trunk, strong men were on their knees, wrestling in ag ty. But I must pass over this. When tired with the hunt, you gather about a blazing fire. It is a profitable occupation t study human nature as developed in the various character around you. Here, perhaps, is a hunter, rude and half sav age, but gifted with a warm heart. That man is a farme from D, who has cleared his land and is reaping now among the stumps of hemlocks which he felled. Yonde black-eyed, dark-haired girl, was educated in the city, bu chose rather the home of her mother than the gay crowd of The man leaning against the chimney, is a scholar of talent and taste, who has selected this home to spend his life. Search his heart, and my word for it, you will find a reason for this which is not known to all. Let me whisper it to you. He was missed from S the morning after the grave of M—d, was filled up! Oh, there is more of mystery in the souls of men, than your young mind has ever dreamed of, my dear M

And this brings me to the main object I had in view when commencing this sketch. We have many fire-side tales which are worth preserving, and the one I am about to relate was, to me, very touching. I give it to you as it was given to me, not pretending to vouch for the accuracy of its particulars, which may possibly have been the coloring of the narrator. But the main incidents I know to be true, and if they have the same effect on your heart that they have had on mine, I shall be satisfied.

It is a simple story, of a brother's love. Did it ever strike you that a brother's is the strongest love on earth? Fathers forget their children, and children their fathers. Wives forsake their husbands, and husbands cease to joy in the smiles that once enchained them. But I never knew a brother's love to fail.

In the city of M-, lived a brother and sister. The story went on to say that they were orphans, all in all to each other. That he was manly and noble. That intellect was in his eye, and command in his step. Men looked on him, and loved themselves the more that they were fellow creatures to such a being. And she,—“Oh, she was queenly." Light was around her, and on her brow nature had written "beautiful." There was no voice in all the city so rich as hers, no laugh rang so merrily, no song gushed out with half that sweetness. It was a good thing to look upon her, so calm and holy was her innocence, The boys in the street stopped their plays to

gaze as she passed, and the beggar valued her alms not as much as the kind smile that accompanied them.

But a change came. That fair creature, that in her innocence had not dreamed of danger, for that very reason fell. Oh, if there be one punishment in the world of wo reserved for the vilest, must it not be for him, who has disregarded the laws of God-has trampled under foot the most sacred ties of society; rending the strong bands of a mother's love-breaking a father's heart, and adding to the list of the fallen one who might have been a seraph of light. How changed that home! No more kind words, and joyous songs, and happy evenings, and holy prayers. Yes, there were prayers, for that brother was beside her ever. His morning kiss was pressed convulsively on her cheek, and his evening embrace more passionate than ever before. It was a tale to bring tears to the eyes of the rudest listener. Pass with me over a space of

time.

In the criminal court of P-, a young and lovely female is arraigned for the murder of her infant. It is a strong feeling of utter abandonment and wo that can induce a mother to take away the life she has given to her helpless offspring. She stood in the prisoners' box, but not alone-a brother's arm supported her.

"Guilty or Not Guilty?"

Guilty!" Shall I

go on?

*

The scene changes to a cell in the M- prison. The con demned girl is seated on a low stool, and at her feet kneels her betrayer.

"Annie! My lost Annie, can you forgive me? I have brought you here! Fool! madman that I was !"

"Forgive you! Nay, ask me not thus hopelessly. What have I to forgive that is not forgiven long ere this hour? May God Almighty bless you. Now leave me to His care."

What think you were her thoughts in that hour of her ex tremity? What the thoughts of all are who look deliberately at death. That undefined looking forward to something fearful and terrible.

"To think of summers yet to come,

That I am not to see!

To think a weed will one day bloom
Of dust that I must be !"

But joined with these, were higher, holier thoughts.

Te

light of a Saviour's face shone in her gloomy cell, and she new that her deep sin might be cleansed in the blood of the

tonement.

And where was her brother now? He was at A -sking of the governor a pardon for his sister. He plead with il the zeal of an unchanged affection. By all the ties that bind man to man. By her youth, her innocence, her loveliness, her wrongs-by his own loneliness and the ungovernable hrobbings of a brother's heart. But in vain,-it was refused. And what were his thoughts then? They must have been of * he taunt of the jailor, the rough hands of the executioner, and te rope about that neck, around which his arm had so often vined. These were the least horrible of the visions that Daunted him. Others that I shudder to think of, came to him

the night time, and he was mad with agony. He dared ...t leave A—, though her prison was far off, for he hoped ty importunity to win a pardon.

