were staring him in the face, he laid his sad case before a celebrated author, beseeching his counsel and assistance. This generous man immediately put aside his own matters, and proceeded to peruse one of the despised manuscripts. Having completed his kindly task, he shook the poor young man cordially by the hand, saying, I perceive merit in this; come again to me on Monday.' When the time specified was come, the celebrated author, with a sweet smile, but saying nothing, spread open a magazine which was damp from the press. What was the poor young man's astonishment to discover upon the printed page his own article! How can I ever,' said he, falling upon his knees and bursting into tears, testify my gratitude for this noble conduct!' The celebrated author was the renowned Snodgrass; the poor young beginner thus rescued from obscurity and starvation was the afterwards equally renowned Snagsby. Let this pleasing incident admonish us to turn a charitable ear to all beginners that need help.

SEQUEL.

The next week Snagsby was back with five rejected manuscripts. The celebrated author was a little surprised, because in the books the young struggler had never needed but one lift, apparently. However, he ploughed through these papers, removing unnecessary flowers and digging up some acres of adjective-stumps, and then succeeded in getting two of the articles accepted.

A week or so drifted by, and the grateful Snagsby arrived with another cargo. The celebrated author had felt a mighty glow of satisfaction within himself the first time he had successfully befriended the poor young struggler, and had compared himself with the generous people in the books with high satisfaction; but he was beginning to suspect now that he had struck upon something fresh in the noble-episode line. His enthusiasm took a chill. Still, he could not bear to repulse this struggling young author who clung to him with such pretty simplicity and trustfulness.

Well, the upshot of it all was that the celebrated author presently found himself permanently freighted with the poor young beginner. All his mild efforts to unload his cargo went for nothing. He had to give daily counsel, daily encouragement; he had to keep on procuring magazine acceptances, and then revamping the manuscripts to make them presentable. When the young aspirant got a start at last, he rode into sudden fame by describing the celebrated author's private life with such a caustic humour and such minuteness of blistering detail that the book sold a prodigious

edition, and broke the celebrated author's heart with mortification. With his last gasp he said, Alas, the books deceived me; they do not tell the whole story. Beware of the struggling young author, my friends. Whom God sees fit to starve, let not man presumptuously rescue to his own undoing.'

THE GRATEFUL HUSBAND.

One day a lady was driving through the principal street of a great city with her little boy, when the horses took fright and dashed madly away, hurling the coachman from his box and leaving the occupants of the carriage paralysed with terror. But a brave youth who was driving a grocery wagon threw himself before the plunging animals, and succeeded in arresting their flight at the peril of his own life. The grateful lady took his number, and upon arriving at her home she related the heroic act to her husband (who had read the books), who listened with streaming eyes to the moving recital; and who, after returning thanks, in conjunction with his restored loved ones, to Him who suffereth not even a sparrow to fall to the ground unnoticed, sent for the brave young person, and, placing a cheque for five hundred dollars in his hand, said, 'Take this as a reward for your noble act, William Ferguson; and if ever you should need a friend, remember that Thomas McSpadden has a grateful heart.' Let us learn from this that a good deed cannot fail to benefit the doer, however humble or obscure he may be.

SEQUEL.

William Ferguson called the next week and asked Mr. McSpadden to use his influence to get him a higher employment, he feeling capable of better things than driving a grocer's wagon. Mr. McSpadden got him an under-clerkship at a good salary.

Presently William Ferguson's mother fell sick, and WilliamWell, to cut the story short, Mr. McSpadden consented to take her into his house. Before long she yearned for the society of her younger children; so Mary and Julia were admitted also, and little Jimmy their brother. Jimmy had a pocket-knife, and he wandered into the drawing-room with it one day, alone, and reduced ten thousand dollars' worth of furniture to an indeterminable value in rather less than three-quarters of an hour. A day or two later he fell downstairs and broke his neck, and seventeen of his family's relatives came to the house to attend the funeral. This made them acquainted, and they kept the kitchen occupied after that, and

likewise kept the McSpaddens busy hunting up situations of various sorts for them, and hunting up more when they wore these out. The old woman drank a good deal and swore a good deal; but the grateful McSpaddens knew it was their duty to reform her, considering what her son had done for them, so they clave nobly to their generous task. William came often and got decreasing sums of money, and asked for higher and more lucrative employments,-which the grateful McSpadden more or less promptly procured for him. McSpadden consented also, after some demur, to fit William for college; but when the first vacation. came, and the hero requested to be sent to Europe for his health, the persecuted McSpadden rose against the tyrant and revolted. He plainly and squarely refused. William Ferguson's mother was so astounded that she let her gin bottle drop, and her profane lips refused to do their office. When she recovered she said in a halfgasp, Is this your gratitude? Where would your wife and boy be now, but for my son?'

