till tramp! tramp! tramp! they go over your head again, and with rage in your heart, at the conviction that sleep is impossible, you sit up in bed and despairingly light an unnecessary segar. They were on board the Northerner, and the night before had aroused my indignation to that strong pitch that I had determined on their downfall.

So, before retiring, I proceeded to the upper deck, and there did I quietly attach a small cord to the stanchions which, stretching across about six inches from the planking, formed what in maritime matters is known as a "booby trap." This done, I repaired to my room, turned in, and calmly awaited the result. In ten minutes they came; I heard them laughing together as they mounted the ladder. Then commenced the exercise, louder, louder, tramp! tramp !— thump! (a double-barreled thump) down they came together, "Oh, what a fall was there, my countrymen!" Two deep groans were elicited, and

then followed what, if published, would make two closely printed royal octavo pages of profanity. I heard them d-n the soul of the man that did it. It was my soul that they alluded to, but I cared not, I lay there chuckling; "they called, but I answered not again," and when at length they limped away, their loud profanity subdued to a blasphemous growl, I turned over in a sweet frame of mind, and, falling instantaneously asleep, dreamed a dream, a happy dream of "home and thee "-Susan Ann Jane!

A VICTIM OF HOSPITALITY.

BY REV. F. W. SHELTON.

FW. SHELTON was born at Jamaica, L. I., in 1814. He studied Divinity, and was ordained in 1847. His "Up the River Letters" were written at Fishkill-on-the-Hudson, and published first in the Knickerbocker Magazine, of which he was a favorite contributor. He was the author of "The Trollopiad," a satire on English travelers in America, "The Rector of St. Bardolph's," "Peeps from the Belfry," and other bright and spirited volumes, characterized by humor of a quiet and refined sort.

"M—,” I said, "I have brought you to a cold, dreary house!" I must tell you that I had been fcol enough to bring a friend to my house, and he an invalid man. Sitting in the cars, I espied him, and with a devilish selfishness said, "I will have that man to share with me the dreariness of this cold and misty night." I walked up to him, and tapped him on the shoulder. "Ah!" said he. "Come," said I, in a chirping tone of concealed hypocrisy, "and make my house your home. There is nobody there, but we will have a good time of it. You are going to the Point. Never mind, come with me." In a moment of delusion the infatuated man agreed. After we had conversed for a few minutes in the study we began to feel cold. "Now," said I, "we must have a rousing fire, and a cup of hot tea that will make us feel better. Excuse me for a moment: amuse yourself till I return. I will step over and ask PALMER to come and kindle a good fire, and help me along. All will be right." "Well," said he. Palmer is my right-hand man. There is an old farm-house about fifty yards off. It used to be a tavern in the Revolutionary War. It has settled a good deal within the last hundred years; that is to say, the walls, the floors, and the beams are sunken very much from the horizontal line observable in the floor of a bowlingalley; and the chimneys look weather-beaten. Still, it is a stout and substantial old house, and there is no doubt that it would last, with a little more patching, another hundred years. There is a long piazza in front of it, which is much sunken, and in the yard an old-fashioned well, which has afforded drink to cattle and to men for a century and more. The waters are still transcendently sweet and lucid. When the summer-heats raged in the past

August, I used to stop and imbibe, taking my turn out of the tin cup with the itinerating pedler, who had unburdened his back of the wearisome load and placed it beside the trough. Your wine of a good vintage may make the eyes glisten a little at the tables of luxury, but depend upon it, a well of water, pure water, gushing up. by the way-side, to the weary and heavy-laden is drink indeed. As I ascended the steps of the piazza, I observed that there was a single-mold candle burning within, and knocked

confidently at the door of the house.

It was opened. "IS PALMER within?" "No, JOHN is absent. He will be gone over Sunday." Alas! alas! I turned on my heel, opened the gardengate, and finding the path through the peach-trees with some difficulty on the misty night, went back to the forlorn study.

