kind. I am not to be dictated to on this subject by you or any of your family. I'll go my own way in spite of you all; and you will be good enough in the future to mind your own business, Mr. Sandy Andrews, and to let mine alone." 66 "Let yours alone? Very well," rejoined "I am going," he said. "What is he up to, I wonder?" he muttered. "He has not taken the road to Castle Aird. Can it be possible he can mean to go to Glasgow on his feet?-Pooh, he's dreaming. Dreaming, or drunk. Let me see, has he had anything? Not here. But that's not to say he may not have had his drop before I came. He walks straight enough. There "One would think he was starting on the he goes, but he'll not go far. He would instant!" exclaimed Andrews, disconcerted never go through with anything. A pigbut incredulous, while Cunning whispered, headed brute that I'm well quit of. If he "If he goes now, he conquers.' "One would does take his way to Nancy he'll find a imagine he was already upon the road! Don't hotter reception awaiting him than he has be a fool, Dick. We have both of us been | bargained for;—but he'll never go-no, he'll warm and talked nonsense. Cool down, never go. He'll be here again to-morrow man, cool down; get back into your chair and maybe in time he'll be cured of his again and think it over." fancy, and we'll jog along as we did before." Dick shook him aside angrily. "I have nothing to think over. You may have been deceiving me-but you may not. At any rate, I am off to make sure." With which conclusion the young tradesman returned to the parlour and his hitherto neglected supper. DI HINDRANCES TO CONTENT. one who condoled with him upon the loss of "Poor and content, is rich, and rich enough; IOGENES, walking on a certain occasion with a friend through a country tair, and observing ribbons, and lookingglasses, and nut-crackers, and fiddles, and hobby-horses, and many other gimcracks, is said to have exclaimed, “Lord, how many things are there in this world of which Diogenes hath no need!" The great cynic's mode of life was very inexpensive, and his habitation so humble that with us it would evade the visits of even an English tax-collector. The life of Diogenes was, in fact, scarcely such an One of the greatest hindrances to content one as would suit me in all particulars; but is our inability to fix the precise limit of I confess that I do often envy him that sub-worldly prosperity which shall make us happy. lime content which lay at the root of his We are uncertain whether the exact sum cornature. With the rest of mankind, the feel- responding with our idea of perfect happiness. ing is not, How many things can we do with-is five hundred pounds per annum or fifty out? but, How many things can we gather thousand. The man who lives from hand to together in the pursuit of happiness? The mouth sees the very El Dorado of existence philosophy of the ancients was altogether in the first-named sum, while he who already wiser than our own in this respect. What an enjoys it laments that it is not sufficient to answer was that which Aristippus made to keep up both a town and a country-house says, "because they be so common, most men forget to pay their praise, but let not us; because it is a sacrifice so pleasing to Him that made that sun and us, and still protects us, and gives us flowers, and showers, and stomachs, and meat, and content, and leisure to go a-fishing." Even from the selfish point of view, discontent is unprofitable, and can never pay; it is sure to disorder the liver, or the stomach, or some other portion of the mechanism of the body, with the inevitable result of shortening life. like his neighbours. Both are consequently ings. "For most of them," he quaintly miserable, for the spirit of thankfulness hath its abode in neither. Content is impossible so long as there is a craving for something beyond. Strip the mask from every man we meet, and we should be filled with astonishment at the petty desires and ambitions which rule his soul. With one, the acme of social distinction is to be presented at court; with another, it is obtaining a seat in Parliament while a third would die happy if only he could be elected mayor of his native town and when the honour has been obtained in each case, the recipient is amazed on discovering that he is not the cynosure of all eyes, that in fact he remains exactly what he was before a very ordinary personage indeed. Nay, he is more discontented than ever, for his idol has been shattered, and he has nothing to put in its place. So, the man who is resolutely determined to have his name in the newspapers at all cost must pass through many bitter moments of humiliation, when editors take a view of his personal importance essentially different from his own. These are but a few of the types of men who stand in the way of their own happiness. One has health, but covets riches; one has wealth, but would exchange it all for the rude health of the ploughboy. Money is sometimes terribly hard to carry, and could the poor but fairly assess the weight of the burden in too many instances, they might well thank God for preserving them from riches. Besides, what have we to complain about? We have troubles, it is true, but are we the only people visited by them? What matter if our neighbour sets up his carriage a little. earlier than we do? It will probably be taken in execution before the paint is quite dry; and if not, the coachman may be one whose services we are not at all anxious to engage-to wit, grim Care. We must learn the lesson that a man's wealth consisteth not in the abundance of those things