COUNTRY DIET.

There are people who get up in the morning for the express purpose of making somebody uncomfortable before the day is out. They generally pitch upon some sunny-faced, happy, singing human lark carolling high above the ditches and marshes of life, soaring in the blue ether of his happiness, nearer God and the angels than he himself knows anything about, and, taking practised aim at some vulnerable point, bring him plump down, with maimed wing, to flutter in the dust. Now what is good enough for such a miscreant? The more you flutter the better he likes it; every writhe of your agonized spirit is delicious music to this vulture; there is one other person in the world as uncomfortable as himself. What right hadyouto be happy whenhisliver was out of order? It was clearly a piece of impertinent presumption, and so there you lie moaning and turning, the sunshine all gone, the chill mist of despondence gathering thick about you, and your persecutor standing by, turning you over now and then with his foot, to see if there is life enough left for a fresh attack.

FOREIGNmissions and missionaries. These have their place and their work. WhatIwant to see is a Home Mission and Home Missionaries, having for an object the extermination of the unhealthy andimmoralbread of New England. When matters have got to that pass that a perfectly sound, healthy person cannot decline eating this poison without being supposed to have an imperfect digestion, the climax of stupidity and ignorance is reached by its makers and defenders. "The heathen?" Great Cesar! whoareheathen, if the makers of this bread are not? I know of a factory where pie, whose principal ingredient is "lard," is the staple article of food placed before the operatives. And so imperfectly is it baked, that the lard is not really melted in the process. This forbreakfast! with muddy coffee and sour bread! This for supper, with sour bread. This "pie" taken to the factory for lunch or dinner also. Imagine a hundred or so of young women feeding on such poison as that. Future wives, possibly, of hard-working mechanics, expected to do the family washing, and bear and rear children, on the results of such an atrocious diet. It were enough to expectthem even to bear themselves, robbed of the vitality and spring of their youth by these fiendish providers. The man who sets fire to a house at night, and smothers all the inmates, is a saviour in comparison.Theydie at once.Theselinger weary years, fighting disease, fighting gloomy thoughts, as truly needing compassion and sympathy as any victim of delirium-tremens. Now take a girl, fresh from the old country, her cheeks red with the rich, pure blood manufactured from sweet-milk, potatoes, and oatmeal, and place her in one of these factories on this fare. It needs no seer to tell how long, even with such a stock of health as she brings, that she can stand this exterminating process; how long before those sound white teeth will begin to ache and blacken, and the bright clear eyes dim, and the cheek wear yellow instead of red roses, and the flesh become flabby, and the whole creature become demoralized. Now, I ask, Is nobody guilty for all this waste and wreck? Is it any more trouble to make sweet, wholesome bread, than to manufacture and multiply bad pies? As a matter of policy, wouldn't these operatives work better on a piece of beefsteak and a slice of sweet bread, than on pie and pickles? As a matter ofmorality, ought not such caterers to be held to strict account? Canvirtueeven flourish where the whole head is sick, and the whole heart faint; when morbidness takes the place of hope, and faith is merged in despair? What wonder that of dyspepsia should come the suicide's rope?

And as to the usual country boarding-house or hotel fare, for which the keepers of these places coolly pocket their fees, I propose some deduction be made by them for the doctor's bills consequent the ensuing winter; some reduction for the sour milk that the children have drunk, because the cans in which it was kept were not properly washed and aired, or the ice-house kept in good order; some reduction for the state of the stomach caused by taking refuge from bad bread in poor crackers; some reduction for generating such a disgust of meat, from the sight of it in its various stages of raw, burnt, and grease-soaked, that weeks or months even of wholesome food can scarcely tempt one trial of the article; some reduction for aching limbs produced by bunchy beds an entire "season;" some reduction for boarders performing the part of "waiters," through the season, in the total absence of bell-wires in the establishment; some reduction for inhaling the noxious gases of refuse kitchen matter, carelessly thrown around the house, or the nuisance of beating about the country in search of a washerwoman. Before the bill is finally settled, and the trunks packed, I would like to see these questions considered by the country landlord.

But you say, "It is all ignorance;they don't know any better." As if that was not just where the agony came in! As if an "ignorant" person had any right to take such a position, or any right to expect anything like the same pay as a competent, intelligent one receives.

Now I have made up my mind to "speak in meetin'". I don't care how many country editors jump on the fence and say, "Silence!" I wontbesilent. I intend to fight a crusade against this crying sin of New England, so long as I can make a pen wag; and anybody whose rustic feathers get ruffled in the process may take his own time to oil them down. I persist that I have never yet "boarded" anywhere in the country that I found wholesome bread there, or meat cooked other thanfried, unless it has been through line upon line and precept upon precept of my own; and that in these awful experiences of mine, Cape Ann bears off the palm. There! I am going to-morrow to the city to get some decent bread—the only place where it is to be found—and get some fish; for if you want fish, never go where they swim. Put that in your note-book too.

