give a description. A single glance at her face was sufficient to fix it on the memory; and without being able to tell precisely what it was that made the impression, it was yielded to, unresistingly. Her was not thought handsome, excepting by those who knew and loved her; and to them she reflected in person all the graces and beauty of her character. Her eyes were of a light blue, with a soft and sweet expression. Her complexion, fair and pure as the lily, and almost as colourless, excepting in moments of sudden excitement or emotion, when the blood rushed to her cheeks, and shone through the transparent skin. A large mouth, which was scarcely a fault; for it was ornamented with a set of teeth which might have excited the envy of half the ladies in England; and her hair, abundant and of a glossy bright-eyes were of that deep and liquid blue which ness, hung in natural ringlets over her neck and shoulders, and was thrown to and fro with the careless motion of exercise, or the rapid influence of the passing breeze. For her own part, she heeded not how or where the flowing ringlets lay, so that they were brushed from her eyes, and did not incommode her. She never dreamed of training them to attract admiration. She had no art and no pretension; but she possessed the power of making herself a most agreeable companion, by the simple charm of conversation; a charm more delightful in society than any other, and which, with her rapid thoughts and fluent speech, she made a continual source of entertainment to her friends and family. Such was Frances Stanhope in her sixteenth year ;—a child and a woman;-a child in innocence and simplicity and a woman in precocious intellect, with capabilities of thought and action far beyond her years. seemed to pour their light into the very soul of the gazer-a light which passed from her own spirit, and was sometimes succeeded by a shadow of sadness on her countenance, which excited involuntary sympathy. Her figure was fragile and slender, and without any authority as to the truth of the surmise, the idea intruded itself into the mind that she was not quite happy. Mr. Stanhope, however, was not prepossessed in her favour. Plain and old-fashioned in his notions of propriety, he had become a little prejudiced against her, from seeing her in the doors and windows of the cottage, dressed in the richest and most expensive Japan muslins, and wearing ornaments only suitable for the wealthy; and what in his opinion was worse than all, always sporting a red rose in the side of her cap. There was also a mystery in the history and character of these new tenants of the cottage, which induced him to forbid his daughters from forming any ac quaintance with them, until something of a more satisfactory nature could be ascertained concerning them. Margaret observed implicit obedience; but Frances, who was continually passing and repassing the gate of the cottage on her way to school, and who returned, day by day, the bow and smile of Mrs. Linden,-felt an irresistible desire to break through the prohibition, and commence a speaking acquaintance with the interesting-looking lady. In the meanwhile, Mr. Stanhope's in quiries had been favourably answered, and his doubts of their reputation removed. Frances, also, had learned at the same time, from a report which had just reached the neighbourhood, that Mr. Linden had been in the army, that he had made a runaway match with an heiress from Stratford-onAvon, and that the connexions, on both sides, were highly respectable. Of course there could be no objection to visiting, and introducing them into society. With this budget of news upon her mind, she ran across the lawn with breathless impatience to meet her father. Her bonnet was swung back upon her shoulders, her curls flying in disorder, and her pale face flushed with an unusual colour. Belonging to the estate of Mr. Stanhope, and located also on the banks of the Thames, was a neat and pleasant cottage. A handsome brick front, with a courtyard before the door, and a few large and ornamental trees around its borders, gave it an air of gentility as well as comfort; while a pretty garden attached to it in the rear, yielded a supply of fruit and vegetables to the inmates. There was no particular taste or fancy displayed in the arrangement of the grounds, but altogether it wore the aspect of a peaceful and tranquil retirement, while the moderate rent demanded for it, made it a desirable residence for genteel and respectable families, who were obliged to confine their expenses within the limits of a small income; perhaps reduced by extravagance or misfortune from the abundance of better days. It had been rented successively to several different tenants; and its present occupants, who had but recently taken possession, were the continual subject of curiosity and speculation to Margaret and Frances Stanhope. The name, LINDEN, had something romantic in the sound, and the appearance of the gentleman and lady who bore it, and who were both young, awakened a corresponding interest in their feelings. Mr. Linden was evidently a gentleman. His firm walk and graceful bow stamped him a man of breeding. He dressed in a plain suit of black, with white ruffles around his wrists, and a white cravat, according to the fashion of the day. 'Oh, papa," said Frances, "I have got someAn added inch in height might have made his thing to tell you. Oh dear, I am so out of breath! figure more commanding, but it was still perfectly-but you will let us visit the cottage now, I am symmetrical; and though he lacked something of sure."