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jfr* m **g JlctosjKtper: Bctiotctr to 2literaturc, tftr &rts, Science, ajaricuituce, JttccnauUss, Attention, JForetjjw atttr Domestic KnteUiflcucc, Rumour, tcc. BY C. R. HANLEITER. POETRY. “ Much yet remains unsung .” HOBBLEDEHOY. BY CHAKI.ES DICKENS, ESQ. “Nota man, nor a boy, but a hobbledehoy.” OLD SONS. Oh! there’s a time, a happy time, When a boy's just half a man; When ladies may kiss him without a crime, And flirt wiih him like a fqn : When mamma with her daughters will leave him alone, If lie will only seem to fear them; While, were he a man, or a little more grown, They would never let him come near them. These, Lilly ! these were the days when you Were my boyhood’s earliest flame— When I thought it an honor to tie your shoe, And trembled to hear your name; When I scarcely ventured to take a kiss, Though your lips seem half to invite me; But, Lilly ! I soon got over this, When I kissed—and they did not bite me. Oh! these were gladsome and fairy times; And our hearts were them in the spring, When I passed my time in writing you rhymes, And my days in hearingyou sing. And don’t you remember your mother's dismay. When Hhe found in my drawer a sonnet, And the beautiful verses I wrote one day, On the ribbon that hung from your bonnet? And*theseat we made by the fountain’s gush, Where your task you went to say, And how I lay under the holly bush Till your governess went away ; And how, when too long at your task you sat, Or whenever- a kiss I wanted, I’d bark like a dog, or mew like a cat, Till she deemed that the place was haunted? And do you not, love, remember the days When I dressed you for the play ; When I pinned your ‘kerchief, nnd laced your stays In the neatest and tidiest way ? And do you forget the kiss you gave, When I tore my hand with a pin, And how you wished that men would shave The beard from their horrible chin ? And do you remember the garden wall 1 climb’d up every night; And the racket we made in the servant’s hall, When the wind had blown out the light— When Sally got up in her petticoat, And John in his robe de kbit, And I silenc’d her with a guinea note, And toss’d him into the street ? And don’t you remember the bite I got from the gardener’s dog, When John let her out from her kennel for spite, And she seized me in crossing the bog ? * And how you wept when you saw my blood, And numbered me with Love’s matyrs— And how you helped me out of the mud, By tying together your garters ? But, Lilly! now I am grown a man, And those days are all gone by, And Fortune may give you the best she can, Arid the brightest destiny j But I will give every hope and joy That my spirit may taste again, That 1 once more were that gladsome boy, And that you were ns young as then. ©EO@IIM.aiL TALE. For the “ Southern Miscellany.” UNCLE ROGER. 1 had seen but six years, and four of those had been passed at a boarding school near Richmond. How I came there I neither knew or inquired, happy in finding myself surrounded by affection and care. One morning as I was quietly conning my lesson, Mrs. Hopkins, the wife of our teacher, hastily entered the school room. As usual, at the sight of her, my heart beat quick with joy ; for kind as she was to eve ry one—l was her special pet. But she—l can see her this moment, with her pale face and tearful eyes—ap proaching hei husband said in a low voice, “ My dear, little Arthur is to leave us in an hour; his relations have sent for him.” On hearing these words, I raised my head, and clinching my little hands, exclaimed, “ I had rather stay here, I won't go a way.” 44 Dear little angel!’’ said Mrs. Hopkins, “ how affectionate he is! Oh, you must he a man Arthur, and do as your friends desire come, your clothes are all packed, and you are to go with your friend Mary.” The name of Mary appeased me a little, it was the first word my lips had learned to utter, and to this day I never hear it without recalling her constant and devoted affection. My earliest recollections are of her. It was therefore without reluctance that I quitted my seat, and ran to the parlor in search of Mary—Mary Leslie—forthe world ought to be informed of her name. “My dear little Arthur,” said she, in a sweet but trembling voice, 44 You are going to leavo Mr. and Mrs. Hopkins —so kiss them—thank them for all their kindness, and ask their pardon for the trouble you have given them.” • “ He has been a good boy on the whole,” said Mrs. Hopkins, kindly, “ very obedient and attentive to his lessons —though rather too passionate—is it not so ?” said she, smil ing on me. I hung down my head, for even babies have a conscience. “Hois a darling,” exclaim ed Mrs. Hopkins; “oh ! may Iris guardians prove kind and judicious—but God’s will be done f Good bye Arthur—come and kiss me.” Weeping bitterly, I threw myself into her arms; alas! this