ing a little pale, to be sure, as most young mothers do; but the moralist and his bride know her at once.

"Well, Mrs. Kittletink," says the bridegroom, stopping right short in front of the parson, "a year to-day. Have you regretted taking Tom for good and all?"

"Bless him, no sir," says Mary, rising to drop a curtsey; "the minutes have all been too short, and they 'll be shorter now, sir; for ye see the baby. The image of him, isn't it, sir ?"

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Exactly. Well, here's a pound to buy something to make punch of to-night, and mind Tapps tastes it. Recollect, good strong punch, plenty of rum in it, and that old Jamaica, and Tapps 'll know what toast to drink."

"That he will, sir. A dear creetur, sir! with a heart like his lark.

"Well! tell him he taught a man to be wise. Good day, Mrs. Kittletink; and now my dear!"

"We'll put Malthus on our shelves with our graver books, and read

"The HUMAN HEART, my love, and improve upon Tapps' logic." “And whilst you write the second volume of Truths for the Time,' I'll make novels that shall be for everybody."

"To be read by everybody. You step here, my love! Mind, I think we 're as happy as Tom Kittletink and little Mary." "I'm sure of it.'

"Well! then we 're with Time against Malthus. Tapps was right ours is the last new verdict.

"There 'll be many more such when

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Every day more and more. Cheap bread; the havens of the earth free; science, unbaring the fruitful bosom of the soil, will show men the profound wisdom of the moral the Greek sage taught, that Nature's true laws co-exist not with Evil, for Nature is God."

E. M.

A "MAN OF GOOD SOUND SENSE."

DID you ever see a self-satisfied, dull-witted, positively speaking, main-chance-pursuing, very sceptical, and altogether unenthusiastic specimen of the animal, man? Did you ever see such

a specimen, and not hear him generally called a "man of good sound sense?'

Why is he so called? Because to the stolid, want of sense is good sense; and the greater number of mankind being rendered stolid by the training of society, one who embodies their own peculiarities is sure to have their good word. People name by a fine name whatever keeps themselves in countenance.

If asses could speak, be sure they would discourse on the wholesomeness of thistles, and the beauty of long ears; and any donkey who seemed to munch his thistles with a peculiar relish, or to flourish his ears with more satisfaction than ordinary, would to a certainty receive great praise from his species. He might even, if very asinine in his tendencies, be styled by a distinctive title, and live grandly amongst donkeys, a donkey aristocrat. The prerogative of speech has been used, time out of mind, in giving to baseness the attributes of nobility; and men, if not donkeys, have found out how, by worshipping their own mean qualities in the person of another, they raise their estimate of

their own nature.

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The "man of good sound sense " is, of course, well to do in the world, or the world would not compliment him with such a cognomen. Indeed it is very probable that formerly he may have been differently considered. If he have had his way to make, he will perhaps or when poor and but just commencing the struggle have been called an honest well-meaning man; by and by-as his success becomes more evident-he will be promoted to the rank of a "deserving man, and no fool; until at last-when in possession of social influence, money to spend, and money to leave-he will gain his eminent, fully-developed title, and wear it as gracefully as Sancho Panza wore that of governor of the Island of Barataria.

The "man of good sound sense is sternly and snecringly

opposed to all innovative propositions. It is pleasant to hear him talk on such matters. He smashes them in the most unpitying manner, either by ponderous argument, or by ridicule which is still more ponderous than the argument. Usually, too, he is not confused by any knowledge of the subject which he condemns, and as most of the auditors are generally as ignorant, and as inimical as himself, he makes out the case most triumphantly to his own and their satisfaction. Sometimes, however, he commits the mistake of inquiring into the subject before he opposes it; but as he always does so with a prudent determination beforehand not to be convinced, the study seldom does him any harm. A pompous sort of mock candour is, indeed, very often a part of his character. He is " open to conviction," he declares, and is "unwilling to condemn unheard" any new doctrine, however startling. But he labours under the undoubting persuasion that all believers in such doctrines should consider his listening to their arguments as a great favour; and so perhaps it is-for after all they can say, he never has "heard anything to alter his opinion, already expressed." It is a settled thing with him, that whoever pretends to teach him intends to insult him; and he resents the attempt accordingly. The idea of gratitude to those who enlighten the world by the dissemination of new ideas would certainly be to him one of the newest and most curious ideas conceivable. The clerk of Oxford, in the "Canterbury Tales," was evidently a gentleman and a philosopher, for Chaucer tells us that " gladly would he learn, and gladly teach; but the man of good sound sense can understand only the teaching side of such a character, and that but dimly.