which he hath. Whenever the feeling of envy towards an individual rises up in the breast, let us at once check it by asking ourselves whether the fortunate one is altogether such as he seems, or whether he may not have his skeleton too, which troubles him far more We are too much than our own afflicts us. in the habit of thinking our miseries unmatched, and comparing them with the fancied happiness of others. Socrates asked The basis of all content is a clear con- a questioner whether, if all the men in the science, and the sun never rises but it reveals a world should come and bring their grievances thousand blessings to him who possesses that. together, of body, mind, fortune, sores, ulcers, These blessings are common, it is true, but madness, epilepsies, agues, and all those they are none the less valuable. A cup of common calamities of beggary, want, serviwater in the desert to a dying man is worth tude, imprisonment, and lay them in a heap more than all the wealth of the Indies. It is to be equally divided-would he be willing the commonness of our blessings-their ever- to share alike and take his portion? Withlasting recurrence-which causes us to under- out question he would prefer to remain as he What would not the deaf man value them. Let the grumblers regard the matter give to enjoy that concord of sweet sounds in the same light, and there will be much less in nature which makes harmony in our of dissatisfaction in the world. The misery ears? What would not the blind man of others is unseen and impossible to be give to see the glories of that panorama calculated; hence the common error of not Even in which is constantly open to our vision? making sufficient allowance for it. Rejoice, O man, even if thou art afflicted, if enlightened England what myriads are leadthy senses are yet preserved to thee. There ing lives of unmitigated toil and bitter hardare still a thousand things which demand ship! Let him who repines at his comparafrom thee a thankful and grateful emotion. tively happy lot consider the case of those And for him who hath perfect health, both of who go down the mines with their lives in mind and of body, the world teems with their hands, or the thousands upon thoucauses of thankfulness; only the blessings sands in the squalid districts of London who are despised because they are so profuse. can scarce earn enough to keep soul and Let such ponder the words of Izaak Walton | body together, and who pray daily for release on these same common and universal bless- from that life which God intended should be was. healthful and joyous. A comparison of our own estate with that of others will lead us to be satisfied with such things as we possess. Æsop tells us that when the fox complained for want of a tail, the mouldwarp was very wroth with him and his companions: "You complain of toys, but I am blind; be quiet." It is the way of the world; and that same lesson of quietude is the hardest which the gods ever set mankind to learn. Now in great things one can sometimes be patient, and thus gain the mastery. It is the smaller matters which harass us. Let us regard for a moment one aspect of this question in which I own it is very difficult to cultivate a spirit of content. I refer to the necessity constantly arising of forgiving one's friends. This is ofttimes much more difficult than to forgive one's enemies. Friends have a way of making us look more foolish than foes are able to do-a result which should by all means be avoided, for a man would rather die in a duel than be declared practically defunct by ridicule. First there is the social friend, who is noticeable rather for the length of his advice than the value of it. He is to be met with at every turn, always ready to proffer advice, and always inimical to our soul's contentment. Some of the most unpleasant moments of our lives have been those in which he has button-holed us, having, as he said, a duty to perform,-" I am very sorry, but I feel that I should not be doing the duty of a friend did I not say that," &c., &c. We know the rest. Then, too, if there be anything supposed to be derogatory to our character, by some remarkably fortuitous concourse of circumstances it reaches one's friends with wonderful velocity, and by some equally singular process they lose no time in making known to us the intelligence. These benevolent individuals are always with us at two periods of our lives, if at none others: once when we are in trouble, to blame us for being there, and to console us with the reflection that if we had followed their advice such a catastrophe would never have happened; and secondly, when success smiles upon us, to share in our good fortune, and remind us that the grand result is exactly what they had always predicted. Everything these friends do is malapiopos; in fact, their very existence is malapropos; yet unfortunately the race is not dying out. And so we can only go on hoping for that social millennium to arrive, when other people shall know more about their own business than they do about ours. The literary friend, again, is a great tax upon one's patience. He has written a bad book, and is the only person, apparently, unaware of the fact. The burden of his life is put into the query, "Have you read my book?" and whether we have or have not we are equally unfortunate. If we have read it, we have taken our punishment already; if we have not, it is yet to come. It is a terrible responsibility for any editor to assume, that of first giving the dignity of print to such writers as those of whom we are discoursing; for he lets loose upon the