was my first grief. My countenance became inflamed—my nerves disordered, and I loudly reproached the unfeeling people who could thus tear me from the tranquil joys of my dear school, the lessons of Mr. Hopkins and the gentle caresses of his wife. Both of them min gled their tears with mine, and Mary wept in company with us. My grief was so real, so frank and communicative, that few hearts could have refused it sympathy. Checking my tears at length, and frown ing deeply to prevent their return, I said in a sorrowful voice, “ Now let me say good-bye to the boys and Bogus.” Bogus was an old black dog, who, in his youth, had been a “ mighty hunter,” and was even now the terror of many a dog and man, but whom the scholars beat, caressed and dragged by the ears, without his ever taking offence—the brave, the noble animaj! I ran to the school room, and hugged a bout fifty boys, tben creeping into the ken nel with Bogus, and kneeling between his formidable paws. I communed with him much after this fashion, “Good bye, Bogus ! the wicked people in Richmond are going to take me away from good Mr. Hopkins and pretty Mrs. Hopkins, and you with your great brown eyes ! ah! Bogus! perhaps you will never see poor little Arthur again, but I shall ndt forget you, and when I write to Papa and Mama Hopkins, I will always send my love to you. Kiss me Bogus.” And as if he had comprehended the ad dress, he rubbed his great head caressingly on my shoulder, and beat rapidly on the ground with his tail. At length I gained courage to tear myself from him, and a quarter of an hour after wards was seated in the stage by the side of Mary, who said, on remarking my grief, “ Poor child, you are vqry unhappy now, but it will not last forever.” “It will not last forever'’’ Tliis was dear Mary’s favorite expression. An orphan— poor and friendless, yet with the remem brance of better days, and too well educated to find pleasure in the society to which fate had consigned her, she seemed to have adopted this motto as a touching expression of her resignation and confidence in heaven. The next day I awoke in her neat but humble apartment in Richmond. It was scarcely six o’clock when I opened my eyes, for I had been accustomed to early rising ; but Mary was already busy at her embroider ing frame. “ What, at work so soon, mama Mary 1” said I. “ Yes, my love, I cannot afford to be idle. But come, get up to breakfast, and then we will prepare for a visit to your Uncle.” “ My Uncle ? have I an Uncle 1” “Yes, and one who will be very kind to you. You must love him, Arthur.” “ I shall not love him so well as I do Mr. and Mrs. Hopkins, and you.” “ Oh, you will love him better than any of us, when you know him.” I remember every event of that day as well as if they had occurred yesterday— perhaps better. Mary dressed me in little white cossack pants, with a bluejacket and black leather girdle ; over my brown curls she placed a cap with a feather at the side, of which I was as proud as a peacock. I had also new shoes, and a very nice collar. “ You look like a little man,” said Mary, kissing me with all her heart; “ now we will go to see your Uncle.” “I had rather go to see Bogus,” said I ; but Mary affected not to hear me, she tied on her bonnet, took me by the hand, and we set out together. On the way she gave me a world of in structions, to which I fear I was sadly inat tentive, being at the time more agreeably employed in discussing a stick of candy. “ Now remember, Arthur, and behave ve ry well at your Uncle’s,” said Mary anxious ly- “ Candy is made of sugar, is it not, Ma ry ?” said I. “Yes, it is made of sugar—he isgoingto tell you a great many things—and I hope you will be very attentive—very—” “Well, after all, I like Mrs. Hopkins’ gin gerbread almost as much.” “Oh dear,” said Mary,” here 1 have been talking to the child this half hour, and he does not know a word that I have said to him—and now, here we are at his Uncle’s. God bless him, it must be a hard heart in deed that could refuse to love such a child, and whatever happens, while I live, he has always a friend in me.” She now rung at the door of one of the principal hotels, and we were quickly usher ed into a handsome apartment where we waited a few moments while a servant car ried in our names. “ Are you afraid, dear 1” said Mary, in a tone of apprehensive inquiry. “No, but I am hungry.” Mary smiled and a moment after we were introduced into the next room. There I beheld in an apartmentluxuriously furnished, several gentlemen seated at break fast, and one among them, remarkable for his powerful frame and harsh countenance, looked earnestly at me with what I then considered a frightful grimace. However, thanks to the good instruc tions of Mrs. Hopkins, 1 instantly, witho I MADISON, MORGAN COUNTY, GEORGIA, SATURDAY MORNING, JULY 30, 1842. prompting, doffed