My invalid friend looked dismal enough. "Come," said I, slapping him on the back very gently (to have done it roughly on the present emergency would have been to insult him), "we have to take care of ourselves. What is more easy? We must

flare up. We must have a little light, a little fire. My next. door neighbor is away. That makes not the least difference." With that, I lighted the astral lamp-no, the globe-lamp-a contemptible affair, which is a disgrace to the inventor. You raise the wick as high as possible before it will shed any light at all. In a moment it glares out, and presently becomes dim, filling your apartment with suffocating smoke and soot. Confound the lamp, with its brazen shaft and marble pedestal! I could with a goodwill dash it on the floor.

I remembered that there was an abundance of shavings under the shed. Going out, I collected an arm-full and rammed them into the kitchen stove, put in a few chips, and a stick or two of wood, and applied a match. Then I took the tea-kettle, and tramping to the well, filled it with water, placed it upon the stove, and it presently bubbled. Took down a caddy of black tea. After a while I found a loaf of stale bread, which makes excellent toast. In three-quarters of an hour, during which I spent the time in purgatory, I returned to the study and said, touching my friend on the shoulder, "Tea is ready." We went into the kitchen and sat down. I said grace. The lamp smoked, the fire burned poorly, the tea was cold, my friend shivered, and I afterward heard that he said that I seemed to think that the globe-lamp was both light and warmth. The ungrateful wretch! After tea, the first natural impulse was to get warm, and still keep ourselves alive. My friend behaved extremely well, all things considered; and as the stove wanted replenishing with shavings every five minutes, he acted once or twice as a volunteer on this mission. He tried to be cheerful, but his visage looked sad. "How stern of lineament, how grim!" For my part I could not but enjoy an inward chuckle, like one who has the best of a bargain in the purchase of a horse. People come to your house to be entertained. In the hands of your hospitality they are like dough, to be molded into any shape of comfort. They fairly lay themselves out to be fêted and feasted and flattered and soothed and comforted, and tucked in at night. They enjoy for the timebeing a luxurious irresponsibility. With what composure do they lounge in your arm-chair, and lazily troll their eyes over the pictures in your show-books! How swingingly they saunter on your porch or in your garden, with their minds buoyant as thistledown, lightly inhaling the aromatic breeze, fostered by all whom

they meet, and addressing all in lady-tones. Bless their dear hearts, how they do grind their teeth for dinner! Dinner! Sometimes it is no easy matter to get up a dinner. While they are in this opiate state, the man of the house is in cruel perplexity, and beef-steaks are rare. Oh! it is a rich treat and triumph, now and then, to have these fellows on the hip; to see them put to some little exertion to conceal their feelings, when they have expected all exertion to be made on the other part; to scan their physiognomy, and to read their thoughts as plainly as if printed in the clearest and most open type: "This does not pay. You will not catch me in this scrape again. I will go where I can be entertained better." I say that I enjoy their discomfiture, and consider it (if it happens rarely) a rich practical joke. It is entirely natural, and in accordance with correct principles, that they should feel exactly as they do. Does it not agree with what I have already said! Constituted as we are, there must be the outward and visible sign to stir up the devotion of the heart. Your grace of warm welcome will not do. Give your friend a good dinner, or a glass of wine; let the fire be warm and bright. Then he will come again. Otherwise not. It is human nature. At any rate, it is my nature. Here, however, we draw the fine hair-line of distinction. If your friend thinks more of the animal than of the spiritual; if he neglects any duty, undervalues any friendship, because the outward is poor, meagre, of necessity wanting-call him your friend no more!

"Let us go to bed," said I. "Done," said he. "No, not done. The beds are to be made. There is no chambermaid in the house. What of that? Excuse me for a moment, while you ram a few more shavings into the stove." I go up-stairs into the spare chamber. I can find nothing. Afte a half-hour's work, I manage, however, to procure pillow-ca es, sheets, blankets. I go down-stairs and tap my shivering friend on the shoulder, and say, chirpingly, "Come, you must go to your snuggery, your You will sleep like a top, and feel better in the morning." I get him into bed, and after his nightcap is on, and his head upon the pillow, I say, "Good night; pleasant dreams to you." "Good night," he responded, with a feeble smile.

nest.

Then I tumbled into my own bed, which was made up anyhow, looking out first on the moon just rising above the fog. Oh! thou cold, dry, brassy Moon! do not shine into my chamber