instead of wine, and there was no dancing. After my dinner, I loitered about, and came to a place where they were playing cricket. I lingered along until towards evening, and then returned through Hyde Park, and here the numbers of carriages, horsemen, and pedestrians were such, that I scarcely could make my way; the difference at this time between London and Paris was this, that I saw more children with their parents, and more persons decidedly intoxicated." I should have spoken in this place, but our visitor gave me no opportunity. "I was amused," he said, "much amused. I am not apt to take exceptions at small matters. The mass of mankind are the same every where, said I to myself; and as I cut across through some of the narrow streets and alleys in my way back to the inn, I really felt gratified (you will pardon me, my friends,) to think that there are no scenes in Paris which have not their parallel in London; for man, as I before said, is at bottom every where the same, and one country when thoroughly looked into is much more like another than a first view leads a traveller to suppose."

ours.

66 My dear sir," I replied, "I grant that man is every where the same as to his original nature, but in this respect to the subject of our discourse, viz. the observance of the Lord's day, there is a wide difference between your country and Public breach of the Lord's day is contrary not only to the laws, but to the principles of Englishmen, whereas your offences of this kind are sanctioned by government and public opinion." "How do you know that?" he replied. "We have many good people amongst us, who are never seen in the streets on Sunday, excepting when going to mass, and I am told that our priests do not approve of public amusements on that day; and there is one thing that you never see in a catholic country, that is, a priest flying about on horseback to serve a distant church. You, my good friends, no doubt, when at home, live in some very respectable street, or retired county, and never dream of what you would see were you to become an inquiring traveller in your own country as you are in this." With that he rose, took his hat, and begging we would call upon him could he be of the smallest use to us, he bowed himself out of the room, leaving us to look at one

another, as persons who have received a total discomfiture when they expected a brilliant victory.

AN IRREPARABLE LOSS.

M. M. S.

It was a lovely winter-morning, cold, but bright, when Jane White was aroused, by the entrance of her papa, from a dreamy sort of mood, in which she had been sitting for the last hour, with her feet on the fender. Many times, indeed, she had wished that the screen, with which she shaded her eyes, was a book, and many times had she determined to get one; yet still she sat, with neither body nor mind much more than half alive, till a question from Mr. White brought her to herself.

"Have you lost any thing this morning, Jane ?" he enquired. "Not that I know of; have you found any thing, papa?" "I am mistaken if you have not lost something very valu able."

"I don't think I can, without having missed it; however it is of no consequence, for whatever it may be, you have found it."

"Indeed I have not, Jane, nor can any one find it: it is gone for ever."

"Then how could you discover my loss? But papa, you look so grave, you quite frighten me. I have nothing that I should be so very much vexed to lose, except the brooch with dear mamma's hair, and that I know is safe."

"That little memorial of your dear departed parent, would certainly have been a sad loss, but the loss of which I speak, is infinitely greater."

"Infinitely! papa ?"

“Yes, infinitely, my love. I am not guilty of the fault for which I have sometimes reproved you, that of using stronger expressions than the occasion warrants: any lower term would have been insufficient. The invaluable treasure, Jane, that you have lost to-day, is time: youthful seed-time, on which depends the harvest of maturer years-probationary time, on which depends a happy or dreadful eternity."

Papa, I was intending to employ myself directly."

Diligence, I am sorry to say, Jane, is generally an

intention; while indolence is the practice with you. No doubt you lay, intending to rise, for an hour and half after you were called this morning, but did this intention present you with that "golden hour of prime," which ought to have been seized for the privilege of devotion? No; you hurried down, shivering, fretful, and scarcely in time for family-worship; with no such refreshment on your countenance, as distinguishes those who have been holding sweet communion with their God. It is said, "The soul of the diligent shall be made fat;" is your soul fat and flourishing, my child ?”

