mental vigour. If we wish to find ourselves prepared to cross the river of death in fair weather, we must keep our robe of Christ's imputed righteousness ever spotless-must carry our lamp in our hand, and our passport in our heart. Dear Mr. Editor,-My thoughts reverted to you, and your many blooming young readers, as I returned from my late perilous journey; and I would fain whisper to each of them, "Remember now thy Creator in thy youth, while the evil days come not." With best wishes for your own pilgrimage, believe me, E. W. P. ALL SEEK THEIR OWN." "WHEN all this weary, weary, world-" "How true that is," sighed a young lady, as she read these lines; and then threw down her book, with a languid and yet slightly petulant air. "What is it, my dear?" said her grandfather, with a smile: "Did your pony refuse to take you your accustomed ride this afternoon, or—-—----- "Grandpapa!" exclaimed the lady, in a tone of expostulation, "you do not understand. What has my pony to do with my feelings?" "A great deal, my dear; because, I thought, if my supposition were correct, you would have had to walk and might have become weary' in that way." Marian took up the book again. "That would indeed have been a light misfortune, not worth mentioning; besides, I am so used to my pony now, and so many other people have one, that altogether I-but "What is this weariness then, you feel the weight of so heavily? You're well in health, are you not? ” "Well! oh dear, yes." "And young, and rich." "Rich, I may be; but my dear grandfather, it is as impossible for you to sympathize with me, as I with you. How can I, for instance, when your rheumatism is troublesome, go shivering about the house, covering myself with flannels to keep out the draughts? It is impossible, perfectly." "Perhaps so, my dear; but I think I could sympathize with you on the 'weary weariness' of the world this particular evening, if I could gather why." "You can't, of course; I cannot explain my feelings; I could not define them, even to you. As to my being rich and healthy, thousands are that, and yet the most miserable creatures in existence." "Very true," answered the old gentleman, quietly. "As to youth," continued Marian, " that I have long ceased to possess.. At six-and-twenty, I cannot have any fresh, romantic schemes in my head. I've seen too much, and undergone too much, for that to be possible, and when I think how old I am now, how thoroughly alive to the hollowness of-ofeverything, I wonder how people can say, when they have reached an advanced age, and as I have myself heard you say yourself, that life seems short on the retrospect. What easy lives they must have led.” "Then you think that some people have had as many trials at six-and-twenty as the generality at three-score years and ten." "Partly I do. But what would be a trial to me, would not be to you, very likely." "So I think," returned the old man; "and trials which affect us in youth, do not in the same degree in later life. But I hoped, my dear, you did not yet know from experience that this world was so weary.' I thought you might have begun to think so; but more in theory than reality." "It's the mind more than the circumstances that makes us old or young, happy or the reverse. I thought the old idea, that riches and kind friends, and a free disposal of our time, and a tolerable share of good looks and admirers, and all that, made happiness, was exploded long ago." "That idea,” answered her grandfather, " was quite as much exploded in the minds of pious and sensible people five-hundred years ago as it is now." "Well, grandpapa, I am not complaining of my lot, but only of my own inability to see its advantages." "There you are quite right; and I have often thought when you and Edward have been spoiling each other's pleasure, and wasting each other's time, that if you could but see things as you do now, all would be better." "Edward is extremely clever," said Marian-"much more so than I am, bnt yet he complains of— "He complains of a great many things," interrupted the old gentleman, "but when he is older I trust he will be wiser." "Older!” repeated Marian, rising from her chair and pacing the elegant room in despair. "He's a second Methuselah in experience, though four years younger than I am." "And yet, begging your pardon, I have heard him say very young things: mind you, not simple, child-like things, for nothing is more beautiful in conversation than occasionally to hear a remark breathing the simplicity of mind which few beyond the age of childhood retain; but I mean foolish, hot-headed, obstinate remarks, which I am always sorry to hear from those who know better." "I am not an advocate for Edward," said Marian, "far from it. I think he's discontented. He will not do as I often dotry to make the best of annoyances and mortifications; neither does he try to put on a smiling, cheerful manner, as I can when really in the last stage of lassitude and indifference." "I am very sorry both for you and your cousin,” returned the old gentleman, with unusual gravity; and gently pushing away his cup of tea, he