And now, in conclusion, I will add, that in a place where, through sour bread and sour theology, the element of cheerfulness is especially needed to keep the young folks from turning into premature vinegar cruets, it is a very great pity that at a picnic their only outlet for conviviality—dancing, by the youngsters—should be considered a sin. "It would break up the whole thing—it would never do!" was the reply to a philanthropic suggestion of the kind. Heavens! I wonder they don't fetter the legs of their lambs and calves; and insist upon all their birds singing, "Hark! from the tombs a dreadful sound!" Do you know what young people so brought up will do?—that is, if they don't commitsuicide first. They'll just go to the city, and break every one of the ten commandments smack through, the first day they get there. Alas! when will "good people" learn that the devil is never better pleased than when they try to make "religion" a gloomy thing.

Said a little child to her mother, "Shall you live as long as I do?"—"Perhaps not—but I cannot tell," was the reply; "I have lived a long while, you know."—"Well," said the little one, skipping about the room and singing, "I guess there'll be somebody to take care of me." Oh, ye who are "careful and troubled,"—groping like the mole in the earth, blind to the brightness overhead, look up! like this little trusting child, look up! When you have made provision for to-day, as intelligently as you know how, do not be anxiously forecasting the morrow.

DOG-FISH, cat-fish, cod-fish, cunner." These are the animals that my friends paddle round for long hours—happy whether they are rewarded with the sight of five or fifty. Meantime I sit on the rocks, watching the pretty picture they make as they go sailing into the sunset, and am content.Myfeet aredry; so are my skirts. We have only one thing in common: when they shout, "I have a bite!" I respond, Amen!—with this difference, that mine is from a mosquito instead of a fish. The ocean is nice to look at: freaky—therefore I think it must be ashe; sometimes dark and lowering, sometimes brightly sparkling; now smooth as deceit, anon lashing itself like a caged creature to get out of bounds. Don't you believe I enjoy it more than those damp people that are always vexing it with rod and line? As I said, they look well as a part of the picture. Those deluded women, now, with broad hats tied down with bright bits of ribbon—and didn't they calculate the picturesqueness of the same when they bought yards of it a thousand miles away? Certainly. And why do they ruin their best boots treading on rocks covered with treacherous seaweed? And why isthat scarlet shawl disposed just where it will be effective? Answer me that. Can it be that they are fishers of men instead of cod? Ah! "worms" are not the only "bait" in that boat. I wonder do men know how much more attractive they look in slouched hats and easy jackets? Kid gloves, shiny hat, and tight boots are nothing to it. A man looks manly then; and that, I take it, is the first requisite in a man. See how they dress fortheirwork, my sisters. Sleeves up to the elbow, not for the purpose of showing a round white arm either; trousers turned up at the heel; while you—! Wont the laundress rub the skin off her knuckles when she tries to get the fish-bait offyourruffled skirt, my dear? You can't be made to believe that those gentlemen would like you just as well in a dress suitable for "worms." But, all things being equal, I really think they would; or, if they didn't, their opinion would be a matter of small consequence.

I wish I could understand the difference between a brig, a sloop, a dory, a schooner, and a yacht. I have had them explained so many times at the seaside, but it has never yet lodged in my head a minute. I think the reason is, that before my expounders get half through telling, my eyes are so enchained by the gliding beauty of a boat's motion, that I have no ears for technicalities. That's it—and I'm not such a fool after all! I wish my belt were a little more to be depended on, for I'd like to drift over to the Isle of Shoals, or to Newburyport,or some of those places at which the sea-fog plays hide and seek so temptingly from these rocks. Of course I "can go by land;" but didyounever get possessed to do or to have what the Fates denied? Well, I'm human too. You may catch those wriggling fish if you fancy—I don't wonder they make such horrid mouths at you before they die—if only I could drift dreamily away into that golden sunset? "Gates of amethyst and pearl!" I'm glad my Bible has "Revelations" in it. I don't know any poet who comes better to my assistance than Revelations. Keren Happuch, and Obed, and Jael—and "them" I am apt to skip; also who "begat Shem;" but the grand old "Psalms" and Revelations, I tell you, Tennyson, or any other "Son," may in vain crack their harp-strings trying to rival. Then imagine that watery dilution of a "Tupper" after reading a chapter in "Proverbs"! Put this in your note-book—that about all the good things you clap your hands at were stolen from the Bible. Brush the dust from off yours now, and see if it is not so; and have the grace to own up, when you do see it.

My heart is torn trying to decide whether my allegiance finally be given to the mountains or the ocean. I can see with my mind's eye lovely Brattleboro' and its enchanting mountains, the mist rolling slowly off their sides at sunrise, crowning their tops with many-hued wreaths; or I can see one gorgeous cloud at sunset resting lightly on their summit, and gradually fading away before the growing lustre of the bright evening star. All these picturesare framed in my memory, and never a tint has faded out through the busy years. But this later love of mine—the ocean—whom I perforce must admire at a respectful distance, sinuous, cold, treacherous, glittering, repelling, yet fascinating me as does the serpent the bird, I know not how to resist. Only last night this ocean drew a mist-veil softly over its face, and by help of a huge black cloud above it, jaggedly notched in and out at the upper edge, cunningly wooed me, in this mountain shape, to believe that whatsoever form I liked, that formitcould assume to win me. Surely such devotion should have its reward.