William said, Is this your gratitude? Did I save your wife's life or not? tell me that!'

Seven relations swarmed in from the kitchen, and each said, And this is his gratitude!'

6

William's sisters stared, bewildered, and said, And this is his grat'- but were interrupted by their mother, who burst into tears and exclaimed, To think that my sainted little Jimmy threw away his life in the service of such a reptile!'

Then the pluck of the revolutionary McSpadden rose to the occasion, and he exclaimed with fervour, ‘Out of my house, the whole beggarly tribe of you! I was beguiled by the books, but shall never be beguiled again,-once is sufficient for me.' And turning to William he shouted, 'Yes, you did save my wife's life, and the next man that does it shall die in his tracks!'

Not being a clergyman, I place my text at the end of my sermon instead of at the beginning of it. Here it is, from Mr. Noah Brooks's Recollections of President Lincoln, in Scribner's Monthly' :

'J. H. Hackett, in his part of Falstaff, was an actor who gave Mr. Lincoln great delight. With his usual desire to signify to others his sense of obligation, Mr. Lincoln wrote a genial little note to the actor, expressing his pleasure at witnessing his performance. Mr. Hackett, in reply, sent a book of some sort; perhaps it was one of his own authorship. He also wrote several notes to the President. One night quite late, when the episode had passed out of my mind, I went to the White House in answer to a message. Passing into the President's office, I noticed, to my

surprise, Hackett sitting in the anteroom as if waiting for an audience. The President asked me if anyone was outside. On being told, he said, half sadly, "Oh, I can't see him, I can't see him; I was in hopes he had gone away." Then he added, "Now this just illustrates the difficulty of having pleasant friends and acquaintances in this place. You know how I liked Hackett as an actor, and how I wrote to tell him so. He sent me that book, and there I thought the matter would end. He is a master of his place in the profession, I suppose, and well fixed in it; but just because we had a little friendly correspondence, such as any two men might have, he wants something. What do you suppose he wants?' I could not guess, and Mr. Lincoln added, "Well, he wants to be consul to London. Oh, dear!"'

I will observe, in conclusion, that the William Ferguson incident occurred, and within my personal knowledge,-though I have changed the nature of the details, to keep William from recognizing himself in it.

Every reader of this article has in some sweet and gushing hour of his life played the role of Magnanimous-Incident hero. I wish I knew how many there are among them who are willing to talk about that episode and like to be reminded of the consequences that flowed from it.

332

A Warm Admirer.

Vix illigatum te triformi

Pegasus expediet Chimæra.

SHE'so admires our verse,' she writes:
To her our vein includes
Dear L. E. L's entrancing flights

wrong,

And Landor's happiest moods (!).
She thinks-no doubt, she may be
Would we the light' forego,
We might ally to Swinburne's song
The muse of Tupper (Oh!).
She tries, she says, our face to guess,-
Our gesture, look and air;

She pictures us with Shelley's tress,
(Alas! our scanty hair!)

She sees us with a Keats's brow,—
A Byron tie and throat!
(If she could but inspect us now
In this old inky coat!)

She fancies us to raptured men
Just scribbling off at will
Our 'golden thoughts with golden pen.'
(Alas! our stumpy quill!)

She fancies us with raptured voice-
'Declaiming song sublime!'

(Poor quill! and we, who so rejoice To find the wished-for rhyme !)

She wonders if we never knew

The sympathetic ear;

She wonders if we suffered, too,
"The high Parnassian sneer!'

But no.

Who studies us can tell

Us equable, serene ;—

She reads between the lines too well.'

(What can the woman mean?)

SHE writes too (Ah!). Mere trivial things!—
Mere broken cris du cœur!

The Orphic lyre's auguster strings

Are not of course-for Her!!'

Our heart, she feels, is kind (Ahem!);

They lack the eye,-the touchShe should...

,་་

so like to send us them!' Alas! WE GUESSED AS MUCH!

AUSTIN DOBSON,