-"The cottage again!" exclaimed Mr. Stanthe noble and dignified bearing which charac- hope,-" and pray, is all this flurry about that terizes the truly great, his whole manner, not- poor unlucky cottage, which you have been going withstanding, was the very epitome of grace and crazy about for the last month? I wish to gra elegance. His face was eminently handsome.cious it was blown down, and then there would Mr. Stanhope stood still in astonishment. "What is the matter, Frances?" exclaimed he, as soon as she came within speaking distance. "What is the matter with you, I say? What are you running so for?" be an end of it. Why couldn't you walk as well as to run after this fashion, and get yourself in such a heat? Heavens and earth! What a madcap thing you are, Fan. I dare say, now, you will take your death of cold. See, your cheeks look as if the blood was bursting through them, and your hair is standing at all points of the compass,-a pretty trim for a young lady, truly. But come, let us hear your wonderful news." "Well, sir," said Frances, cooling down from her enthusiasm," Miss Ainsworth told me-" "Stop, till you get rested child," said her father, interrupting her. "I'll warrant you have run all the way from school, just to tell some rigmarole story of Miss Ainsworth's. What does she know about the people at the cottage?" "Why, she has heard their whole history, papa, and I want to tell you, if you would but let me speak. I am not tired at all, nor warm either, and there is no danger of my taking cold." "Well, well, out with it, then; give us Miss Ainsworth's intelligence, and put on your bonnet, before the sun broils your face to a blister." "Dear papa," said Frances, laughing, "you will drive it all out of my head; never mind my face. Margaret's might be of more consequence. But just listen, now; it's so romantic; and I'm so sorry for poor Mrs. Linden." "But what is it you're so sorry for ?" said Mr. Stanhope again, with a good-natured smile, for Frances was his favourite child. "I see no use in listening, if you are never coming to the point." Frances was accustomed to such interruptions from her father, and knew she had no remedy but to hurry through her relation as fast as possible. "Miss Ainsworth says," she continued, "that Mr. Linden has been an officer in the army, and that his wife was an heiress of one of the first families in Stratford-on-Avon, and that she married him against the consent of her family, and her mother will not forgive her; and that is the reason of her ill health, and the melancholy looks which she sometimes has, when we see her sitting alone in the window." "And reason enough, too, Frances," answered her father. "Disobedience to parents is sure to leave a sting in the heart, which poisons its happiness. I was willing to let you tell your story, although I had already heard the same account from another source. Poor lady! she is truly to be pitied, and not the less for having erred; and I much fear she is now reaping the bitter fruit of her husband's neglect. He leaves her often, to pursue his own pleasures, and she must need cheering in her lonely home. You and Margaret can go and call on her this evening, if you wish; only mind you do not stay after nine o'clock." Frances waited to hear no more; but flew off to tell her sister, heedless of her father's prohibition not to run. It was in vain he called after her at the top of his lungs. Her speed was never slackened until she reached the house. Margaret was delighted with the long-wishedfor permission of visiting the cottage; and they could scarcely control their impatience until the evening. A messenger had been despatched beforehand with their compliments, and a hope that their call would be agreeable. On their arrival at the gate, Mr. Linden met and welcomed them, with all the bland and courtly grace of the highbred gentleman. The sisters were charmed with his gallantry, accompanied, as it was, with the peculiar polish and elegance of the military school. Mrs. Linden had all the quietude, and self-possession, and unembarrassed deportment of one whose perfect acquaintance with the rules of politeness and refined society removed the necessity of any effort at imitation. She received them with evident pleasure, which she expressed in simple and natural language, flowing directly from the heart. "It had been her earnest wish," she said, " to be allowed the privilege of their acquaintance and friendship. She was aware that her first arrival in the neighbourhood had been under a cloud; but she trusted it would pass away, and that the young ladies would spend some pleasant hours with her, during the approaching winter." These remarks were made apart from her husband, who had just left the room; and on his return, the quick-sighted Frances immediately fancied that his presence threw a sort of restraint over the behaviour of the lady. Margaret observed nothing of the kind. Mr. Linden was full of spirits, and appeared to the very best advantage. Nothing could be more delightful than his conversation. Rapid and unstudied, it glided from one subject to another, showing a versatility of thought and talent, which captivated the attention of his young listeners, until the hour of nine gave the signal for their departure. It came too soon. Frances looked at Margaret, who rose from her seat, and said, "We must go-we promised to be at home at nine o'clock." You "But you must stay a few minutes longer," said Mr. Linden, "and let me sing you a song. have not heard me sing, and that is one of the accomplishments of which I used to be proud. Anne said I sang well before we were married, but my voice has grown so familiar to her now, that she forgets to praise it any more." There was apparently more in these words, than met the ear; for a side glance at his wife, caused the colour to rush to her cheeks, but she remained silent. The young ladies assured him of their desire to hear him sing, and without waiting to be urged, he took a guitar from the corner of the room, and commenced the following recitative in a voice of such exquisite pathos and sweetness, that its tones seemed to penetrate through the ear to the heart: "Soft zephyrs on thy balmy wing, Thy choicest treasures hither bring; And then changing the air with the measure, he proceeded to the next stanzas, with a fuller and richer strain of melody. "A rose from her bosom had strayed, I'll wear it, fond youth, next my heart. Alas! silly rose, hadst thou known 'Twas Daphne who gave thee thy place, Thou ne'er from thy station hadst flownHer bosom's the mansion of peace." The expression which he gave to the words with the soul-thrilling music, cannot be conveyed to the paper. The girls were completely entranced, and