whole circle of relatives and friends of the author a tide of egotism that threatens to engulf all the minor lights of literature, Shakspeare, Bacon, Carlyle, and others. In season and out of season, that first poem or paper will be thrown at unoffending heads, and persons who have never hitherto wished the literary fledgling harm, will bitterly regret the day when he first soared into the empyrean by means of a goose-quill. Daniel O'Connell once effectually settled a conceited literary friend of this description. "I saw a capital thing in your last pamphlet." "Did you?” eagerly replied the delighted author. "What was it?" "A pound of butter!" remarked the imperturbable Daniel. The friendly adviser in the political arena is likewise an enemy to the content of others. He is generally out of office-a pillar of unrecognised or unappreciated genius; and his style is as follows:-"As a sincere friend of the right honourable gentleman at the head of her Majesty's Government (or at the head of the Opposition, as the case may be)—as a sincere friend of the party to which both he and I belong-I warn him that the course he is pursuing is detrimental to the very interests he has at heart, and fraught with disastrous consequences to the country." Yet, after all the unpleasant prophecies of the legislative Cassandra, the world goes on pretty much the same as before. Undismayed, however, by his previous failures, he still continues his vaticinations. He does not, indeed, seem happy unless he has work of this kind on hand. Life has no charms for him except in so far as he can make it miserable for other people. He considers that his constituents are very highly favoured, for have they not the honour of sending to the Legislature a representative who is the very salt of that august body, and whose powers of incisive criticism can alone keep the Government straight? The foes of content could be multiplied at will, for they are numberless. The man of sedentary pursuits is especially liable to them. The labour of his brain, if it be his lot to live in London, is daily interrupted by a hundred discordant cries. Perhaps the worst of all these enemies is the German band. I am speaking now generically, for, of course, there are scores of these bands; and I dare hazard the assertion that in every individual band there is one player at least destitute of the soul of harmony, who will persist in performing half a note flat. This is generally the artist who makes up by volume what he lacks in accuracy of sound. While I write I can witness beneath my very window unmistakable signs that the evil is not yet stamped out. Those six stereotyped bronzed faces are before me. The leader, with a smile that is "child-like and bland," gives the word of command, and those formidable instruments which have never yet been tuned into harmony since the career of German bands. was inaugurated, are produced and set in battle array. A blast of something-certainly not harmony-assails the ear, and I am ready to fly from the scene, wildly asking, Who shall "pluck the rooted sorrow from the brain?" As the strains of "The Watch by the Rhine" float up to my window, I wish from the bottom of my heart that these six German patriots in particular would watch by their favoured Rhine for ever. I should be perfectly happy to hear of their exploit. This case is but typical of a hundred others which disturb us, and prevent that repose and content of the spirit which are desirable; and although the serene mind is superior to circumstances, my mind is not always serene. But the schooling is not without its value, for it is worth while to obtain control over self. The real struggle lies with petty annoyances. While we theorise how to scale the mountain we stumble over the molehill, forgetting that the mountain raised by an enemy is not of absolute necessity so troublesome as the molehill cast up by a friend. To sum up the whole matter, then, how are we to subdue our discontents? Hear what old Dekker says, when he sings so musically of this much-prized "sweet content: “Art thou poor, yet hast thou golden slumbers? Art thou rich, yet is thy mind perplexed? Dost thou laugh to see how fools are vexed The old dramatist is the true moralist. To every man born of woman there comes trouble of some kind; but it is easily borne when the heart is kept fresh and green. Once the lesson is mastered that the roots of peace are in the breast, and that they cannot be disturbed by outward tumult and storm, and a man's course is comparatively easy. He will make a virtue of necessity, and undergo his troubles bravely, as becomes a man. An ancient writer justly remarked that even as threshing separates the corn from the straw, so by crosses from the world's chaff are we born. The threshing process may be painful, but it is necessary in order to discover the good grain that is in Let no man, then, complain that his way is troublesome; for it is by such a way that the strong, manly virtues are developed. us. Of practical means for the acquisition of content there are many. content there are many. Cheerful and constant labour, with a moderate use of the luxuries and enjoyments of life, is one of the most potent. The busy man has little time for despondency. for despondency. Tired with his labours, he is visited by sweet and refreshing sleep, and rises on the morrow with the lark, ready for the round of daily duty. He has a stake in life, and in his work he finds happiness. A sound body and a healthy mind generate content. The pleasures which a man thus endowed enjoys, bring a keener zest than the epicure