circumstances in the bringing-up, either of pampered will or prevented activity. The restlessness felt by nervous people is Nature's kindly intimation that they should bestir themselves. Motion, as far as hitherto has been known, is the first law of the universe. The air, the rivers, the world, move; the "fixed stars," very as we call them, are moving towards some unknown point; the substance, apparently the most unmoving, the table in your room, or the wall of the opposite house, is gaining or losing particles, - if you had eyes fine enough, you would see its surface stirring: some philosophers even hold that every substance is made up of vital atoms. As to one's self, one must either move away from death and disease, and so keep pleasantly putting them off, or they will move us with a vengeance; ay, in the midst of our most sedentary forgetfulness, or while we flatter ourselves we are as still and as sound as marble.

Time is all the while drawing lines in our faces; clogging our limbs; putting ditch-water into our blood; preparing us to mingle with the grave and the rolling earth, since we will not obey the great law, and move of our own accord.

Come, dear readers, now is the season, for such of you as are virtuous in this matter, to pride and rejoice yourselves; and for such of you as have omitted the virtue in your list, to put it there. It will grace and gladden all the rest. A cricketer is a sort of glorifier of exercise, and we respect him accordingly: but it is not in every one's power to be a cricketer; and respect attends a man in proportion as he does what he is able. Come, then, be respectable in this matter as far as you can; have a whole mile's respectability,

if possible, or two miles', or four: let our homage wait upon you into the fields, thinking of all the good you are doing to yourselves, to your kindred, to your offspring born or not born, and to all friends who love you, and would be grieved to lose you. Healthy and graceful example makes healthy and graceful children, makes cheerful tempers, makes grateful and loving friends. We know but of one inconvenience resulting from the sight of such virtue; and that is, that it sometimes makes one love it too much, and long to know it, and show our gratitude. A poet has said, that he never could travel through different places, and think how many agreeable people they probably contained, without feeling a sort of impatience at not being able to make their acquaintance. But he was a rich poet, and his benevolence was a little pampered and self-willed. It is enough for us that we sometimes resent our inability to know those whom we behold, who charm us visibly, or of whose existence, somehow or other, we are made pleasantly certain, without going so far as to raise up exquisite causes of distress after his fashion. Now, as we never behold the cricketer or the horseman or the fieldstroller (provided we can suppose him bound on his task with a liking of it) without a feeling of something like respect and gratitude (for the twofold pleasurable idea he gives us of Nature and himself); so we cannot look upon all those fair creatures, blooming or otherwise, who walk abroad with their friends or children, whether in village or town, fine square or common street, without feeling something like a bit of love, and wishing that the world were in such condition

as to let people evince what they feel, and be more like good, honest folks and chatty companions. If we sometimes admire maid-servants, instead of their mistresses, it is not our fault, but that of the latter, who will not come abroad. Besides, a real goodhumored maid-servant, with a pretty face, playing over the sward of a green square with her mistress's children, is a very respectable as well as pleasant object. May no inferior of the other sex, under pretence of being a gentleman, deceive her, and render her less so!

A DUSTY DAY.

MONG the "Miseries of Human Life,” as a wit pleasantly entitled them, there are few, while the rascal is about it, worse than a great cloud of dust, coming upon you in street or road, you having no means of escape, and the carriages, or flock of sheep, evidently being bent on imparting to you a full share of their besetting horror. The road is too narrow to leave you a choice, even if it had two pathways, which it has not: the day is hot; the wind is whisking. You have come out in stockings, instead of boots; not being aware that you were occasionally to have two feet depth of dust to walk in. Now, now the dust is on you; you are enveloped; you are blind; you have to hold your hat on against the wind: the carriages grind by, or the sheep go pattering along, baaing through all the notes of their poor gamut; perhaps carriages and sheep are together, the latter eschewing the horses' legs, and the shepherd's dog driving against your own, and careering over the woolly backs. Whew! what a dusting! What a blinding! What a whirl! The noise decreases; you stop; you look about you; gathering up your hat, coat, and faculties, after apologizing to the gentleman against whom you have "lumped,"

and who does not look a bit the happier for your apology. The dust is in your eyes, in your hair, in your shoes and stockings, in your neck-cloth, in your mouth. You grind your teeth in dismay, and find them gritty.

Perhaps another carriage is coming; and you, finding yourself in the middle of the road, and being resolved to be master of at least this inferior horror, turn about towards the wall or paling, and propose to make your way accordingly, and have the dust behind your back, instead of in front; when, lo! you begin sneezing, and cannot see. You have taken involuntary snuff.

Or you suddenly discern a street, down which you can turn, which you do with rapture, thinking to get out of wind and dust at once; when, unfortunately, you discover that the wind is veering to all points of the compass, and that, instead of avoiding the dust, there is a ready-made and intense collection of it, then in the act of being swept into your eyes by the attendants on a- - dust-cart!

The reader knows what sort of a day we speak of. It is all dusty, the windows are dusty; the people are dusty; the hedges in the roads are horribly dusty, - pitiably,—you think they must feel it; shoes and boots are like a baker's; men on horseback eat and drink dust; coachmen sit screwing up their eyes; the gardener finds his spade slip into the ground, fetching up smooth portions of earth, all made of dust. What is the poor pedestrian to do?

To think of something superior to the dust, — whether grave or gay. This is the secret of being