and few expenses, yet he always pressed on as if the constable was at his heels. There was no repose there was no relaxation. Round and round he went, like a horse in a mill. I often

urged him to stop. 'You have enough,' I would say, begin to enjoy it; why make yourself the prey of these vexing cares?' But no- -he could not be content. At length his wife died; he was left alone, rich but friendless. He gave up business, but it was too late. His fireside had no charms, and he fell into a melancholy which was soon followed by a mortal complaint. So he died without having ever known what it was to sit down and enjoy a moment of quiet. The whole of his property was scattered to the winds, by a pair of grand-nephews, his heirs-at-law."

"Nature requires but a little," said Mr. Appletree. "We are the slaves of our artificial wants. I have accustomed myself to say, in looking at many a piece of luxury, I can do without it.' Even the ancient heathen had learned as much as this. Their philosophers endeavoured to persuade men to seek happiness by narrowing their desires, rather than by increasing their gratifications. 'He who wants least,' says one of them, is most like the gods, who want nothing.'

"Those old fellows were mighty wise, I dare say," said uncle Benjamin; "but I warrant you they found it hard to practise as they preached. At the same time no one can deny the truth of what they affirmed. And I have often told my

son Sammy, that nothing would be a greater curse to him than to have all his desires gratified; according to the old story of the Three Wishes. On the other hand, if a man would but buckle his desires within the belt of his circumstances, he would be happy in an Irish cabin.”

"Do you think, uncle Benjamin, that men usually gain this sort of wisdom in proportion as they rise in the world?" "No, no-far from it. Pampering does not produce patience. He who grows rich is only feeding a fever. Indulgence begets peevishness. Those tailors and shoemakers, along our street, who are just shutting up for the night, are happier than the wealthy sportsmen and idlers over the river; nay, they are happier than they will be themselves, when, like so many American mechanics, they become wealthy, and live in their own great houses. I have often heard Thrale, the rich brewer, say that he did not feel at home in his own parlour, and that he looked back with regret to the days when he had but three rooms in his house."

This led me to relate the story of my cousin Barnaby Cox. He was a book-binder, in a small way, and took a sweet little woman to wife, and lived in the lower part of Second street. He seemed as happy a fellow as worldly things can make any one; he earned his pleasures, and he enjoyed them. He needed no balls, taverns, gaming, or theatre to enliven his evenings. This was while he lived, as you may say, from hand

to mouth. By some turn in the wheel, he became prosperous; he formed new connexions, and got into new lines of business; in short, he became a wealthy man. But riches did not make him a better man. He lives in splendour in Chestnut street; but he has gone down in health and cheerfulness. He is restless, and listless, and seems never to know what to do next. His great house is seldom visited except by a few relations, and if the truth could be told, he sighs for the evenings he used to enjoy when work was done.

"The case is not rare," said Mr. Appletree; "but I have one to relate, which, I think, you will allow, is really so. It may be taken as a fair offset to Mr. Quill's. In the neighbourhood where I was bred, there is a man whom I shall call ARATOR. He was the son of a wealthy and somewhat proud family, and fell heir to a large and well-kept estate. There was not a nobler farm or mansion in the whole country-side.

Being a man of studious habits, and indolent and melancholy, he allowed his affairs to run on rather negligently, and partly from this cause, and partly from the treachery of his principal legal agent, he became what the world calls a ruined man.

"Ruined, however, he was not. After the first shock of misfortune, he seemed to be awakened to new energies. His indolence and his gloom took leave of him. He set about the retrieving of his fortune, with an energy which astonished those who knew him best. True, he is likely to be

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a poor man as long as he lives, but he is in a fair way to pay his debts, and he is cheerful and contented. Not long since I called upon him at his humble dwelling, in the midst of a little piece of land which he tills. He was in his working dress, and moist with the labours of the hay-field; but he received me with a radiant smile, and ushering me into his sitting-room, cried out, Here, Lucy, is our old friend Appletree; he has not forgotten the champagne and venison of Strawberry hill, nor have we: we cannot treat him to any; but we can teach him, when our children come in, that there is some truth still in the old stories about cottages and contentment.' And the blended blush and tear of his wife, with the whoop and halloo of the boys that just then bounded into the room, told me that, by coming down in the world, they had risen in the scale of true enjoyment."

XXXV.

WHO IS THE WORKING-MAN?

"Cade. Dost thou use to write thy name? or hast thou a mark to thyself, like an honest plain-dealing man?

Clerk. Sir, I thank God, I have been so well brought up that I can write my name.

All. He hath confessed; away with him: he's a villain, and a traitor.

Cade. Away with him, I say; hang him with his pen and inkhorn about his neck."

Second Part of King Henry VI.

IN using the title working-man, I have merely availed myself of a phrase which is commonly understood. As usually employed, it designates the artisan, the mechanic, the operative, or the labourer; all, in a word, who work with their hands. But I trust no reader of these pages will so far misunderstand me, as to suppose that I mean to deny that there are multitudes of other classes, who work, and work hard, and whose honest industry is as useful to society as that of the smith or the carpenter.

There are many varieties of industry, and the common distinction is a just one between headwork and hand-work. But then the two are so intermingled that it is almost impossible to draw