DIDyou neverwishyou had it? Of course you have, a thousand times. You never would be miserable any more if it could only be so. You are sure of that. It may be a fine house, a fine store, a fine carriage. No matter what; the desire for it has taken the spice and flavor out of every blessing you possess. I used to play with a little girl once, who told me in confidence, and in pantalettes, "that she should never be happy till she had a realtruegold watch; and that she meant to be married, as soon as ever she could, to a rich man who would give her one." For myself, I had much rather at that time have had a bunch of flowers, and I didn't suppose she really meant what she said, as she stood there tying on her doll's bonnet. But she was in dead earnest, though Ididn'tknow it. Sure enough, she got her rich husband, and her gold watch; and was sick enough of both, as I have since found out, before the honeymoon was well over.

One day I heard a boy say to his younger brother, who was crying lustily, "Now, Tom, I know you don't want anything, but what do youthinkyou want?" That boy was a philosopher, and went to the root of the matter. It is not what we reallywant, but what wethinkwe want, that frets most of us. Perhaps you tell me that you suffer just as much as if your longing were a reasonable or a sensible one. That's true too; but if you only could snatchto-day'slegitimate happiness, instead of wondering if you could not get a great deal more, for that to-morrow which may never come to you, wouldn't it be wiser? The other day I went off into the woods, with a dear little girl, who is much more of a poetess than a philosopher. Not a patch of soft green moss, not the tiniest bud of a wild flower, or flitting butterfly, or bird, or tree-shadow on the smooth clear lake, escaped her bright, glad eyes. Thefirstflower she found enraptured her, and she climbed quite a steep rock with her mites of feet for the second, and so on till her tiny hands were full. Just then she found quite a bunch of bright pink blossoms; and I was so glad for her; when suddenly she burst into such a grieved, piteous cry, "Oh dear! oh dear! whatshallI do?I can't hold them all."

If we'd only think of that! That "we can't hold them all." That in order to grasp that which is the moment's wish, we must let something else drop that we prize. Something that we can never retrace our steps, in life's devious paths, to reclaim. It may be health, or character, or life itself, for that which is so perishable, so unsatisfying, so harmful, that we can never cease wondering how the "glamour" of it could have so dazzled our mental and moral vision. The little child I speak of, who clambered up the rock to secure thatoneflower, was happier in itspossession than with the myriads that she afterwards found lying at her very feet. She hadearnedthat one! She had encountered a fierce briar-bush; she had got her hands scratched in the conflict; she had tickled her little nose with a defiant twig; she had tangled her curls; she had scraped her little fat knee till it was red—andgot it! All herself, too! I couldn't elaborate a better moral, if I preached an hour. We don't value happiness in heaps. It is the one little sweet blossom, that comes unexpectedly in our way, that we love best after all. Isn't it so?

How cheap is advice! Advice is like a doctor's pills; how easily hegivesthem! how reluctantly he takes them whenhisturn comes! Meantime, it is well to keep one's eyes and ears open; but, after that, to decide for one's self. He who cannot do this is a human windmill, always beating the air—a weathercock, veering each minute to a new point. His life is a succession of experiments, all of which are predestined to be failures. He has no faith in himself, and people accept him at his own valuation.

WEseem to be in a transition state all round. Politics, religion, woman's rights, men's wrongs, all seething in the caldron together; and everybody's finger is being thrust into the boiling mess, and pulled scalded out of it—some howling with the experiment, others closing their pioneer teeth upon the pain, and bearing it for the good of the cause.This seems to me to be the situation. For one, I am quite willing to do humble duty by bringing fagots and kindling to keep the fire going, no matter who "hollers." Anything is better than letting it go out; at least so far as the woman question is one of the ingredients in the caldron. The men having the top round of the ladder at present, may sit there till we climb up and oust them, which wont be long; or rather, bless their jackets, till we climb up and oblige them to make room for us to sit down beside them, which, after all, is what we really want. I, for one, make no secret of liking the brethren, but I like them near—intellectually and socially. Not looking down at us from a dizzy height, careless how we stumble by the road-side, or cut our weary feet, or bruise our hearts, and stuffingtheir fingers in their ears, and then making believe they don't hear our cries; but helping us along generously after them, like good fellows, with a word of cheer, and a full hearty belief in our good intentions and desire to doallour duty. Isn't that reasonable? To be sure it is; and the only reason they don't always say so is, because, with their natural impatience, they never can sit still long enough to hear us through, when we talk common-sense. I believe the last question "up" was woman's right to wait upon herself to concerts, lectures, theatres, and the like, when she had no male escort. Now that is a subject that has been pretty well ploughed over in my mind for years. I have known so many bright, intelligent women obliged to stay at home when they needed these relaxations from care and toil and bother, because custom did not permit their attendance, unless they could lasso a coat and hat to bear them company. It has seemed to me cruel in the extreme, that this law should not be changed. As I understand it, in Paris a respectable woman can do this, without discomfort or molestation, with afemaleattendant; and though it may be the deathblow to my reputation to own that I never saw Paris, it is true, and I cannot therefore judge how much more safe a woman would be in waiting upon herself home in Paris, at the hour when public amusements are generally over, than in New York. This, I presume, is the hitch in the question. If so, women must wait till the majority of men are more chivalric and spiritual, and that wont be to-day, norto-morrow. Now, a woman, by taking a big basket in her hand, and leaving her hoop at home, and pinning an old shawl over her head, and tying a calico apron round her waist, may walk unmolested. I know, because I have tried it when I felt like having a "prowl" all alone, and a good "think," without any puppy saying, at every step, "A pleasant evening, Miss." But this costume isn't exactly festive for the concert or lecture room. However, with other ingredients, this topic may be tossed into the caldron above mentioned, and perhaps, after much boiling, may deposit some substantial sediment of benefit to women. I see so many men nowadays who ought to be women, that I am positively ashamed of usurping the place of one. I am quite willing to abdicate, whenever any one can be found to take a woman's place; but the joke begins here, that the silliest man who ever lived has always known enough, when he says his prayers, to thank God that he wasn't born a woman. So you see how hopeless the case is.