begged him to give them one more song before they left. It was not his intention, Though 'twas hard, very hard your unkindness to bear, I only upbraided my Tom with a tear." By the time he had concluded the remaining verses, his young auditors had forgotten both the hour and the command of their father. Song after song followed in quick succession, sometimes gay and sometimes pensive, until Margaret and Frances, charmed and amused with their fascinating host, seemed bound, as by a spell, and sought in vain to escape from the witchery of the scene. They were recalled to their obligation, however, by hearing the clock strike eleven; when the door was opened, and they were invited into another room to partake of a handsome supper. With much earnestness, they then protested against remaining any longer, and pleaded their promise to return at nine o'clock. Mr. Linden laughed at their excuses, and declared they should not go, until they had tasted the chicken, and the tarts, and above all, the grapes, which he had taken such pains to cultivate; after which, he promised to escort them safely to their home. Mr. Stanhope was waiting to receive them, with a severe reprimand ready on his lips, which he could scarcely repress until he had bowed Mr. Linden from the door. As he turned then, to speak, the light of the hall lamp fell full on the face of Frances, who was pale and trembling with affright at the lateness of the hour; and instantly forgetting his anger, he exclaimed hastily, "You are ill, Frances-What makes you so pale? Ah, I see how it is-you have been kept up till you are exhausted and worn out with fatigue. It's all my own folly, too, in letting you go among people we know nothing about. Go to your room, and see if you can get half a night's sleep. Margaret, at least, should have known better, and had more prudence than to stay till this time of night." now, "We wanted to come, sir,” said Margaret, "but they wouldn't let us." "Wouldn't let you, forsooth-Well, well, we shall take care that you are not detained another time against your will. Come, what are you waiting for?-away with you both to bed; and let us see how long it will take you to recover from the blessed effects of this dissipation." The girls obeyed with alacrity, glad to escape from any further reproof, and happy that the fortunate paleness of Frances had saved them from a heavier storm of their father's displeasure. In their room, the events of the evening were discussed between them with much interest and animation. Margaret expressed her unqualified admiration of Mr. Linden; while Frances declared her belief that his accomplishments were kept only for show in the company of strangers. She was sure, she said, that his wife was neglected, and she was determined not to like him, even were he ten times more handsome and agreeable than he had appeared that evening. Her youthful sympathies were all enlisted for the lady. She had remarked the sadness on her countenance, which had become so habitual, that it could not be quite concealed, even by the smiles which she bestowed on her visiters. It was long before the sisters could cease talking of them. The impression of this their first visit to the cottage afterwards entirely effaced. Margaret went more was so strong upon their minds, that it was never into society, and thought less of the acquaintance; but Frances made frequent calls on Mrs. Linden. Her feelings, naturally ardent and enthusiastic, soon became deeply interested in her new friend; and it was not long before her girlish liking for her settled into a strong and lasting attachment. Her school-days were nearly over; and she rejoiced at the approaching expiration of the term, which was to free her from the arbitrary rules and lessons, so irksome to her buoyant and impatient disposition. The time of her emancipation came at last. The restraint imposed by her teachers was at an end; and then her leisure hours were all spent with Mrs. Linden, whose melancholy was hourly increasing. Frances was still a stranger to the events of her former life, and the name of her family. She had too much delicacy to pry into her affairs, or seek more of her confidence than was voluntarily given her; and she awaited the time when her friend should feel an inclination to unburthen her mind, and allow her to participate more fully in her sorrows. The dreary winter had glided into the smiling spring, and the spring into the more lovely and luxuriant summer, ere the flood-gates of feeling in the heart of Mrs. Linden, had broken forth to pour their overflowing streams into the sympathetic bosom of her young and affectionate associate. Continued indisposition, however, increased the weight which rested on her mind; and on a still and lovely evening, when all nature seemed harmo nized into more than ordinary quietude and beauty, she sent an urgent message for Frances to come to her. The young lady instantly obeyed the summons. The spirits of Mrs. Linden were unusually depressed, and her eyes red and swollen with weeping. Her husband, as was often the case, was absent, seeking pleasure and amusement among the gay. "Sit down, Frances," said Mrs. Linden. "I have sent for you this evening, to tax your pa tience in listening to a tale of disobedience, from which has originated all the unhappiness of my life, and planted in my constitution the seeds of early death. It is for your benefit, dear girl, that I am going to relate my sad history; in order to warn you against the danger of forming sudden attachments, or giving way too unguardedly to the natural impulses of tenderness in your heart, which might lead you into the same path which I have trodden with such bitter penitence. My maiden name was Lucy. I am a descendant of that family which obtained rather an unenviable celebrity from the circumstance of one of its members having committed Shakspeare for deer-stealing. You read Shakspeare? The character of Justice Shallow was drawn for my ancestor. I resided almost wholly with my widowed mother, at Stratford-on-Avon, tranquil and happy, until, about three years since, we were visited by a Commissioner N., and with him came Mr. Lin |