my cap, saying in a re solute tone, “I wish you good morning, gentlemen.” “Was it you, Mary, who put that into his head,” said the harsh looking man. “ No, General, I only told the child that he was coming to see his uncle; you desir ed me to be mute, and I obeyed you.” “ That was right, and now, Arthur, come hither, I am your uncle, Roger.” “ Are you, sir ?” “ Gentlemen, this is my poor brother’s son ; let me introduce him to you.” At these words, the gentlemen, who were all stern looking men, took possession of me, and I was passed from hand to hand much after the manner of that attractive game called “hunt the shipper,” till at length having caressed me sufficiently, they set me at liberty. “ Now tell me, boy, are you glad that I am your uncle 1” “Ifyou give me some cake and a great dog, I shall be glad of it.” “ Shall you love me, you rogue ?” “ I don’t know, sir, perhaps I shall.” “ Then you do not love me yet 1” “ Oh, no ! but I love Mary, and Mr. and Mrs. Hopkins, and the boys—and Bogus.” “ Who is Bogus 1” “ He is a dog, sir.” The whole company at thi3 burst into a laughter, and I retreated behind Mary, an grily shaking my tiny fist at the General, who laughed louder than any one else. “Excuse him, General,” said Mary, “be is rather unpolished at present, but he will improve.” “ Unpolished !” said one of the gentle men, “ unpolished ! he is all the better for that—a thousand times better than if he had been drilled into affected propriety.” “ True enough,” said another, “here while I have been battling with the savages, my lady-wife, whom I don’t thank for her trou ble, has converted my boys into a set of dandies—they are polished with avengeance —but I wish they had his spirit.” “ So do I,” said my uncle, “ Arthur, come here.” Although not particularly attracted by his countenance, which, besides its naturally harsh expression, was rendered more un lovely by a tremendous scar that traversed it nearly from side to side. I thought it best to obey, and at a signal from him, the servant in attendance placed acupand plate for Mary, and another for me. “ Are you hungry, boy 1” said my uncle, rubbing his great hand over my head. “ Yes, sir—yes uncle.” “ Very well, eat then—and we will talk together afterwards.” “ Oh yes, we will talk,” said I, “ will you tell me about Tom Thumb ? Uncle, do you know that I think the ogre looked like you?” Another burst of laughter shook the room, in which poor Mary, notwithstanding her confusion could not forbear joining. “ Excellent,” said a tall young man at my uncle's side, “ you are in good spirits this morning, General.” “Yes, lam. In truth the sight of this poor boy has warmed my heart—what have you to say against it, Captain Granville!” “ Nothing, sir, nothing in the world, I on ly wish you had possessed such a plaything for some years past —you would not have been so—” “ Rough 1” “ It was not I who said that, sir,” said the Captain laughing. “ True,” said my uncle, “ I have seen ve ry little for the last four or five years, either to amuse or humanize me—come, Arthur, have you eaten enough ]” “ Yes, uncle.” “ Well, now listen to me. You had a father once.” “ Had I, sir ?” “ Yes, but now you have none.” . “ Why, sir ?” “ Because he is dead. He was killed fighting for his country. Do you under stand that, master 1” “ Yes, uncle, and I will pray God to take him to heaven.” I probably said this with the innocent sim plicity of childhood which touches the hard est hearts, for an expression of sadness spread over every countenance, and my un cle hastily passed his handkerchief across his eyes. “ The devil take the child,” said ho, “ his words pierce deeper than an Indian's arrow. Yes, my poor boy, your father is dead : he was a brave man, a man of honor—God bless him—and now, you have no one but me to take care of you.” “And Mary?” “Oh, Mary will always be your adopted mother.” “ And Mrs. Hopkins ?” “ You will not go back to her. I’ shall flace you at a school nearer the city, that may see you more readily when I come here, which will not be often though—for I hate the city.” “ Won’t you come often ? I am sorry for that! for I think I shall love you as I do Bogus; I was afraid of him at first.” * Thank you, nephew —now, though you are so young, we must have a little talk on business. Do you know, poor orphan, what your name is ?” “ Certainly I know it, sir, my name is lit tle Arthur 1” “ Your name is Arthur Marion. Your father was a brave officer, and was killed two years ago by the Indiaus,” “ Well, when I am a man I will kill them to pay for it.” “So you shall, my boy ! Gentlemen, what do -you think ? does not this lad bid fair to make a soldier? These eyes have spirit in them—and then look at his breadth of breast, and strength of limb.” “ Arthur,” continued my uncle, turning to me, “ I promised your father to watch over you, and supply his