This seems to me to be the situation. For one, I am quite willing to do humble duty by bringing fagots and kindling to keep the fire going, no matter who "hollers." Anything is better than letting it go out; at least so far as the woman question is one of the ingredients in the caldron. The men having the top round of the ladder at present, may sit there till we climb up and oust them, which wont be long; or rather, bless their jackets, till we climb up and oblige them to make room for us to sit down beside them, which, after all, is what we really want. I, for one, make no secret of liking the brethren, but I like them near—intellectually and socially. Not looking down at us from a dizzy height, careless how we stumble by the road-side, or cut our weary feet, or bruise our hearts, and stuffingtheir fingers in their ears, and then making believe they don't hear our cries; but helping us along generously after them, like good fellows, with a word of cheer, and a full hearty belief in our good intentions and desire to doallour duty. Isn't that reasonable? To be sure it is; and the only reason they don't always say so is, because, with their natural impatience, they never can sit still long enough to hear us through, when we talk common-sense. I believe the last question "up" was woman's right to wait upon herself to concerts, lectures, theatres, and the like, when she had no male escort. Now that is a subject that has been pretty well ploughed over in my mind for years. I have known so many bright, intelligent women obliged to stay at home when they needed these relaxations from care and toil and bother, because custom did not permit their attendance, unless they could lasso a coat and hat to bear them company. It has seemed to me cruel in the extreme, that this law should not be changed. As I understand it, in Paris a respectable woman can do this, without discomfort or molestation, with afemaleattendant; and though it may be the deathblow to my reputation to own that I never saw Paris, it is true, and I cannot therefore judge how much more safe a woman would be in waiting upon herself home in Paris, at the hour when public amusements are generally over, than in New York. This, I presume, is the hitch in the question. If so, women must wait till the majority of men are more chivalric and spiritual, and that wont be to-day, norto-morrow. Now, a woman, by taking a big basket in her hand, and leaving her hoop at home, and pinning an old shawl over her head, and tying a calico apron round her waist, may walk unmolested. I know, because I have tried it when I felt like having a "prowl" all alone, and a good "think," without any puppy saying, at every step, "A pleasant evening, Miss." But this costume isn't exactly festive for the concert or lecture room. However, with other ingredients, this topic may be tossed into the caldron above mentioned, and perhaps, after much boiling, may deposit some substantial sediment of benefit to women. I see so many men nowadays who ought to be women, that I am positively ashamed of usurping the place of one. I am quite willing to abdicate, whenever any one can be found to take a woman's place; but the joke begins here, that the silliest man who ever lived has always known enough, when he says his prayers, to thank God that he wasn't born a woman. So you see how hopeless the case is.

THERE'SJohn, reading his newspapers. You might drive nails into his temples, and he wouldn't know it. Look at him! Legs up. Head thrown back. The inevitable and omnipresent pipe in his mouth; the very picture of absorbed enjoyment. Three papers he has there. He will read every one, criss-cross, cornerwise, upside down, and inside out, till he has gleaned every particle of news. One good hour he has been at it. Now if I say to him, "John, what is the news this morning?" that man will reply, "Oh, none—nothing in particular; there they are; take 'em, if you would like."Now nobody in his senses believes that John has been employed one good hour reading "nothing." He is only too lazy to tell what he has read; that's the amount of it. Now I had much rather read those papers than mend this coat of his. It is really too bad in John: he might have given me something to think about, while I was doing it. An idea! Suppose I try this lazy system onhim! Now if there's anything men like, when their wives come home with a budget of news, it is to have them sit down and entertain them with it. Not about troubles of servants and broken crockery, ofcourse; but spicy little bits of gossip; about their friend Jones' wife, and what the witty Mrs. —— said on such an occasion, and how the pretty and saucy Miss said ifshewere Smith's wife she would ——. How they like to hear all about it! and how they like to question them as to how women think and feel on such and such subjects, which information they can only obtain by their wives turning state's-evidence! Of course they do; and when a bright little woman has chattered to them an hour or more, and told them more funny and amusing things than you could count, and they have laughed and enjoyed it, what return do they make? Why they just stretch their length on the sofa and go to sleep. Now I for one have borne this state of things long enough! It is all owing to that vile lethargic tobacco. Before long women will be expected to cut up their food and feed them; they will be too lazy even to eat. Now I'll tell you what I mean to do. I am going to stop giving out, and cut off supplies, till I get something back. I'll just try the monosyllabic system on John. He will say to-night, "Well, Mary, where have you been to-day? and what have you seen?" And I'll answer, bending over my work, "Oh, I went round a little, and I didn't see anything in particular." Then John will take a scrutinizing look at me, and ask if I have the headache; and I shall answer sweetly, "No, dear." Then John will try again: "Well, Mary, did you go shopping?"—"I? no—oh, no, dear. I didn't go shopping today." Another look at me, and another period ofreflection. "Have you heard any bad news, Mary?"—"No, John, I hope not."—"Well—what the mischief makes you so silent? You generally have so much to tell me, and you sometimes get off a very bright thing, if you did but know it.Somethingis the matter with you; what is it?" and John will come round and peep into my face. "Oh! pshaw—Iknow; you are paying me off for not talking," he will say, half-vexed, half-repentant.

