such a day of rest, for the toil which has bent his form, and bronzed his face, and hardened his hands, must be sometimes remitted

And yet it is hard for such an one to sit still in the house. His home is out-doors, in the day-time, and it is no easy matter to rest contented within. So, even while he sits, his thoughts are away all over the farm, planting and sowing, and ploughing and reaping. And by-andby he forgets where he is forgets the crackling fire, and the whistling wind, and the winter cold- he is hard at work in his broad green fields. He works hard, but works cheerfully, and every thing prospers. What beautiful crops! what a plentiful harvest! He pulls down his old barn and puts up a greater. He counts his grain-stacks, and they have doubled on former years. He is getting on in the world, he must have more land. He adds acre to acre, and field to field. And still every thing prospers. How old the farm-house begins to look! It is time it came down, and down it comes. A stately mansion takes its place, more worthy of the farmer's increasing fortune. And now he is getting old himself. He has worked hard enough in his day; he will give up the charge to his son, and spend his old age in peace. So when he walks out he goes only to see what others are doing, and when he comes in he has an elbow-chair, and his grand-children sit on his knees. A big coal snaps out of the fire on to the kitchen-floor. The farmer starts up, he looks out of the window. Oh! how the wind blows! Oh! how the snow flies! Well, well,' says he to himself, 'I guess I was dreaming, and yet I don't believe I slept.'

And so we all dream sometimes dream in the day-time. So we build our castles in the air; so we dwell in shadowy halls in the land of shadows. The old man dreams of the past, for his El Dorado is back toward the place of the sun-rising, the place of his youth. The young and vigorous dream of the future, for their hopes are there, and they love to send scouting-parties of thought in advance of the steady tramp of Time. The unfortunate cherish their day-dreams, for so they forget

the living reality.

But are we the better for our dreams? Not if facts are more worthy of attention than the wild flights of fancy. Not if we intend to do any thing and be any thing here in this world.

Our brightest dreams are the greatest lies, and can we profit by deceiving ourselves? We are surrounded by realities, we must grapple with realities; and were it not better to be doing a little, than to be dreaming much? We unnerve ourselves for active exertion by indulging in exaggerated visions. When we give the rein to imagination it bears us to a pinnacle far above the highest point of human reality; and when we come back to struggle in earnest onward and upward, our progress is painfully slow not only, but our highest attainments seem contemptibly low. The dreamer of day-dreams is always a disappointed man; he has lived so much in airy castles, that earth is at best a poor, miserable hovel.

But must we always be grappling with the present? Must we shut out all thought of the future, and live as if we were the ephemera of today? What, then, would become of hope, the brightest blessing left to man? What would cheer us in the dark hour of adversity? What

would strengthen us to bear the ills of life? No, no, we must not, cannot be indifferent to the future: but, remember, there is a great difference between well-considered plans, and careful preparation to take advantage of coming events which may cast their shadows before,' and wild dreams of mocking improbabilities, and fascinating impossibilities, and glittering absurdities. The former belong to the wise man ; the latter to the dreamer. There is a wide gulf, too, between wellfounded hopes and unreasonable fancies. Hope brings comfort; fancy, discontent. And yet it is a galling imprisonment of the mind to be confined to the past, present, and future realities of earth. We know the past, we have the present, we grasp the utmost probabilities of the future, and still are ready to sit down and weep with Alexander for more worlds.

There is something in the human mind intrinsically superior to the highest earthly position. The very fact that our day-dreams present brighter scenes than we can ever expect earth to furnish, shows that there is a longing there for something above and beyond earth. We do indeed find that our roving fancy generally lights on something very like what earth does sometimes furnish, very like what some of our fellow-men possess; but is it satisfied there? No, the longer we dream the wilder our dream becomes, until we lose sight of all familiar scenes, and rove through another creation.

May we not, must we not dream, then, if we would find the mere phantom of food for this craving appetite?

No, we speak it reverently; there are other realities than those of earth. There is a well-founded hope which reaches forward far beyond the end of time. There are real scenes, far more glorious than the brightest creations of imagination. And they may be reached, and occupied, and enjoyed; not merely dreamed of for an hour. They will satisfy the most intense cravings of the soul; they will comfort the deepest sorrow that has ever forced a sigh in this vale of tears. There will the old man's youth be renewed like the eagle's; and there will the daughter of sorrow find a happy home. In the midst of those delights would the young man scorn the base objects of his earth-born ambition; and the man who toiled here, and dreamed of an earthly reward, look back with shame on his folly.

O dreamers of day-dreams! would you have a reality infinitely fairer than your brightest visions? Go find what heaven is, and learn the way thither.

