and breadth of sympathy and keen enjoyment have been frittered away on these fritters, and simmered away in the sweetmeats, and battered away in the puddings, give me, I pray you, a dinner of herbs. Johnny-cake was royal fare in Walden woods when a king prepared the banquet and presided at the board. Peacocks' tongues are but common meat to peacocks.

The pate de foie gras is a monstrous dish. A goose is kept in some warm, confined place that precludes any extended motion, and fed with fattening food, so that his liver enlarges through disease till it is considered fit to be made into a pie,- a a luxury to epicures, but a horror to any healthful person. Just such a goose is many a woman, confined by custom and her consenting will in a warm, narrow kitchen, only instead of her liver it is her life which she herself makes up into pies; but the pastry which you find so delicious seems to me disease.

The ancients buried in urns the ashes of their bodies: we deposit in urns the ashes of our souls, and pass them around at the tea-table.

Women not only injure themselves by what they neglect, but injure others by what they perform. Such stress is laid upon the commissary department, that they lose discrimination, and come to think that dainty morsels are a panacea for all the ills of the flesh, instead of being the chief cause of most of them. I knew a young wife whose husband used to come down from his study worn and weary with much brain-work, his muscles flaccid, his eyes heavy, his circulation sluggish, and she would come up from the kitchen her face all aglow with eagerness and love and cooking-stove heat, her hands full of abominable little messes which she had been plotting against him, reeking with butter and sugar, and all manner of glorified greasiness, I am happy to say I do not know by what name she called her machinations, but I call them broiled dyspepsia, toasted indigestions, fricasseed nightmare, and the poor husband would nibble here and nibble there, sure of grim consequences, but loath to seem a churl by indifference, and neither give nor take satisfaction. I could bear his sufferings with great equanimity, for there was a poetic justice in it, though he himself was not a sinner above others, nor yet so much as many. If only those men who are continually preaching the larder could be forced, sick or well, to swallow every combination which the fertile feminine brain can devise, and the nimble feminine fingers can

accomplish, I should listen to their exhortations with the most lively satisfaction. But even that would not atone for the female suffering. With what disconsolate countenance would my tender, anxious young wife ring the bell and send away the scarcely diminished dish-lings, and wonder in her fond tortured heart what next she could do to smooth the wrinkled brow and light up the dull eyes, and to revolve perpetually in her troubled mind the mysterious question that loomed up mystically before us all in our Mother Goose days, "Why didn't Jack eat his supper?"

OUR MISTAKES ABOUT EACH OTHER.

[OT one man in ten thousand sees those

Nwith whom he associates as they really are.

If the prayer of Burns were granted, and we could all see ourselves as others see us, our selfestimates would in all probability be much more erroneous than they now are. The truth is, that we regard each other through a variety of lenses, no one of which is correct. Passion and prejudice, love and hate, benevolence and envy, spectacle our eyes and utterly prevent us from observing accurately. Many whom we deem the porcelain of human clay are mere dirt; and a still greater number of those we put down in

our

"black books" are no further off from heaven, and perchance a little nearer, than the censors who condemn them. We habitually undervalue or overvalue each other, and in estimating character the shrewdest of us only now and then make true appraisal of the virtues and defects of even our closest intimates. It is not just or fair to look at character from a standpoint of one's own selection. A man's profile may be unprepossessing, and yet his full face agreeable. We once saw a young man, whose timidity was a standing joke with his companions, leap into a river and save a boy from drowning, while his tormentors stood panic-struck on the bank. The merchant who gives curt answers in his counting-house, may be a tender husband and father, and a kind helper of the desolate and oppressed. On the other hand, your good-humored person, who is all smiles and sunshine in public, may carry something as hard as the nether millstone in the place where his heart ought to be. Such anomalies are common. There is this comfort, however, for those whose misjudgments of their fellow-mortals lean to the kindly side — such

mistakes go to their credit in the great account. He who thinks better of his neighbors than they deserve cannot be a bad man, for the standard by which his judgment is guided is the goodness of his own heart. It is only the base who believe all men base-or, in other words, like themselves. Few, however, are all evil. Even Nero did a good turn to somebody, for when Rome was rejoicing over his death some loving hand covered his grave with flowers. Public men are seldom or never fairly judged — at least, while living. However pure, they cannot escape calumny. However corrupt, they are sure to find eulogists. History may do them justice; but they rarely get it while alive, either from friends or foes.

SUPERSTITION AT THE ORKNEY ISLANDS.

A

STRANGE belief was held generally at one time, that drowned persons are changed into seals. The island of Borey, in the bay of Milburn, is sometimes called the Seal Island, and a romantic legend is told in connection with it, which has already found its way into print, but not so fully as it was related to me.

