humiliating fact, to be charged amongst the deplorable weaknesses of poor human nature: on the contrary, it is an encouraging indication that the reign of roguery has never in one single instance utterly extinguished the pure childlike spirit of trust. Instinct makes us believe; reason makes us doubt. Incredulity is the result of experience. Only the uneducated are grossly gulled, but only the sophisticated are beyond the reach of humbug; and if you know a man who has never been made a fool of, you may put put him down for the Evil One in disguise.

UNITY OF SENTIMENT.

Unity of sentiment-real, hearty congeniality of thought—is the only bond of true friendship. It is surprising, when we come to consider the thing, how many differences there are between ourselves and our most intimate acquaintances. How few persons of all those we know could we speak to unreservedly on any subject! That is because there are so few we should feel safe in claiming as entirely of our way of thinking. A general agreement of mind and

temper is easily discovered, and it places persons upon good terms with each other; but the minute shades of thought, or features of character, marking the individual, are the points of chief interest, and they are more often developed by accident than found out by study. We do not choose our friends. A similarity of taste, of feeling, of opinion, makes us friends whether we will or no, before we perceive it.

UNCONSCIOUS AUTOBIOGRAPHY.

Every day of a man's life adds a passage to an autobiography which, though its details may fade in the memory, will in its leading features influence his existence for all time to come. If we remembered that we are always engaged in writing our own personal history, we should have pleasanter pages to read in the dusk of the evening.

LOVE.

Love is the chain that links earth to heaven. Love makes man an angel, hate makes him a fiend. If I were to sum up every earthly

wish in one-if some good genius were to offer me the choice of any one blessing, with the understanding that everything else must be left to the chapter of accidents-I would ask to be loved by everybody I knew if I were to describe an utterly miserable man, I should say he must be one whom nobody loves and who loves nobody. Love, like light, beautifies everything it touches. Love believes there is something worth living for. Love brightens even the Valley of the Shadow of Death. Love never doubted that it was immortal. Love can say "Heaven is my Home," because "God is Love."

HIDDEN POETRY.

There is a sparkling vein of poetry in many a person that the ordinary penetration of friends and relatives fails to discover. If the mental philosopher only had some faculty like that of the Indian water-finder, he would have at his service an instrument more magical than the transforming wand of Harlequin. Every one has at times certain recollections, certain sentiments and tendencies of thought,

when he is forced to be serious and earnest : let but the intelligent eye mark what is going on and the genial hand of true friendliness be extended and recognized in these moments, and the frost-work of frivolity is dissipated by the glance of the sun, even from rocky dulness a stream of warm feeling gushes forth, and, although there may not be displayed the creative imagination of the poet, there is the sensitive glow of poetry.

CASTLES IN THE AIR.

Bright gay halls of Fancy, they have their uses. There is a pleasure in the power of imagination that compensates for a good deal of real pain. Is it nothing to be able to bound away from trouble and annoyance to some Castle in the Air, and for a moment defy the foe? What though it is but for a moment,the imaginative aeronaut has such a charming glimpse of possibilities that a ray of the sunlight above the clouds lingers brightening his eye even when he descends to prosy earth again. Only cheerful people know how to build Castles in the Air: gloomy folks rather

build Caverns in the Earth, and when they return from a ramble with Fancy, like Epimenides coming out of the cave where he spent fifty years, they are startled by the pleasant appearance of things. Sneer as you may, ye unideal lovers of facts and cents, I wouldn't give up the power and the pleasure of building Castles in the Air-I would not sell you the delight of hope (though hope is to be baulked), the enjoyment of anticipation (though anticipation is to be falsified), the luxury of day-dreaming, for the price of a kingdom. Why, are we not all kings-of thought-in our own Castle in the Air? No one can molest us; our wishes are law; our thoughts are history; and one happy emotion of the heart lightens up Fancy's scenery like a sunbeam. Enmity and Unkindness are dead. We lend the sceptre to Affection. Troops of loving friends come blithely in to our summons. We ring the silver bell, for man can imagine a happiness more complete than he ever experienced. But, say you, these cloud-capped towers" and "gorgeous palaces" presently melt into air, and "leave not a

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