place. I will keep my promise—l never shall marry, and you will be my heir. Captain Granville, will you reach me the box that I was showing you this morning ? It contains an article that will contribute to the solemnity of this in terview with my nephew.” The gentlemen all looked on in surprise, and the Captain handed the box to the Gen eral, who, after removing some cotton, took out a lock of brown hair. His rugged fea tures visibly worked with emotion as he gazed on it; and strangling between his teeth a rough expression of grief, he once more addressed me, “Arthur,” said he, “ This was your fath er’s hair—poor Frank—a noble looking fel low ! was he not, Granville ?” “ He was indeed, General.” “ And a gay one, too —never bashful a mong women—ah ! we won’t talk of those things before the boy—well, as I told you, Arthur, this was your poor father’s hair, and it was Granville here, my friend and aid-de camp, who cut it off himself on the battle field.” Though full fifteen years have passed over my head since this first interview with my uncle, General Marion, I still feel the emotion which seized my heart as the rude soldier showed me this relic of my father without attemptingto conceal the tears which rolled over his suuburnt cheeks. On witnessing this emotion, in one whom a quarter of an hour before I had compar ed to the ogre in Tom Thumb for his rough manners and harsh voice, I felt myself irre sistably drawn towards him. The instinct of relationship which parents too often stifle in the souls of children by severity, awoke in me: he mis no longer an ogre in my eyes; I comprehended that I be longed tohim—that a powerful bond united us—and looking with affectionate earnest ness in his face, I said, “Whei I am a man, uncle, you must give me that htir, andl will take good care of it, as you do ” “ Wcllsaid, Arthur! and now, in presence of Miss Nary and these gentlemen, all my friends, I swear by the memory of your father, to be your firm friend, support, and protector, while I live, and you deserve it— to give you candy and cakes while you are a boy, and horses, dogs, and a wife, too, if you wish for one, when you become a man.” “ Thank you, uncle.” “ Wait, 1 have not finished; but I also swear, that if you are not deserving, if you do not obey me—l will cast you off to the ten thousand millions of devils, and let you die like a dog without a drop of water, or a mouthful of bread !” And as he said this, the terrible old fellow resumed that look and voice at which so many men had trembled, and I, looking at him with awe, and clasping my little hands before him, said sobbing, “Uncle, I will always be a good boy, and pray to God for you and my poor dead pa pa.” The cloud on the giant’s brow’ cleared off. “ Come, come, Marion,” cried one of the gentlemen, “ you are too hard with that poor boy. Don’t mind him, Arthur, he does not mean what he says.” “ Poor little fellow!” said another officer, “he is frightened—come here, and get this lump of sugar.” “It is too bad !” cried Captain Granville in bis turn, drawing me kindly towards him, “it is too bad to talk in that way to a child.” “ And now,” resumed my uncle, turning towards Mary, “ let me say a word to you— a fine girl, gentlemen, an excellent girl— she has watched over this little one, whose mother was her early friend and schoolmate, ever since he came from nurse. When my poor brother was ordered away on a hazard ous service he placed all her little fortune in her hands to be used at her discretion ; and nobly has she discharged the trust. A real mother could not have been more kind. And now, Mary, you must do one thing more for him. You must get married and give him a home, which I can never do—driver about as I am—now fighting the Indians in Georgia, nnd then away the Lord knows where. Yes, that point is determined, you must make haste and settle down in life, if only out of love for him. “ I will give him to-morrow to do noth ing but seethe city—have some new clothes made for him, and carry him to the museum, or the theatre, orany other place you choose. The next day he must commence school a gain. Granville will accompany you.” “ Oh, most willingly,” said the Captain, with zeal. ” To give the devil his due,” said my un cle, with a grimace that might have fright ened Lucifer himself, “ I never knew you to back out when the duty was to escort a pretty girl. Mary, how old are you ? how old are you my good child ? Wait a mo ment till this brandy catches fire—and then answer me. There, it blazes! now, for ward- in order! what is your age ?” “ Twenty-five years,” said Mary, with a little hesitation. “Excuse me, have you any thought of marrying at present ?” “ No sir,” said Mary, quietly, “ I have never been disposed to change my condi tion.” “But that will not lastforever, you know,” said the General, slily. Mary blushed, but such