It was a fine summer evening, and Harold of the isle of Gairsay had been fishing till late, when, as the sun went down, he heard the most enchanting music. He followed the sound till he reached the island of Borey, where he saw a company of gaily dressed people dancing to it,

but no musicians were visible. He went close

in-shore, and saw a number of black objectsl ike beasts. They lay so still that he landed and took up one, and found it to be a seal-skin. He watched the dancers for some time, and when the sun began to rise the music suddenly ceased, and they all hurried down to the shore. Harold dropped the seal-skin into his boat, pushed off, and pulled away to a short distance, to see what would happen next. Each person seized a sealskin, put it on, and plunged into the sea. woman alone was left, and she went along the shore seeking the seal-skin which Harold had taken. He put back to the island, spoke to her, and then recognized her as his own mother, who had been drowned many years before. She told him that all drowned persons became seals, and once a month they were allowed to resume their human form and come on shore at

One

sunset, and dance till sunrise. She begged hard for her seal-skin, which at first he refused to give up; but on her promising that he should have the prettiest maiden in all seal-land for

sea

his wife, he gave it back. She desired him to return to Borey that day month; she would then show him the seal-skin of the girl who should be his bride, and he was to keep the skin carefully hidden from the owner, whom he would thus have in his own power. On the night appointed Harold went again to Borey; again he heard the beautiful music and saw the mysterious dancers. His mother went to the shore and laid her hand on a seal-skin, which Harold put into his boat; then rowel home and concealed it. Before sunrise he returned to Borey. The music ceased as before, the dancers resumed their seal-skins and disappeared in the all but one beautiful girl, who went about wringing her hands and weeping for the loss of hers. After a little time Harold approached and spoke to her. She told him that she was the daughter of a pagan king. He endeavored to comfort her, and succeeded so well that she consented to go home with him and become his wife. He loved her fondly, and she bore him several children; but at length she fell sick — some secret grief was consuming her. Often she asked for her seal-skin, but Harold never suffered her to see it; and at last she confessed that she was anxious about her soul. A priest was sent for, and she was baptized — yet still “Harshe was not satisfied, and pined away. old," she said one day, If we part, we part forand happily together. ever. If I die, you cannot be sure that my soul is saved, for I have long lived a pagan. Tonight is the dancing night; roll me in my sealskin and leave me on the beach- they cannot take me away if I am Christian. But you must go out of sight and return for me in the morning; then you will know my fate." Harold yielded to her wish. He laid her on the shore, and went himself to the other side of Gairsay to wait till sunrise. All night he sat with his face buried in his hands. Once he heard a sudden wail; they had found his wife on the shore, but he dared not move. That short midsummer night seemed endless to him; at last

66

we have lived long

the sun appeared, and he hastened to the place

where he had left her. She was still there.

They had not taken her away, for she was a Christian. She was dead, but with a smile on her face that spoke of a soul at peace. That smile comforted Harold, and assured him that their parting would not be forever.

Who contemplates, aspires or dreams, Is not alone

C. 8. CUTTS.

BY CHARLES CUTTERFIELD.

"Though losses and crosses

Be lessons right severe,

There's wit there, ye'll get there,

Ye'll find nae other where."-Burns.

THE
HE buds upon the trees were just bursting

forth into leaves, and here and there a fresh green blade of grass was shooting up by the roadside, when I arrived at the village of Champlain, in the State of New York, to spend

the summer.

I found the village delightful in many respects, but I was especially pleased with the family where I boarded. It was a private family, consisting of a widow lady and three children, and I the only boarder. One of the children was a young man, the main reliance for the support of the family, another a bright cheerful boy of fourteen years, and the other a girl of ten.

I found the atmosphere in this family homelike and congenial, so much so indeed that I hardly missed the brothers and sisters whom I had left behind me in the city. There was a great deal of culture and refinement, and very little wealth. I should have been heartily glad of more wealth, more luxuries, more of all the good things which money can buy, but should not for a moment thought of exchanging the warm hearts for anything on earth. I have seen few families where there was so much genuine affection, so much kindness, and so much cheerfulness. In a single week, I had come to feel quite at home, and entirely at my ease. I had come also to feel an interest in the family. I could not help but know that they were struggling with adverse circumstances, and was not therefore at all surprised when the matter was broached of the younger son's leaving home.

"I called to see Mr. Cutts, this morning," said the elder brother, whose name was plain John, and nothing more; "and he said Arthur might go into his store."

"When did he say I might come?" asked Arthur.

"As soon as you can. He would like you to-morrow morning."

"Not before Monday," said the widow. "I cannot get him ready sooner than that. Did you promise that he should go to-morrow morning?"

"No. I told him I would call again and let

VOL. XXXIV. — 11

him know. He will pay him fifty dollars the first year, and board. You needn't let him go, mother, unless you wish to, we are not obliged to let him go."