Now nobody in his senses believes that John has been employed one good hour reading "nothing." He is only too lazy to tell what he has read; that's the amount of it. Now I had much rather read those papers than mend this coat of his. It is really too bad in John: he might have given me something to think about, while I was doing it. An idea! Suppose I try this lazy system onhim! Now if there's anything men like, when their wives come home with a budget of news, it is to have them sit down and entertain them with it. Not about troubles of servants and broken crockery, ofcourse; but spicy little bits of gossip; about their friend Jones' wife, and what the witty Mrs. —— said on such an occasion, and how the pretty and saucy Miss said ifshewere Smith's wife she would ——. How they like to hear all about it! and how they like to question them as to how women think and feel on such and such subjects, which information they can only obtain by their wives turning state's-evidence! Of course they do; and when a bright little woman has chattered to them an hour or more, and told them more funny and amusing things than you could count, and they have laughed and enjoyed it, what return do they make? Why they just stretch their length on the sofa and go to sleep. Now I for one have borne this state of things long enough! It is all owing to that vile lethargic tobacco. Before long women will be expected to cut up their food and feed them; they will be too lazy even to eat. Now I'll tell you what I mean to do. I am going to stop giving out, and cut off supplies, till I get something back. I'll just try the monosyllabic system on John. He will say to-night, "Well, Mary, where have you been to-day? and what have you seen?" And I'll answer, bending over my work, "Oh, I went round a little, and I didn't see anything in particular." Then John will take a scrutinizing look at me, and ask if I have the headache; and I shall answer sweetly, "No, dear." Then John will try again: "Well, Mary, did you go shopping?"—"I? no—oh, no, dear. I didn't go shopping today." Another look at me, and another period ofreflection. "Have you heard any bad news, Mary?"—"No, John, I hope not."—"Well—what the mischief makes you so silent? You generally have so much to tell me, and you sometimes get off a very bright thing, if you did but know it.Somethingis the matter with you; what is it?" and John will come round and peep into my face. "Oh! pshaw—Iknow; you are paying me off for not talking," he will say, half-vexed, half-repentant.

Then I shall get up on a chair, in the middle of the room, and preach after this course: "Yes, John, that's just it. You haven't an idea how stupid you've grown. I hate that lethargic tobacco! It is going to revolutionize society; women are squirrel-like creatures and can't stand it. No wonder all these spicy trials fill the papers. You needn't laugh. It takestwoto make home bright. Don't you suppose that a woman is as much perplexed and worried and sick of the practical, at the end of the day, as a man can be? Do you suppose she always feels like giving out the last remnant of her vitality to amuse a statue? she wants a response; and she would have it, too, if a man's soul and body were not so tobacco-steeped, that every sense and feeling is merged in the one drowsy desire to let the world and everything in it, including its wives, go to the dogs.And they are going, John!Now, lastly and finally, I tell you and all other Johns who may read this, that it is the worst possible policy on your part, as you would see if you ever read the papers with an eye to your own firesides, which you don't. You canwonder how Smith's wife, or how Jones' wife, could ever have done thus and so; but it never enters your slow heads to ask, if the homes of these wives were silent and cheerless, and if their husbands took all their attempts to enliven them as matters of course, and gave no echo back; and that being the case, whether the bright sunbeams outside, might not glitter too temptingly for their weariness." And here I shall jump down from the chair, and, looking at John, shall see—that he isfast asleep!

Sometimes I sit and laugh, all by myself, over the newspapers and magazines in which the "Woman Question" is aired according to the differing views of editors and writers. For instance, one gentleman thinks that the reason the men take a nap on the sofa evenings at home, or else leave it to go to naughty places, is because there are no Madame De Staels in our midst to make home attractive. He was probably a bachelor, or he would understand that when a man who has been perplexed and fretted all day, finally reaches home, the last object he wishes to encounter is a wide-awake woman of the Madame De Stael pattern, propounding her theories on politics, theology, and literature. The veriest idiot who should entertain him by the hour with tragic accounts of broken teacups, and saucepans, would be a blessing compared to her; not that he would like that either; not that he would know himself exactly what hewouldlike in such a case, except that it should be something diametricallyopposite to that, which, years ago he got on his knees to solicit.

Another writer asserts that women's brains are too highly cultivated at the present day; and that they have lost their interest in the increase of the census; and that their husbands, not sharing their apathy, hence the disastrous result. I might suggest in answer that this apathy may have its foundation in the idea so fast gaining ground,—thanks to club-life, and that which answers to it in a less fashionable strata of society,—that it is an indignity to expect fathers of families to be at home, save occasionally to sleep, or eat, or to change their apparel; and that, under such circumstances, women naturally prefer to be the mother of four children, or none, than to engineer seventeen or twenty through the perils of childhood and youth without assistance, co-operation, or sympathy.