Time passed.—It flies as fast to the doomed as to the free. : was evening, and on the morrow she was to die. At this late nour the Governor relented. Pardon was granted—and with the message of life, the glad brother was away. Such another storm as came down that night had not been known among the mountains for more than half a century. Blinded by the lightning, deafened by the thunder, the fearless rider pressed ⚫ on his horse. Morning broke, clear and sunny. A beautiful day for her to die! But no, she was pardoned!-and he who bore the words of joy was hastening to clasp her in his arms. It is noon, and a swollen stream which has carried away its bridges, arrests him. He pauses, rides madly up and down, then leaps in. Man and beast struggle hard. They succeed. The shore is gained. But much precious time is lost. They weep on across the plain-through the city-to the prison -Too late! Too late! Ten minutes would have gates.

saved her!

*

*

*

*

On the wildest hill side in our wild country, a new cabin was observed by the hunters. Its inhabitant was a young man, whose appearance excited much interest from his singular grace and strength, as well as his success in hunting. But he spoke to no one, except when he entered the settlement to procure the necessaries of life. Curiosity was baffled. A woodman once looked in at his small window, and saw by the light of a dim candle, that he was kneeling by a table on which lay something bright, gem-like. Thenceforth he was regarded as a Romanist, and questions ceased.

One, two, ten, twenty years passed, and the hermit was unchanged. His foot was true and his rifle never missed. But now his step began to falter, and his aim was less sure. One evening a hunter passing his door on the way home, noticed that no footsteps were visible on the newly fallen snow of the previous night. On the next day the same was observed, and on the next they entered the cabin. Seated at a rude table, his head bowed down upon it was the hermit-dead. His forehead rested on the miniature of a young female of surpassing beauty. Such a vision of loveliness had never before inet the gaze of the rude foresters. Purity was on her brow, and gentle holiness seemed to sit enthroned on every feature. The soul of the recluse had, I trust, met the repentant soul of that betrayed one, in a land where sorrow is not.

Verily dear M, a brother's love is a strong thing!

LIGHT READING RESPONSIBLE FOR AN ENORMOUS
WASTE OF TIME.

THE most of the fictitious works that now issue from the
press, are, to say the least, not beneficial in their tendency.
They find readers, however. Whether we account for it by
the exciting nature of their topics-by the odd singularities
if not alluring corruption of their sketches or by their stamps
of genius-these works are purchased and read by eager
swarms. The feast, thus spread, is thronged, and its viands
are seized with an avidity that betokens the insatiable appe-
tite of the cormorant.
Time is wasted at this feast in lavish

profusion.

Within about two years, one million and a fourth of fictitious works have been printed and put in circulation in this country. Printed in pamphlet and newspaper forms, some of these productions have found their way to the extreme ramifications of the mail route--far beyond the region of book stores just as the uncolored portions of the blood find their way into the more delicate structures of the human frame, while the red globules are too bulky to penetrate into the smaller vessels. Each of these books finds entrance into at least one family, we may suppose. All the readers of that group feast in turns upon the latest romance. It is recom mended to the visitor, and the less fortunate neighbor. Each

book thus finds usually more than one reader, before its mission. is fulfilled. It is a moderate calculation that five millions of readers are thus found by one million and a fourth of books before they are worn out. This is the supply, be it remembered, for only two years. Some of these issues are not read in a moment, or in an hour, or even in a day. How many times five millions of hours are spent in their perusal? If three hours, on an average, would suffice for each book, the whole number would require an amount of time equal to the whole life of twelve or fifteen persons, supposing them to reach the age of seventy. If the most of these publications have no good tendency, we thus find that they are responsible for a vast amount of time, which, to say the least, is wasted upon them. Ninety or one hundred years are thus consumed by the issues of two years.

Is time lavished upon us so wastefully, that this amount can be well appropriated to fictitious works? Has a needless surplus of existence been given for this purpose? Is the business of life so easily done, and are all so diligent in its prosecution, and so faithful, also, in preparation for a future state, that this enormous amount of time may be thus expended?

The enumeration might be still more swelled, if the hours employed in writing, printing, and vending these books were included in the estimate; and if we added also the waste of usefulness, the idle hours, the misdirected years to which light reading tends, by its injurious influence on the whole cha

racter.

According to an estimate made about ten years ago, of all the issues of the press in France, one-sixteenth were novels and tales. At the same time, the proportion in this country was one-sixth. That remarkably grave people, the French nation, thought that if one-sixteenth of their publications were of this description, it would suffice. Perhaps at present, a third of all the issues of our press, are of this class. If the industrious and useful habits of the two nations are to be tried by this criterion, we must give the palm to the subjects of the citizen-king-they find less leisure than we do for frivolous reading.

Menzel must have had in view the swarms of useless books that claim the time of readers, when he said, "There is no easier way of making stupid flocks of sheep out of free men than by making readers of them." His literary habits show that he was no enemy to the widest circulation of useful volWas it also a wasteful swarm of fictitious works that led Plato to doubt whether the discovery of the art of writing

umes.