"He must begin sometime to provide for himself, and perhaps it will be better that he begin at once. I know you are willing, John, to give up all your earnings for our comfort, but you ought to be saving something for yourself now. I shall be sorry to have him leave home, but perhaps no more so, than next year. He will be in the village, and we can see him every

few days."

"I shall come home Saturday nights, and stay till Monday morning," said Arthur. "And you can run home evenings whenever you like," said the mother.

"And I shall drop into the store every time I go by," said John. "I think it is a good opportunity. Mr. Cutts has been here but a short time; but he is a good business man, that anybody can see."

"I shall be glad when Monday comes; I want to take care of myself," observed Arthur in his usual calm and quiet manner.

Although the situation was not two miles distant from the cottage, the peculiarly affectionate natures of the family members made Monday morning a heavy one. John lingered longer than usual, in order to accompany his younger brother to the store. Arthur himself, seemed to have lost the power of speech, as he gathered his little articles into a bundle, to go to a new home. And the widow was very silent too, going about the house, and preparing a thousand

little things for his comfort. Breakfast was eaten in silence. Every attempt at conversation on my part was a failure. Although it was nothing in itself, yet it was a breaking up of the family. And after long years of the teathe family relations, and give a member to the derest intercourse, it required an effort to sunder world-though the world to which they gave him, was within the limits of the familiar village. When everything was ready, the widow merely said

"You will be a good boy, Arthur?"

Yes, mother."

He turned away, and was gone. He spoke with difficulty, his heart was so full, and no doubt before he turned the bend of the road, tears were running over his cheeks.

I walked down the river, toward the lake, and the widow went to her work.

Arthur had promised to run home a few minutes Wednesday evening, but Wednesday evening came and went, and he did not come.

"I think Mr. Cutts cannot spare Arthur from the store," said John. "He is obliged to be there as long as there are customers, and then he is not allowed to leave. He sleeps in the store."

“He will come Saturday night. You will call around this evening, just to see how he is getting along. He will be disappointed not to

be allowed to come home but once a week."

John called as directed, and I gathered from

what he said on his return, and from what he did not say, that he was not well pleased with Arthur's situation. One objection, which I noticed went directly to the heart of the mother, was the fact that the companion of Arthur, an older clerk, was a very rough young man. He swore, came home late at night, and talked in a manner which quite disgusted Arthur. So much John had learned from Arthur himself. What more he had learned which he failed to communicate out of respect for his mother's feelings, I could only surmise. But it was evident that these few days had brought a cloud over the cottage. The old cheerfulness had vanished.

On Friday, I had arranged an excursion to the lake, and it was six o'clock in the afternoon when I returned. The cottage was deserted. The widow's sewing lay upon the table, as though thrown hastily down, and left. There was bread in the oven well burned, and the fire had entirely gone out. Everything betokened the hasty departure of the inmates. Little Cora's shaker was thrown down in the middle of the floor, and her every-day dress was flung carelessly over a chair. Had it not been that I was excessively fatigued, I should have made inquiries, to ascertain the meaning of their absence; as it was, I went to my room for rest. An hour passed away, and they did not return. I began to have fears. I remoyed the bread from the oven-kindled a fire in the stove

and in due time sat down to a meal which my own hands extemporized. I had finished my supper, and still they did not return. It was long past the hour when John usually came, yet John remained away.

It was now quite dark, and I became alarmed. I knew that something unusual had occurred to keep them away, and if they had been my

whom he inquired. "They have probably gone "O, I guess I know;" said the matron of

to the trial."

"What trial - where?"

"Han't you heer'd on't? The boy that went to live with Mr. Cutts has been stealin'. They've got him up somewhere; most any one can tell you where. You're their boarder. an't you?" "Yes."

I left the room without ceremony, and walked as rapidly as possible to the village. I ascertained that the trial was at the office of Mr.

Graham, one of the lawyers of the town, and made what haste I could for the scene. The justice was speaking when I entered, and the room was crowded with spectators.

"The evidence in this case is so clear, that I have no alternative, but to bind the prisoner up, for appearance at the County Court. His extreme youth will do something toward mitigating the crime, but there can be no doubt of his guilt. I shall depart from the customary rules in such cases, and fix the bonds at as low a figure as possible - ten thousand dollars I think will be sufficient to serve the ends of justice."

As no one appeared to become responsible for the bonds, Arthur Seabury was led off to jail. I would myself have very gladly been his bondsman, but knew that my bond would not be taken. I was, moreover, entirely in the dark, as to the nature of the evidence against him, and so far as becoming responsible for his appearance at County Court was concerned, I cared nothing for the evidence. I knew that he was not guilty of theft.

As I was only able to get into the door of the Court-room, I saw none of the family till the prisoner was led out. His eyes were red with weeping, though he was past weeping now. Little Cora had hold of his hand and walked