Another writer thinks that women don't "smile" enough when their husbands come into the house; and that many a man misses having his shirt, or drawers, taken from the bureau and laid on a chair all ready to jump into, at some particular day, or hour, as he was accustomed, when he lived with some pattern sister or immaculate aunt at home. This preys on his manly intellect, and makes life the curse it is to him.

Another asserts that many women have some female friend who is very objectionable to the husband, in exerting a pugilistic effect on her mind, and that he flees his house in consequence of this unholyinfluence; not that this very husband wouldn't bristle all over at the idea of his wife court-martialling a bachelor, or Benedict friend, for the same reason; but then it makes a difference, you know, a man not being a woman.

Another writer asserts that nobody yet knows what woman is capable of doing. I have only to reply that the same assertion cannot be made with regard to men, as the dwellers in great cities, at least, know that the majority of them are capable of doing anything, that the devil and opportunity favor.

It has been a practice for years to father every stupid joke that travels the newspaper-round on "Paddy"—poor "Paddy." In the same way, it seems to me that for every married man now, who proves untrue to his better nature,his wifeis to be held responsible. It is the old cowardly excuse that the first man alive set going, and which has been travelling round this weary world ever since. "The woman thou gavest to be with me"—shedid thus and so; and therefore all the Adams from that time down, have whimpered, torn their hair, and rushed forth to the long-coveted perdition, over the bridge of this cowardly excuse.

THISis one of my character tests,—to pronounce none of my fellow-creatureswiseuntil they have gone through the crucible of "going abroad." So many who started with a fair average of common-sense have returned from their European tours minus this article, that I need not apologize for my views on this subject. No one can be more reverent in their admiration of all that the slow, busy ages have heaped together in the Old World of the beautiful, and scientific, and curious, and rare. But having looked at and enjoyed them,—having breathed the enervating air of luxury the appointed time,—I think I should gasp again for a strong, crisp breath of thatNewWorld, which is my grand birthright. You may scare up hideous abuses of to-day, and point to convulsions of all sorts that are seemingly upheaving us, root and branch. I care not. The greatest of all crimes, in my eyes, is stagnation. We aremoving, thank God! There may be rough roads, and ruts, and stones, and rocks in the way, and some of us may be crushed, and maimed, and jolted off, and scarcely know our latitude and longitude for the fogs, and false guides, and dark clouds, and fierce storms of debate. But stillwemove! We are thinking of something beside a new way of fricasseeing frogs, or "rectifying frontiers." We are neither children or slaves. More! we have afuturebefore us—grander to those who will see it than has any nation on the face of the earth. For one, I glory in it all. And when I see an American, male or female, returning to their native land, sighing for the nice little dishes one gets in Paris, dilating on its superior costuming, prating forever of "The Tuileries," and such like, and finding America "so in the rough," I want to place my arms a-kimbo, my nose within an inch of his, and my eyes focussed—anywhere—so that it will make him feel uncomfortable, and address him thus: My beloved Idiot—Did you, while abroad, ever compare the condition of the "common people," if I may be allowed to allude in your presence to so vulgar and disgusting a theme—did you ever compare the condition of the common people there with those of the same class in your own country? Did you see, in Italy, or France, or England, any such homes for the working-classes as are to be seen, for instance, in New England? Those thrifty kitchens, where neatness proclaims itself from the symmetrical wood-pile in the "shed" to the last shining pewter-plate and spoon on the well-polished dresser? Where even the old dog wipes his paws on the mat before stepping on the snowy floor; where every child can read and write, and "do chores" instead of begging its bread one half the day and lying in the sun the rest. Where the women churn, andbake, and brew, and sew, and have babies, and read books, aye, andwritethem too. My beloved Idiot, did you ever think of allthis? Did you ever think, also, of the difference it would make in your views of "lifeabroad," if instead of going there with a pocket full of money tospend, you went there toearnit?

Aha! wouldn't your chances be splendid inthatcase?

But, Heaven bless us! what is the use of showing a mole the sun? I wish it here distinctly understood that I pause at this period of my discourse, that every discontented American, so unworthy of his glorious birthright, may get his passport, pack his trunk, and go back to his peppered frogs, and toasted horse-steak, and diseased geese livers, and liveried flunkeys, and be ingloriously content, while he makes room here for his betters.

DIDyou ever stop short in the midst of the grind, and toil, and whirl of life, at the thought. After all, what will this never ceasing fret of body and soul amount to? Did you ever then begin to reckon upon your fingers the unfulfilled promises of life within your knowledge, as if you had but just heard of them? First, there is your acquaintance, Mr. ——, who, since he came to years of maturity, has had but this one object: to secure a pecuniary independence for himself and his children. At fifty he has achieved it; and now he has nothing to do but to enjoy himself. Buthow? That is the question which racks his brain day and night. He has his library, to be sure; that was part of the furnishing of his house; but, alas! he has no taste for reading. He has fine pictures upon his walls; but he has no eye for their beauty. He has daughters; but they are devoured with the love of finery and fashion. He has sons; but they are emulating each other in spending money, criminally and foolishly; and now he stands aghast at the goal, to reach which he has sacrificed the better part of himself and them; his sun is setting, and hehas only the ashes of the Dead Sea Apple of Victory between his fingers.