Was tlie expres sion of grim innocence on my uncle’s face, that it was not in human nature to resist smiling. “You are a noble-hearted girl,” said he, and one of whom any of us might be proud. lam fifty years old myself, and rheumatic, cross, obstinate, rough, despotic and ugly as satan. With these disadvantages I suppose that no woman would be fool enough to marry me; otherwise, I swear on my honor, that I should offer you my hand. By Jove!” he suddenly exclaimed, “ a good idea 1 I think I can find you a husband. Captain Granville, I recommend to your care, my nephew, and his pretty adopted mother.” I was very young at that time, but I was a bright child, and could see as far into a mill-stone as another. I saw that Captain Granville was a fine looking soldier, and though his face was bronzed by exposure— he had teeth like pearl, and bold flashing eyes which became absolutely subdued and gentle when they ventured to fall on Mary. And she, so fresh and fair, with an expres sion of modest grace thrown like a veil around her, stood beside him—and I saw that they both blushed, exactly like myself when caught in some flagrant taisdemeanor at school—and then, precocious little dog I was ! I foresaw how it would all end—and I rejoiced at it. My uncle gave Mary Ido not know how much money, put four silver dollars into my pockets, and then said in a solemn voice, “ To-day, the Ist of October, 18—, Jcom mence a father’s duties towards my nephew, Arthur Marion, and I take for aids my friends, Mary Leslie and Henry Granville.” And 1, comprehending my good fortune, exclaimed resolutely, “ Then I will love you all, dearly, and be a very good boy to please you.” “ Bravo !” said General Marion, “I see, Arthur, that I shall love you foolishly. Now, go to walk with your two friends ; and we, gentleman, to business.” Memorable day—in which I gained an uncle—a father and mother—and a happy home—had I not cause for joy ? ©IILIE©TIE) O REAL “TEMPERANCE CORDIAL.” UY MRS. 8. C. HALL. “ Well,” said Andrew Furlong, to James Lacey, “ well! that ginger cordial, of all the things I ever tasted, is the nicest and warmest. It’s beautiful stuff; and so cheap.” “ What good does it do ye, Andrew ? and what want have you of it ?” inquired James Laccy. “ What good does it do me!” repeated Andrew, rubbing his forehead in a manner that showed he was perplexed by the ques tion ; “ why, no great good, to be sure ; and I can’t say I’ve any want of it; for since I became a member of the 4 Total Abstinence Society,’ I’ve lost the megrim in my head and the weakness I used to have about my heart. I’m as strong and hearty in myself as any one can be, God be praised ! And sure, James, neither of us could turn out in such a coat a$ this, this twelvemonth.” “ And that’s true,” replied James ; “ hut we must remember that if leaving off’ whis key enables us (o show a good habit, taking to * ginger cordial,’ or any thing of that kind, will soon wear a hole in it.” “ You are always fond of your fun,” re plied Andrew. “ How can you prove that ?” “ Easy enough,” said James. “ Intoxi cation was the worst part of a whisky-drink ing habit; but it was not the only bad part. I t spent time, and it spent what well-manag ed time always gives, money. Now, though they say—mind, I’m not quite sure about it, for they may put things in it they don’t own to, and your eyes look brighter, and your cheek more flushed than if you had been drinking nothing stronger than milk or wa ter —but they do say that ginger cordials, and all kinds of cordials, do not intoxicate. I will grant this; but you cannot deny that they waste both time and money.” “ Oh, bother !”• exclaimed Andrew. ** I only went with two or three other boys to have a glass, and I don’t think we spent more than half an hour— not three quarters, certainly; and there’s no great barm in lay ing out a penny or twopence that way, now and again.” “ Half an hour even, breaks a day,” said James, “ nnd what is worse, it unsettles the mind for work; and we ought to be very careful of any return, to the old habit, that has destroyed many of us, body and soul, and made the name of an Irishman a by wprd and a reproach, instead of a glory and an honor. A penny, Andrew, breaks a silver shilling into cojtpers —and twopence will buy half a stone of potatoes —that’s consideration. If we don’t manage to keep things comfortable at home, the women won’t have the heart to mend the coat. Not,” added James with a sly smile, “ that I can deny having taking to temperance cordi als myself.” “Youl” shouted Andrew, “you, and a pretty fellow you arc to be blaming me, und j VOLUME 1,-NUMBER 18. then forced to confess you have taken so them yourself: But I suppose they’ll wear no hole in your coat 1 Oh, to be sure not, you are such a good manager ?” “ Indeed,” answered James, “ I was any thing but a good manager