"No, lean enough, papa," said Jane, bursting into tears. "And no wonder-you have permitted the body, which ought to have been its helpful and submissive partner, to assume the power of a tyrant. It will scarcely suffer the voice of the soul to be heard. The seasons of nourishment are abridged, until it is almost starved. Though not a sound was uttered, I heard the dispute that passed this morning in your mind, my Jane, between sensuality and conscience; Thou hast not taken one moment for private prayer,' said the latter, it is high time for thee to retire.' It is cold, very cold,' rejoined the other; thou hast nothing particular to do; enjoy the warmth a little longer-yet a little folding of the hands.' And possibly sensuality might venture to insinuate, Would not mental prayer be equally efficacious, with Him who is the searcher of hearts?' But at that name perhaps conscience took alarm, and forced you to compliance; such compliance as might just still her clamorous voice-but not such as could benefit yourself. I saw you take your brother's book, and no doubt sensuality suggested, 'This is an excellent little form, and contains every suitable expression of morning prayer and praise.' So, with characteristic indolence, you adopted it, and soon returned to the station where now I find you. The progress of the day is such as might be expected from its commencement; no spirit, no activity, no usefulness, no happiness -a sense of being wrong, without courage to attempt a reformation, mars all your comfort; you feel dull from mere inertness, yet cannot think of any exertion without dislike, and when night comes, you will regret that the winter days are so short, nothing can be done in them.' O Jane, my heart VOL. V. 3rd SERIES.

R

mourns to see you thus tied and bound. Would to God, you were decidedly engaged in that service, which is perfect freedom! Then motive, power, object, would be all supplied, and instead of being oppressed by the listlessness which now makes time hang heavy, you would welcome every hour as a fresh season, in which you might enjoy and glorify your blessed Saviour, serve your fellow-creatures, and gain improvement to your own mind, or benefit to your soul. Activity would produce cheerfulness; and the endeavor, by the aid of divine grace, to do right, would yield satisfaction. Now, must not hours so spent, and so enjoyed, be precious, Jane ?"

"Was I not right then, when I said you had lost an inestimable treasure? And can you find it again; or can any one else be benefited by it? Will mispent moments return, that we may employ them better?"

"No, dear papa."

"No; they are, as I said, gone, and gone for ever, nor can we tell how many more are reserved for us; "Tis on this winged hour, eternity is hung;' life is at all times uncertain, and now especially, when we daily hear of so many instances of sudden mortality, we should surely say to ourselves, Whatsoever thy hand findeth to do, do it with thy might: for there is no work, nor device, nor knowledge in the grave, whither thou art hastening.' Now, my child, prepare yourself quickly for a walk, for till you have shaken off this bodily sluggishness, the spirit will in vain attempt to stir. We will endeavor to set forth, with brisk steps, enquiring minds, and cheerful hearts, to observe whether nature, even at this season, do not present much to remind us of the wisdom, power, and love of our Creator and Preserver. And while we gratefully acknowledge these, his blessings, they shall lead us to contemplate the higher wonders of redeeming mercy. Then we will return by the village; and see whether, in this season of want, we cannot taste something of the luxury of doing good. And when we reach home, social endearments, and private occupations, may well fill up our remaining hours. Peace will attend on spirituality; happiness will follow holiness; and active love to God and man, will kindle sunshine in our breasts."

Jane, with a tear of penitence, received her father's affectionate embrace, and while she prepared to accompany him, he wrote in her pocket-book the following sentences.

་

January 24th.—" May my beloved child, from this day, be enabled to follow the poet's advice, and part with no moment but in purchase of its worth.' I will copy for her use, an extract from a well-known author, which was formerly exceedingly profitable to myself. Hours have wings, and fly up to the Author of time, to carry'news of our usage. All our prayers cannot entreat one of them either to return, or slacken his pace. The mispending of every minute is a new record against us in heaven. Surely if we thought this, we should dismiss them with better reports; and not suffer them to depart empty, or laden with dangerous intelligence.'"

Milton.

S. S. S.

THE TWO ENDS OF THE HORN OF LIFE.

"A GENTLEMAN in America used to say to his children, that whenever they entered into trade they would be successful, provided they pressed through the little end of the horn of life.' This shrewd remark contained much for reflection. The man who commences business on small means, and struggles hard to overcome early difficulties, will often find that to be a horn of plenty, in which others have irretrievably wedged themselves in their vain attempts to get through from the wrong end."

It is some time since I copied this anecdote into my book of miscellaneous memoranda, with the intention, at some future period, of presenting it to my juvenile readers, with a few remarks subjoined. The idea of the horn of life,' is by no means uncommon in America; and in England we are quite familiar with such phrases as "he began at the wrong endhe took the right end-he began where he should have left off," &c. &c. Dr. Franklin observes, that" six pounds a year is but a groat a day. For this little sum, which may be daily wasted, either in time or expense unperceived, a man of credit may, on his own security, have the constant possession and use of a hundred and twenty pounds."