Then there is Mrs. ——, who has staked all on her beautiful young daughter. She was educated at home, for fear of the contamination of associates; she was never from under the watchful eye of her parents, lest her manners should receive a flaw. She was drilled to speak, step, look, smile, eat, and drink, according to prescribed rules. She must perfect herself in music, in the languages, in drawing. Her eyes, hands, teeth, nails, must undergo a careful supervision each day, lest any attraction should be prematurely shorn of its glory. At last she dawns into beautiful womanhood. The evening is fixed for her triumphant entrance into society. Dress-makers, hair-dressers, jewellers, and florists are called into requisition. The important toilette is finished; when suddenly the house is thrown into consternation by her violent indisposition; and before morning the young girl sleeps in her shroud.

The anguished woman groans out, "Ye have taken away my idol, and what have I left?" and she feels that life for her has nothing left but a dreary waiting for its close.

Then there are the great army of parents, whose heart-strings are wrung with pity at the little eyes which may never see, the little ears which may never hear, the little feet which may never skip or run, and the mute tongues which may never syllable the sweet words, "Father!" "Mother!" Thenthere are sons whose god is the wine-cup; and living daughters whose own mothers had rather look upon their dead faces. These heart-wrenchings and disappointments, are they not legion? And yet, like children, whose toys, one after another, are broken, or taken from them, we still reach out our hands for the gilded bubble of hope, all the same as if it had never burst between our fingers. When our dearly-loved children are taken from us, our torn heart-strings hasten to twine abouttheirchildren; forgetting thelittlefeet that have also trod "the dark valley." Surely, by this love-yearning, which may never die in us, shall we find in another world than this, its uninterrupted and perfect fruition.

ITis a miserable thing to be born a philanthropist. Jack Simpkins can tell you that. He thinks that one ought not to be merry, while the world is so much out of joint. When his sister Betty tells him that cheerfulness conduces to longevity, and that it is useless to make one's self miserable about inevitables, Jack lifts his eyebrows and accuses her of triviality and want of feeling. Not long since this pair went into a place which shall be nameless, for some refreshment, after an evening's public entertainment. While they were waiting to be served, Jack's eye fell on the clerk at the desk, who, pen behind his ear, was taking money and making change. "Betty," said Jack, "look at that poor devil; week in and week out, there he stands, seeing other people eat and counting money. Now, I'll be sworn he has never a holiday, and not even Sunday. Do you suppose he has, Betty?"—"I am sure I don't know," Betty replied, looking over a tempting bill of fare, with the accompaniment of an extended forefinger; "he is aman, isn't he? and that implies every kind of liberty. Were he a woman, and restricted to the choice of one or twooccupations, and not half paid at that, I might possibly make myself unhappy about it; as it is, let us have some oysters, and be jolly."—"But," persisted Jack, "just think of his confined position, and—"—"But I don'twantto think about it," said Betty; "this is a free country; and if he don't like his place, can't he leave it? Come, Jack, eat your oysters." To do Jack justice, hedideat with a will; for such a wide-spread benevolence as his is never supported on an empty stomach.

The oysters eaten, Betty congratulated herself that Jack felt more cheerful. Not a bit of it. While she stood, like a hen on one leg, waiting for him to "settle" at the clerk's desk, he remarked to the latter, in a melancholy, commiserating tone, "Your situation here must be a very tiresome and confining one; don't you find it so?"—"Not at all," replied the clerk, blandly; "quite the contrary."—"Do you ever have a holiday; do you have Sundays?" asked Jack.—"Always when I wish," replied the clerk; "but I don't care to be away much. I see the best people in the city here, and I have a great deal of good conversation." Betty smiled inwardly. It was not in human nature—certainly not in female human nature—to refrain from crowing a little over what she considered Jack's Quixotic philanthropy; and when she laughed at his waste of pity, in this case, that infatuated man replied, "Is it possible you can make merry over it, Betty? Why, tomymind, his not 'caringfor holidays' was the mostmelancholy feature of the whole thing; as showing how perfectly benumbed he must be, by such heartless exaction on the part of his employer."—"But you don't know anything about his employer," said Betty; "and it is evident that hecouldgo out, any day he wished." Jack shrugged his shoulders, and replied, "Ah, yes—I know what that 'could' means, when a man's nature is yielding; ah—yes," and he gave another deep sigh. "Well," said Betty, getting a little irritated, "Idon't know whatyoumay think, but if my fellow-creatures are perfectly satisfied with their lot in life, I for one am not going to try to make them miserable about it." Whereupon Jack preached her a long lecture on the sin of selfishness, which quite stopped the process of oyster digestion, and sent her to bed to enjoy the horrors of a well-earned nightmare.