He can cant the usual praise, however, of those who have long ago firmly fixed their discoveries in the public mind, or rendered their theories generally acceptable, notwithstanding the opposition and apathy of former "men of good sound sense. He will talk of Luther, and Galileo, and Locke, and Watt, and Harvey, as if he would not have done his little utmost, had he been contemporary with them, to destroy them by silence, or to crush them by abuse, ridicule, and bad argument.

To prove this, there is no occasion when he shines more than when he has a fair opportunity of exhibiting his disdain for all who, in his own day, make any objects but wealth and worldly advancement the business of their lives. For poets, in particular, he has the most unmitigated contempt, mingled with a degree of

secret hatred for presenting as they do, in their works, so strong a contrast to his own grovelling sentiments. If one of them die, and leave a wife and family destitute, the event affords him much quiet chuckling enjoyment, and he expresses his feelings in the exclamation," Poor devil!" coupled with some politico-economical remarks about the "value" of poems "in the market." "If men must be authors," he says, why can't they write in the newspapers?" Artists he looks upon as silly, idle fellowsthough he is inclined to except portrait-painters, who show knowledge of the world, and a laudable wish to butter their bread on the every-day principles of trade. Musicians he usually speaks of as "fiddlers," and their art as "crotchets and quavers." He would have viewed Beethoven, and the man who played the long drum in one of his symphonies, as of just about the same class, and would probably have asked how much each was in the habit of "making" a week. Architects, he thinks, may do something in these times, especially if they turn their chief attention to ornamental shop-fronts. Mere investigating men of science he considers idiots, who sacrifice themselves for the benefit of the community-though a chemist who invents a new dye, "warranted fast," he is not hard upon. An engineer he always speaks of with respect.

But all men have their weakness, and the "man of good sound sense" is no exception. However much money he may possess, he has a constant longing to get more. Hence projected railroads, new steam-boat companies, wonderful speculations of all sorts, are dangerous temptations to him, and, if he lose, his "good sound sense" is sorely taxed to account for his having been deceived. Under such trials he becomes meek and dismal, as he is quite conscious that his character depends on his worldly success. Should he, however, live safely amidst these perils, and prosper in his gambling investments, he assumes, and has granted to him, more consideration than ever. He is elevated as an idol of "respectable" worship; public dinners are given to him; his choice raises the price of stock; he buys land, and flutters hopefully up towards the peerage.

Every stage of the earth's progress no doubt produces creatures proper to that stage; but as reptiles have been succeeded by men, let us hope that "men of good sound sense" may be succeeded by men with a loving reverence for truth, goodness, and beauty. ARTHUR WALLBRIDGE

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THE HEDGEHOG LETTERS.

CONTAINING THE OPINIONS AND ADVENTURES OF JUniper hedgeHOG, CABMAN, LONDON; AND WRITTEN ΤΟ HIS RELATIVES AND ACQUAINTANCE,

VARIOUS PARTS OF THE WORLD.

IN

LETTER XXVIII.-TO JOHN ROBINSON, PRIVATE OF THE 91ST FOOT, INDIA. DEAR JOHN,-When this letter may find you it isn't for me to say; but wherever you are, it will no doubt find you upon a bed of laurels; though, for my own part, I do think a bed of good honest goose feathers the more comfortable lying. Mind, I don't for a moment want to think light of what you've done and what you 've suffered. Not a bit of it. Terrible work it must be ; and a bold heart a man must needs have to go through it: you've earned your share of glory-(though what may be your share as a full private I can't say)—and I should think have got your bellyful of it for life. It's my hope, however, that you'll never get any more. No, having cleaned the blood from your bayonet, and once more polished up your firelock, it's my hope that they'll never know service again. I do hope, whatever you may think, that you 've had enough of the sport; now sticking cold iron into the bowels of a screeching man, and now knocking in his skull as though it was no more than a pumpkin. When the guns are firing, and the blood's up, of course you think nothing of the work, going at it as though you were an engine of brass made to shoot and stab. But, I should say, it can't be pleasant to think of when it's over. That field of glory, as it's called, must go nigh to make a man heart-sick; must make him a little out of sorts with himself: 'tis so different a field to a field of cut corn. For my part, John, I would much sooner cultivate turnips than laurels. A turnip 's a nice thing for men and cattle, and so easily grown. Now, laureleven a sprig of it, must be raised in the devil's hothouse, and be manured with human blood. Still, according to some folks, there's some human blood that Providence thinks no more of than ditchwater. Of course, there's been a pretty hurrah here in England about your putting down the Sikhs. One quiet gentleman with a goose