drew his easy chair nearer the fire, and composed himself for his evening nap. Marian sat listlessly by the table, her tea untasted, and gazing abstractedly at the urn, as if that were the receptacle of mystery and perplexity. I suppose she might have continued in this attitude half-an-hour, had not a loud knocking at the street-door attracted her attention, and presently a pleasant voice, as a gentleman entered the room, accosted her with→→ "Well, Marian! I'm glad to find you in; I half expected you would have been at Mr. Melville's to-night, he invited me to go. Heigh ho! the old gentleman asleep, I suppose, so I must turn out of the easy chair." So saying, the young man flung himself into a low couch; for it was cousin Edward. "Yes; grandpapa has been asleep some time. I did'nt go to the party-I think I'm tired of company, and the trouble of dressing is so great, and altogether I really prefer sitting quietly at home sometimes with grandpapa. I assure you, Edward, when we were both at Mrs. Horton's the other evening, and you asked me to sing, I felt that I would so much rather not." "But you're not nervous." "Of course not: I was only mentioning that, as an instance of my general want of spirits in society, I don't seem to care what I do or how I look." "I'm sure," said her cousin, "if you had only given me the very least hint, I wouldn't have asked you to sing: it was a mere compliment on my part." "What a polite speech," exclaimed Marian, laughing, “pray do not trouble yourself with such compliments for the future." "I hear the same," said Edward, gloomily, "wherever I go; every body complains of everything, after twenty." "No, no, don't say that," hastily interposed the other; "we're not such ungrateful creatures as to despise every blessing, after early youth." "A fact, however. Nothing amuses; nothing excites.—If I go a journey, I'm not sorry when it gets dark, so that I mayn't be at the trouble of affecting to admire the prospect. When I go to a party, I often say, 'Thank goodness it will soon be over."" Marian listened politely, and then entered into her own experience, which was somewhar similar. 66 'People are very fond," said Edward, interrupting with a yawn, his cousin's remark, "of saying it's want of employment that makes people sick of themselves, and want of variety. But that doesn't hold good in our case: you have endless variety; and I am worn out with business and anxiety and parties in the evening-therefore that argument is knocked on the head." "But you needn't go to the parties," said Marian, with an arch smile. "No, certainly, I am not obliged; but I feel so moped at home if I don't vary it. I am sure I think, when my aunts came last Saturday to spend the day with my mother, if I yawned once during the evening, I yawned a hundred times. They asked me to read to them--a nice book enough it's truebut I had to change my seat, and go and try all the easy chairs in the room before I could get comfortable, in any temper at all. I wish my mother, with all her good points, had a little tact: she does not see how annoying that kind of thing is to me." "But it would not have done for her to read aloud, when you were sitting idle in the room. I confess a trifle of that kind would not disturb my equanimity. I read a great deal aloud to grandpapa of an evening; you know it amuses the poor old gentleman (at least his doctor thinks so) to hear some nice book, and perhaps might, he thought, prevent his going to sleep. So I go to the library, and select any thing that I think will interest us both, though to be sure it's difficult to find such a volume; and then, just before tea, I begin. He generally goes to sleep in about a quarter of an hour, and then I finish the book by myself, which is a capital plan." “That would be insipid to the last degree to me," said Edward, "because, when he awakes, you have to begin over again from where he dropped to sleep. Why it must be endless work?" "Why he does'nt often recollect distinctly, so I tell him the heads of the discourse. I mean, you know, a few general. hints, and then go on from where I was reading myself. But old people have no appreciation of the beautiful, so that I have less scruple in reading little disjointed bits; and he's satisfied with whatever it is.. I think he feels that it's dull work for me, though I take care never to say so, for I would'nt hurt his feelings on any account." Don't for a “I'll venture to say he thinks as I often have myself, that you have'nt a wish ungratified," answered Edward. Marian shook her head. "What a mistake! moment think I wish to be unhappy: far from it. I am very anxious to enjoy myself-nobody more so. But some how, society and home are alike becoming a gêne,' I cannot support it; and I'm sure it's not from comparing my lot with others. I was reading the other day an old number of the ‘English Woman's Magazine,' and came upon these lines-I don't agree with the sentiments, but they're pretty: "Strange that when we long for something which can never be obtained, In our hearts we turn to others, who we deem the boon have gained, |