Once, when Betty and Jack were travelling, they stopped at a fine hotel. Everything was as perfect as skill and system could make it. Jack paid the bill, and Betty launched out in praise of the establishment. "Yes," said Jack, his face lengthening; "but I am afraid that landlord feeds his guests much better than he can afford. I don't think he charged as much as he ought in that bill of ours. I really feel as if he had cheated himself." Now, Betty's experience in this regard was entirely antagonistic to Jack's, so she replied, with an ironical and not very amiable expression, "that if the gift of a ten-dollar bill to the landlord would lighten her brother's conscience,she would be willing to engage that the former would by no means take offence at it."

Betty says that selfishness is notherbesetting sin any more than it is Jack's; and, if you doubt it, you can ask him to transfer his glass of ale to you when he cannot get another, or you can read his daily paper before he does in the morning, and see what will come of it. She thinks it is not so much philanthropy in Jack, as that the off-side of a question has such an unconquerable attraction for him; in other words, that argument is his very breath; and, therefore, without vexing her spirit any more because he never will agree with her, she has instead made up her mind, that what side soever of a question a person takes when conversing with Jack, it is morally certain that no power in this world or the other will ever preventhimfrom going to the opposite.

IFthere is one piece of advice more bandied about by irresolution, imbecility, and moral cowardice than this, I should be glad to know it. AsItake it, the Lord's time is the first chance you get. At any rate, those who act on this principle have, as a general thing, done the Lord more service than they who have folded their hands and sat down upon the stool of conservatism to "bide His time," as they call it. All the great reformers who have blessed mankind have had pioneers, who looked upon "the Lord" as a helper, not a hindrance. The stumbling-blocks which for centuries had impeded progress they vigorously set about clearing away, without stopping to cross themselves for doing that which indolent or timid bystanders excused themselves from, as an irreverence.This stealing of heaven's livery to serve the devil in, is of all thefts the most disgusting. This "fearing to offend a weaker brother" is a plea which self-interest should know by this time is getting to be transparent. If the weaker brother can't stand on his own vacillating legs, the rest of the world can't afford to spend their whole existence in propping him.Let him lie down till he can; or till the Juggernaut wheels of progress roll sufficiently near toforcehim to spring to his feet. I don't believe in weak brothers. They had better get out of the ranks and join the sisters. It may be the choice between the frying-pan and the fire; for, after all, the silliest woman who ever cried for a ribbon knows enough to dislike the male creature who is neither fish, flesh, nor fowl. But the most trying time, when the platitude we are considering is thrust into the face by moral parrots, is when they would not lift a finger to ease the burden of a fellow-creature who is staggering and fainting before their very eyes; or when some heart-wrench is being agonized through, and your stoical consoler, who is himself impervious to every suffering save that which is purely physical, iterates in your sensitive ear, a string of such time-worn phrases, because he lacks heart to say, Poor soul—no wonder you writhe; how I wish I could comfort you! "The Lord"—and I say it not irreverently—is the first compassionate human arm which is thrown round the quivering sufferer when he needs it most. "The Lord" is the first outstretched human hand which grasps the moral suicide as the last strand of hope is parting. "The Lord" is the pitying human heart which draws to itself the poor outcast, and without unrolling his transgressions to the face of the broad day, stands firmly by his side, till he has won the self-respect to stand alone.

This stealing of heaven's livery to serve the devil in, is of all thefts the most disgusting. This "fearing to offend a weaker brother" is a plea which self-interest should know by this time is getting to be transparent. If the weaker brother can't stand on his own vacillating legs, the rest of the world can't afford to spend their whole existence in propping him.Let him lie down till he can; or till the Juggernaut wheels of progress roll sufficiently near toforcehim to spring to his feet. I don't believe in weak brothers. They had better get out of the ranks and join the sisters. It may be the choice between the frying-pan and the fire; for, after all, the silliest woman who ever cried for a ribbon knows enough to dislike the male creature who is neither fish, flesh, nor fowl. But the most trying time, when the platitude we are considering is thrust into the face by moral parrots, is when they would not lift a finger to ease the burden of a fellow-creature who is staggering and fainting before their very eyes; or when some heart-wrench is being agonized through, and your stoical consoler, who is himself impervious to every suffering save that which is purely physical, iterates in your sensitive ear, a string of such time-worn phrases, because he lacks heart to say, Poor soul—no wonder you writhe; how I wish I could comfort you! "The Lord"—and I say it not irreverently—is the first compassionate human arm which is thrown round the quivering sufferer when he needs it most. "The Lord" is the first outstretched human hand which grasps the moral suicide as the last strand of hope is parting. "The Lord" is the pitying human heart which draws to itself the poor outcast, and without unrolling his transgressions to the face of the broad day, stands firmly by his side, till he has won the self-respect to stand alone.

"Talkout!" exclaimed a little puzzled child to a foolish adult who was speaking to it in a way which it could not possibly comprehend. Talkout! say I, and call things by their right names. Now "the Lord," to my way of thinking, don't murder little babies. If a careless mother locks one up, with a cotton pinafore and a blazing fire, and goes away, I should not say over its coffin that it died by a visitation of Divine Providence. Nor when a drunken husband sends a wooden chair, and a tea-kettle, and a small table through his wife's skull, should I say that "the Lord" had seen fit in his inscrutable will to remove Mrs. Smith from this sublunary sphere. Still—I may be hypercritical—and after all, of course, I defer to your better theological judgment—but I will saythismuch, thatmy"Lord" don't do one half the things He is charged with, every day in the year.

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