Therefore, when news across the sea
Sadly, from Cuba's sunny shore,
Came with a thrill to all the land,
That his bold heart could beat no more;
I turned to one I loved, whose eye

Was sad and dark like his, and said:
'Tears from our eyes are not amiss,

For him, the young and glorious dead!'.

O sailor bold! O child of science!

With heritage of lasting fame!
The earth may hold thy crumbling dust,
But glory thy ennobled name!
The icebergs of the northern pole

Are towers and monuments to thee!
And round their glistening sides shall rise
Thy requiem from the moaning sea!

By the Wabash, March 7, 1857.

AN OWER TRUE TALE.'

BY EBEN. BARTON.

You all must know that I am an old bachelor, that is to say, fortyfive or so; when I'm sixty I'll tell you that I'm not as young as I once was; but till then, I'm going to say that I am old. Some persons say I am a sour old fellow; some that I'm crusty; but most persons say so because, when they 're asked, they really do n't like to confess that they don't know any thing at all about me, which would be the truth, so they say something unkind with a knowing leer, which passes as a certificate of old acquaintance. But what care I? My little nieces do n't think so; and if any know. Uncle Jeff, they do. Often and often they have asked me why I am not married, and as my answers were always evasive, they at last made up some tale of 'romantic attachment,' to satisfy their own inquiries. Now my little Frances or Fanny would hurt no one by word or deed,' and hearing that her little fiction pained me, she seemed so grieved, poor child, that I determined to tell her the truth, and as I have told her, why may I not tell you? Though many a chord may ache as I jar it by this recital; yet on the whole, when it's all over, I shall feel what in expressive Western language would be, abominably refreshed.' So here goes:

When I was a wild young fellow of nineteen, I had the luck, call it not good or ill till this brief page be read, of meeting with Ned Seaton, also a native of my city; for as mine I shall ever regard Baltimore, even should another score of years pass by without beholding it. To

him I always had confided my feelings, and the confidence was fully returned. Owing to some severe losses, my father was obliged to live in a style far more humble than had been his former fortune to afford, and so keenly sensitive was he on the subject of his altered means, that he would admit no play-fellow, either of mine or of my sister, within our walls. Ned knew this, and was the only friend I had; but as his friendship had been contracted since our change in life, even he had never seen the home to which a father welcomed me; for though rigid in his orders, he was ever kind to Fanny and to me. As for her, gentle girl, she never left the house, except with father, and then veiled more as beseemed a nun than a maiden of eighteen. Friend she had not, and no mother had we to guide our steps, in that turning-point of life. Unknown, and, except by me, almost uncared for, Fanny had grown beautiful, and the awkward child had rounded into the woman, calm, dignified, and thoughtful.

Ned, a year older than myself, would try to enliven my sad moods by telling me of the gayeties of the world, and I in turn would relate them to Fanny, to cheer her loneliness. At length, hearing me talk so much about him, created in her mind a wish to know the indirect means of so much of her happiness; but on venturing to express the wish my father sternly forbade me to repeat his idle news, and reïterated his command to me, never to bring him into the house. About a month after this, my father's condition in life improved, the recovery of a bank which had involved him, enabled us to reside in a house better suited to my father's taste, and in our former neighborhood.

While under the pleasurable influence of his good fortune, my father voluntarily released us from the veto he had put on our mingling with society. Now, children,' said he, for so he had always called us, 'you may go to your little merry-makings, if you have the heart to do so when you can't come back in your own carriage, as I have always hoped you might, long before this time.' Then, seeing he was beginning to brood over his misfortunes again, we quickly changed the subject. Feeling more cheerful than I had done for months, nay years, I ran to Ned, my second self, and told him the good news. I really think it pleased him as much, if not more, than me. When I told him I could now go into company, he again congratulated me, then looked thoughtful an instant, and then shaking hands with me, excused himself and walked quickly away. When I reached home, Fanny met me at the door and handed me a little note, the counterpart of which she held in her hand,' opened and read. Her whole face was beaming with pleasure; so as the shortest way to find out what it meant, I read mine. It was an invitation from Ned, a party given to us for the evening next but one. Of course we accepted. Would to God that party had never taken place! But I am anticipating. The evening came, I was sick; but not to disappoint Fanny, I took her, and then, begging Ned to aid her in embarrasments incident to a débût, and on his promising to see her safely home, I returned, and soon after retired. As I learned afterward from Ned's own lips, she was the star of the evening; her familiarity with literature made her at home on every topic, and the novelty of her position made no difference in her actions, for she was uncon