eighteen months ago; as you well know, I was in rags, never at my work of a Monday, and seldom on Tuesday. My poor wife, my gentle patient Mary, often bore bard words ; and though she will not own if, I fear still harder blows, when 1 had driven away my senses. My children were pale, half-starved, naked crea tures, disputing a potato with the pig my wife tried.to pay the rent|with,’ well knowing I would never do it. Now—” “ But the cordial, my boy!” interrupted Andrew, “ the cordial! sure I believe eve ry word of what you’ve been telling me is as true as gospel; ain’t there hundreds, ay, thousands, at this moment in Ireland’s bless ed ground, that can tell the same story. But the cordial! and to think of your never owning it before : is it ginger, or anniseed, or peppermint ?” 44 None of these—and yet it’s a rale thing, my boy.” “ Well, then,” persisted Andrew, “ let’s have a drop of it ; you’re not going, I’m sure, to drink by yerself— and as I've broke the afternoon —” Avery heavy shadow passed over James’ face, for he saw that there must have been something hotter than even ginger in the 4 temperance cordial,’ as it is falsely called, that Andrew had taken, or else he would have endeavored to redeem lost time, not to waste more; and he thought how much bet ter the real temperance cordial was, that, instead of exciting the brain, only warms the heart. “ No,” lie replied after a pause, “ I must go and finish what I was about; but this evening at seven o’clock meet me at the end of our lane, and then I’ll be very hap py of your company.” Andrew was sorely puzzled to discover what James’cordial could be, and was fovc ed to confess to himself that he hoped it would be different from what he had taken that afternoon, which certainly had made him feel confused and inactive. At the appointed hour the friends met in the lane. “ Which way do we go ?” inquired An drew. “ Home,” was James’ brief reply. 44 Oli, you take it at home ? said Andrew. “ I make it at home,” answered James. “ Well,” observed Andrew, “ that’s very good of the woman that owns ye. Now, mine takes on so about a drop of any thing, that she’s as hard almost on the cordials as she used to be on the whisky.” “ My Mary helps to make mine,” observ ed James. “And do you bottle it or keep it on draught ?” inquired Andrew, very mock in terested in the 4 cordial’ question. J attics laughed very heartily at this, and answered, 44 Oh, I keep mine on draught—always on draught; there’s nothing like having plen ty of a good thing, so I keep mine always on draught;” and then James laughed a gain, and so heartily, that Andrew thought surely his real temperance cordial must con tain something quite as strong as what be had blamed him for taking. James’ cottage door was open, and as they approached it they saw a good deal of what was going forward within. A square table, placed in the centre of the little kitch en, was covered by a clean white cloth, knives, forks, and plates for the whole fami ly, were ranged upon it in excellent order; the hearth had been swept, the house was clean, the children rosy, well dressed, and all doing something. “Mary,” whom her husband had characterised as “ the patient,” was busy and bustling, in the very act of adding to the coffee, which was steaming on the table, the substantial accompaniments of fried eggs and bacon, with a large dish of potatoes. When the children saw their father, they ran to meet him with a great shout, and clung around to tell him all they had done that day. The eldest girl declar ed she had achieved the heel of a stocking; one boy wanted bis father to come and see how straight he had planted the cabbages; while another avowed his proficiency in ad dition, and volunteered to ao a sum instanter upon a slate which he had just cleaned. Happiness in a cottage Beems always more real than it does in a gorgeous palace. It is not wasted in large rooms—it is concen trated—a great deal of love in a small space —a great, great deal of joy and hope with in narrow walk), and compressed, as it were, by a low roof. Is it not a blessed thing that the most moderate means become en larged by the affections ? that the love of a {leasant within his sphere, is as deep, as ervent, ar true, as lasting, as sweet, as the love of a prince ? that all our best and pur est affections will grow and expand in the poorest worldly soil ? and that we need not be rich to be happy ? James felt all this and more when he entered his cottage, and was thankful to God who had opened his eyes, and taught him what a number of this world’s gifts, that were within even hri humble reach, might be enjoyed’ without sin. He stood—a poor but happy father within the sacred temple of his liome; and Andrew had the warm heart of an Irishmau beating in’ his bosom, and consequently shared his joy “I told you,” said James, “ I had the true