church, and do the opposite at the scientific performance Listen to the verses:

of "The Messiah."

"Pass me not, O gentle Saviour,

Hear my humble cry ;

While on others thou art smiling,

Do not pass me by.

Saviour, Saviour,

Hear my humble cry.

"If I ask him to receive me,

Will he say me nay?

Not till earth and not till heaven

Shall have passed away."

BOSTON BLESSINGS AND BEANS.

New England, all hail to thy peerless thrift! Thou art cranky and crotchety; thou art "sot," uncommon "sot," in thy ways, owing doubtless to the amiable sediment of English blood in thy veins. Thou wilt not be cheated in a bargain, even by thy best friend; but, in the mean time, that enableth thy large heart to give handsomely when charity knocks at thy door. Thy pronunciation may be peculiar; but, in the mean time, what thou dost not know, and cannot do, is rarely worth knowing or doing. Thou never hast marble, and silver, and plate-glass, and statuary in thy show-parlors, and shabby belongings where the world does not penetrate. Thou hast not stuccoed walls with big cracks in them, or anything in thy domiciles hanging as it were by the eyelids. Every nail is driven so that it will stay; every hinge hung so that it will work thoroughly. Every bolt and key and lock perform their duty like a martinet, so long as a piece of them endures. If thou hast a garden, be it only a square foot, it is made the most of, with its "long saace," and "short saace," and "wimmin's notions," in the shape of flowers and caraway

seed, to chew on Sunday, when the minister gets as far as 'seventeenthly," and carnal nature will fondly recur to the waiting pot of baked beans in the kitchen oven. O New England, here could I shed salt tears at the thought of thy baked beans, for Gotham knows them not. Alluding to that edible, I am met with a pitying sneer, accompanied with that dread word to snobs,-" provincial !" It is ever thus, my peerless, with the envy which cannot attain to the perfection it derides. For you should see, my thrifty New England, the watery, white-livered, tasteless, swimmy, sticky poultice which Gotham christens "baked beans." My soul revolts at it. It is an unfeeling, wretched mockery of the rich, brown, crispy, succulent contents of that "platter"-yes, platter-I will say it!-which erst delighted my eyes in the days when I swallowed the Catechism without a question as to its infallibility.

UNKNOWN ACQUAINTANCES.

You have none? Then I am sorry for you. Much of my pleasure in my daily walks is due to them. Perhaps you go over the ground mechanically, with only dinner. or business in your eye when you shall reach your journey's end. Perhaps you "don't see a soul," as you express it. Perhaps you have no "soul" yourself; only a body, of which you are very conscious, and whose claims upon you outweigh every other consideration. That is a pity. I wouldn't go round that treadmill for all the mines of Golconda! It always makes me think of that melancholy old horse one sees, pawing rotatory wood, at the waystations, on the railroad-tracks; and because the sight makes every bone in me ache, my particular window-seat in the car is always sure to command a view of him. Now, come what will, I'll not be that horse. You may if you like, and I will cling to my dreams. I shan't live in

this world forever, and I won't hurry over the ground and never see a sweet face as it flits past me, or a grand one, or a sorrowful one. I won't be deaf to the rippling laugh of a little child or the musical voice of a refined woman. It may be only two words that she shall speak, but they shall have a pleasant significance for me. Then there are strange faces I meet every day which I hope to keep on meeting till I die. Who was such an idiot as to say that no woman ever sees beauty in another"? I meet every day a face that no man living could admire more than myself; soulful as well as beautiful. Lovely, blue, pensive eyes; golden hair, waving over a pure white forehead; cheeks like the heart of a "blush rose;" and a grieved little rosy mouth, like that of a baby to whom for the first time you deny something, fearing lest it grow too wilful. I think that day lost in which I do not meet that sweet face, framed in its close mourning-bonnet. Were I a man, it is to that face I should immediately "make love." Make love? Alas! I did not think how terribly significant was this modern term when I used it. Let no man make love to that face. But if there is one who can be in dead earnest, and stay so, I give my consent, provided he will not attempt to change the expression of that mouth.

I have another acquaintance. I don't care to ask, "Who is that man?" I know that he has lived his life and not slept it away. I know that it has been a pure and a good one. It is written in his bright, clear, unclouded eye; in his springing step; in the smile of content upon his lip; in the lift of his shoulders; in the poise of his head; in the free, glad look with which he breathes in his share of the warm sunshine. Were he taken to the bedside of a sick man, it seems to me the very sight of him were health.

I used to have many unknown acquaintances among the little children in the parks; but, what with French nurses and silk velvet coats, I have learned to turn my feet elscwhere. It gives me the heart-ache to see a child slapped for picking up a bright autumn leaf, though it may chance to be "dirty" or denied a smooth, round pebble, on account of a dainty little glove that must be kept immaculate. I get out of temper, and want to call on all their mothers and fight Quixotic battles for the poor little things, as if it would do any good; as if mothers who dress their children that way to play, cared for anything but their looks.

Then I have some unknown acquaintances in the yard of a large house in the upper part of Broadway. I never asked who lives in the house; but I thank him for the rare birds of brilliant plumage who walk to and fro in it, or perch upon the window-sills or steps, as proudly conscious of their gay feathers as the belles who rustle past. I love to imagine the beautiful countries they came from, and the flowers that blossomed there, and the soft skies that arched over them. I love to see them pick up their food so daintily, and, with head on one side, eye their many admirers looking through the fence, as if to say, Beat that if you can in America! Ah! my birdies, stop your crowing; just wait a bit and see how the "American eagle" is going to come out, and how each time they who have tried to clip his wings have only found that it made them grow broader and stronger. Soft skies and sweet flowers are very nice things, birdies; but rough winds and freedom are better for the soul.

I have said nothing of unknown acquaintances among my favorite authors. How many times-did I not so hate the sight of a pen when "school is let out"-have I longed to express to them my love and gratitude! Nor, judging

by myself, could I ever say, "they do not need it;" since there are, or should be, moments in the experience of all writers when they regard with a dissatisfied eye what they have already given to the world, when sympathetic, appreciative words, warm from the heart, are hope and inspiration to the receiver.

LIFE AND ITS MYSTERIES.

Was there ever a romance in that man or that woman's life? I used to ask myself, as I looked upon a hard face which stoicism seemed to have frozen over through the long years. Was there ever a moment when for that man, or woman, love transfigured everything, or the want of it threw over the wide earth the pall of unrest? Have they ever wept, or laughed, or sighed, or clasped hands in passionate joy or sorrow? Had they any life? Or have they simply vegetated like animals? Did they see any beauty in rock, mountain, sky, or river, or was this green earth a browsing-place, nothing more?

I never ask those questions now; for I know how much fire may be hidden under a lava-crusted exterior. I know that though the treasure-chest may sometimes be locked when it is empty, oftener beneath the fastening lies the wealth which the right touch can at any moment set free. There are divers masks worn in this harlequin world of ours. Years ago I met, in travelling, a lady who seemed to me the very embodiment of fun and frolic. Like a humming-bird, she never was still; alighting now here, now there, wheresoever were sunshine, sweetness, and perfume. One day, as we were rambling in the woods, we sat down to rest under a tree, after our frolicking. Some little word of mine, as I drew her head into my lap and smoothed the hair on her temples, transformed her. With a sharp, quick cry of agony, she threw her arms II.-dd

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