tenderness, or any like passions. One of the chief uses, be it said with all reverence, of His life below was the fact of His being an example the which we might follow-“He was in all points tempted like as we are, yet without sin."

But does the Master's sojourn here show an absence of sympathy? Nay, rather the brightest, most tender flame of a merciful all-embracing love is ever manifest in His holy life. When at the grave of Lazarus, does He discountenance the natural grief of the heart-broken relatives and friends? "Jesus wept."

Ay, and again He-"the very God of very God"-shed tears, as it were drops of blood from His mighty heart over the City of the Jews.

But some may say, we agree with most of what has been said. This, however, is general sympathy, and when not carried to an inordinate extent it is allowable, and even worthy of commendation; loving with intensity one particular friend singled out from all the rest-surely this is another form of idolatry?

Again, I answer, no.

Did not Christ select the beloved apostle, John, from the twelve, and bestow on him special marks of love beyond His great, wide, and more general affection?

Oh! if to any of us there be attached a friend whom we can trust with all our joys and sorrows, to whose life we can look up as to something noble and true; to whose deeds we can point as unselfish, free from the falsity so often seen around us; whose faith in God makes our faith the stronger; whose very being seems to fill a void, raising us out of ourselves to something finer and more full of light: then, in God's name, let us not cast such an one away.

Should we afterwards find our estimate to have been too high, do not let this discovery banish our friendship. Humanity is never perfect.

If, on the other hand, future years carry him out of our reach, because he has forfeited our respect through vicious courses-for respect should ever be an element of affectionand that we cannot reclaim the wanderer from the evil life which is now his being-oh! let us not deal too hardly with his memory, let us endeavour to cherish the remembrance of the lovely past, and though he may never be the same to us again, yet for the memory of what he once was, we should not dare to cast a stone.

One further thought. There is, besides this special love, a wide general sympathy which should not be neglected.

He who seeks to draw his fellows closer to Heavenmiserable, unworthy, outcast, and despised though they be― will only be following in the steps of the divine God, the Son of Man, who came "to seek and to save that which was lost."

Do not let us cramp our sympathies. We shall never find them too large. Seek to increase, not to contract.

ANONYMOUS.

THE WIDOW AND HER SON.

The new lodgers at first attracted our curiosity, and afterwards excited our interest.

They were a young lad of eighteen or nineteen, and his mother, a lady of about fifty, or it might be less. The mother wore a widow's weeds, and the boy was also clothed in deep mourning. They were poor-very poor; for their only means of support arose from the pittance the boy earned by copying writings, and translating for booksellers.

They had removed from some country place, and settled in London, partly because it afforded better chances of employment for the boy, and partly, perhaps, with the natural desire to leave a place where they had been in better circumstances,

and where their poverty was known. They were proud under their reverses, and above revealing their wants and privations to strangers. How bitter those privations were, and how hard the boy worked to remove them, no one ever knew but themselves. Night after night, two, three, four hours after midnight, could we hear the occasional raking up of the scanty fire, or the hollow and half-stifled cough, which indicated his being still at work; and day after day could we see more plainly that nature had set that unearthly light in his plaintive face, which is the beacon of her worst disease.

Actuated, we hope, by a higher feeling than mere curiosity, we contrived to establish, first an acquaintance, and then a close intimacy with the poor strangers. Our worst fears were realised; the boy was sinking fast. Through a part of the winter, and the whole of the following spring and summer, his labours were unceasingly prolonged; and the mother attempted to procure needlework, embroidery-anything for bread.

A few shillings now and then were all she could earn. The boy worked steadily on; dying by minutes, but never once giving utterance to complaint or murmur.

One beautiful autumn evening we went to pay our customary visit to the invalid. His little remaining strength had been decreasing rapidly for two or three days preceding, and he was lying on the sofa at the open window, gazing at the setting sun. His mother had been reading the Bible to him, for she closed the book as we entered, and advanced to meet

us.

"I was telling William," she said, "that we must manage to take him into the country somewhere, so that he may get quite well. He is not ill, you know, but he is not very strong, and has exerted himself too much lately." Poor thing! The tears that streamed through her fingers as she

turned aside, as if to adjust her close widow's cap, too plainly showed how fruitless was the attempt to deceive herself.

We sat down by the head of the sofa, but said nothing, for we saw the breath of life was passing gently but rapidly from the young form before us. At every respiration his heart beat more slowly.

The boy placed one hand in ours, grasped his mother's arm with the other, drew her hastily towards him, and fervently kissed her cheek. There was a pause. He sunk back upon his pillow, and looked long and earnestly in his mother's face.

"William, William !" murmured the mother after a long interval, "don't look at me so-speak to me, dear!"

The boy smiled languidly, but an instant afterwards his features resolved into the same cold, solemn gaze.

“William, dear William! rouse yourself, dear; don't look at me so, love-pray, don't! O my God! what shall I do?" cried the widow, clasping her hands in agony. "My dear boy! he is dying!"

The boy raised himself by a violent effort, and folded his hands together. "Mother! dear, dear mother, bury me in the open fields-anywhere but in these dreadful streets. I should like to be where you can see my grave, but not in these close crowded streets; they have killed me; kiss me again, mother; put your arm round my neck

He fell back, and a strange expression stole upon his features; not of pain or suffering, but an indescribable fixing every line and muscle.

of

The boy was dead.

CHARLES DICKENS.

[By kind permission of Messrs. Chapman and Hall.]

THE POETRY OF CITY AND COUNTRY LIFE.

Where should the scholar live? In solitude, or in society? In the green stillness of the country, where he can hear the heart of Nature beat; or in the dark, gray city, where he can hear and feel the throbbing heart of man? I will make answer for him, and say, in the dark, gray city. Oh, they do greatly err who think that the stars are all the poetry which cities have; and therefore, that the poet's only dwelling should be in sylvan solitudes, under the green roof of trees. Beautiful, no doubt, are all the forms of Nature, when transfigured by the miraculous power of poetry; hamlets and harvest fields, and nut-brown waters flowing ever under the forest vast and shadowy, with all the sights and sounds of rural life. But, after all, what are these but the decorations and painted scenery in the great theatre of human life? What are they but the coarse materials of the poet's song? Glorious, indeed, is the world of God around us—but more glorious the world of God within us. There lies the land of

song; there lies the poet's native land. The river of life, that flows through streets tumultuous, bearing along so many gallant hearts, so many wrecks of humanity; the many homes and households, each a little world in itself, revolving round its fireside, as a central sun; all forms of human joy and suffering, brought into that narrow compass; and to be in this and be a part of this; acting, thinking, rejoicing, sorrowing with his fellow-men-such, such should be the poet's life. If he would describe the world, he should live in the world. The mind of the scholar, also, if you would have it large and liberal, should come in contact with other minds. It is better that his armour should be somewhat bruised even by rude encounters, than hang for ever rusting on the wall. Nor will his themes be few or trivial, because apparently shut-in between the walls of houses, and having merely the