has ever known or can conceive of. Another help to content is to value more highly that which we have, and not to place a fictitious value upon those things which we have not, but vainly aspire after. In many cases, were the exchange effected, we should immediately pray to return to our former state. And, again, let the idea sometimes enter our minds that of such things as we have we are unworthy. No man has a right to covet wealth, honour, or power, unless he has proved himself a wise custodian and steward of the treasure already committed to his charge. What man, thus questioning himself, can affirm that in all respects he has well and perfectly acquitted himself of his responsibilities? Once more, a humble but not a servile spirit is a great begetter of content. It prepares us for either bright or adverse fortune, and enables us to preserve, amidst all change, a calm and equable temperament. And, lastly, we should not forget the insufficiency of those things for which we crave to insure happiness and a contented spirit. Alexander the Great, and the insatiable, had still room for ambition when he had con quered the world; nay, he was more miserable than when he set out upon his victorious career—so irretrievably wretched must that man be to whom life has nothing more to offer. "Give me neither poverty nor riches," was the cry of one; and the same aspiration, carried through all the affairs of life, is the truest and noblest step we can make towards the golden mean of “sweet content.” WILD FRUIT. FOR BOYS AND GIRLS. HOW long have our lips been purple and our fingers pink, stained with the delightful juices of berries which never clog, plucked beside streams and woods and eaten at the same table at which blackbird and chaffinch dine? No doubt all are boys and girls, whatever their age, who twist themselves round the boles of trees, leap over the mountain torrents with long crooks, crawl up rough precipices, or thread dripping woods to cull wild fruits in their season; but the boys and girls who speak for themselves here are those who wend their way home from school in the long sunny days of summer or the soberer evenings of autumn in rural parishes where acres are numerous and inhabitants few. G. BARNETT SMITH. ing, dancing in the fresh flood or running races over the daisies of the long level holm, drying ourselves in the sun. We held out our tanned fingers to August, for it filled them with varieties. There was a squalling as of rooks among the bird-cherry or hagberry trees, and amid the crackling of branches our cheeks, lips, and fingers got inked all over with the juice of the astringent little black dots, many of whose stones slipping over the gullet gave gastric juice a hard pull. Roadside, woodside, burnside meantime glowed with raspberries, or hindberries, of finer flavour than those in gardens; and were it not for greedy worms that breed within them and the persistent demand for them made by parched haymakers and travelling tinkers, who spoil as much as they pluck, we could have lived all day on bread, milk, and raspberries, and taken others home in With rain-washed faces we went out amaying while our very vacant stomachs had to content themselves with leaves and roots. So we chewed wood-sorrel, and dug for earth-rush-woven baskets for the babies. nuts, and put cress between leaves of buttered cake. But by-and-by came June and July, and as we groped for trouts at the edge of mossy flower-crested boulders, we espied among tufts of heather, or under fragrant birches on the sloping banks, that bilberries or blaeberries were ripe; so with cautious eyes for adders we unwound our tucked-up trousers, crawled through beds of sweet mountain fern, or bruised the perfume out of the thyme which was making ant hillocks red. Fingers, tongues, and lips kept time while sunny showers and rainbows came and went, while larks were singing in chorus and disks of wild roses were growing broader. When parched lips were sufficiently moistened we girls folded up stores of purple berries in our daidles, or long pinafores, and so many of us boys whose bonnets were not mere riddles let ourselves down precipitous banks with southern exposures and harvested the wild strawberries. Away, far up in the moors, on Saturdays and holidays, where water-kelpies haunt the mossy burns and tarns, the shepherds' boys show us where cranberries grow. They are not easily found, for their stems trail low and would go through the eye of a needle. The croak of the blackcock, the whirr of the partridge, the scream of the curlew or whaup, the cry of the snipe or heather-bleet, the note of the moss-cheeper, the quavering bleat of lambs separated from their mothers, the hum of the bee, the sweet scent from the cut bog hay, the smell of peat-reek from the shepherdboys' clothes, all mingle together as we walk or wade, sometimes through heather, sometimes through rush or brake, sometimes through little woods rough with stony spaces, where we wonder why the bells of the foxglove are so pretty, and how few stings we would get for how much honey if we harried the bees' byke or nest in the old hollow stump. September and vacation-time has come, And now we cross the stream. How and the wild cherries, or geans, as we cail warm it is! Drop a stone into the dark them, are getting first glittering red and then brown water of the pool and the sound will glittering black and ripe. Few were the tell how deep it is. It is the signal for a songs of blackbirds and thrushes in spring, dive, and soon we are screaming and flutter-for the frightfully cold winter seemed to have |