unchanged in character: the Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha! of days gone by, rang through the walls of the adjoining chamber. My old neighbour was paying a transitory visit to a friend in his old habitation, and could hardly do less than indulge in his accustomed greeting. The hour passed, his visit drew to an end, and as he walked away, a right royal open-air Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha! proclaimed his departure.

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We are told in the book of Proverbs that in laughter the heart is sorrowful;" and, now and then, instances occur wherein the truth of the text is painfully set forth. As there is no peace to the wicked, so it follows that their outward mirth is mingled with inward care. How hollow must be the mirth of one who is in continual fear! and how heartless the laughter of him who, on account of his crimes, has ever in prospect before him the loss of life or liberty!

In looking back on the past, many a laughing friend rises to my remembrance. The time, the occasion, the family group, or friendly gathering, with the various attitudes of the mirthful guests, are all before me, and the laughter-loving playmates of my youth are strangely mingling with the less numerous companions of my age. "There is a time to laugh ;" and happy is he

who enjoys it, without ever mistaking or abusing the occasion.

How it may be with you I know not, but, of late, my laughs have been "few and far between." Not that my heart is disposed to be less joyous than it used to be, when fit opportunities call it forth, but that mournful occasions have more frequently abounded.

Mirth may not trespass on the place
Where silent Sadness reigns;
Nor rudely laugh in Sorrow's face,
Nor smile where Grief complains!

Laughter, to be lawful, should observe two points it should neither give pain to another, nor bring after-sorrow on ourselves. He who cannot call to mind the laughter of yesterday without feeling remorse or self-reproach on account of it to-day, has been merrier than he ought to have been.

More than once have I stated my opinion, that the very peculiarities of our friends are dear to us, for they form a part of themselves. A change in the cut of their clothes, or an alteration in their gait, would be a loss to us. Unless a peculiarity be something worse than whimsical, I cannot spare it in a friend. He must look, move, speak, cough, and laugh, just as he used

to do; for if in all, or any, of these points he make a change, he practises an innovation, and thereby defrauds me of a part of himself.

Give me the spare, angular form of one friend, and the broad back of another, with the spindle leg, the round face, the bare head, the furrowed brow, and the limping foot, as the case may be, of the rest of them, for I could hardly spare the crutch of the cripple I esteem. Take away, at your peril, so much as a freckle off their faces, or a knee-buckle from their attire. I claim them as they are in their manner, mien, voice, and general behaviour; in their gaieties and their gravities, their laughter and their tears.

The cares of the world are so many, and find their way so readily into almost every hour of almost every day of the year, that we require a degree of cheerfulness to counteract them. As a new broom cleans away the dust and cobwebs of an unswept apartment, so does a burst of buoyancy sweep away the dust and cobwebs of a beclouded mind. Cheerfulness is to us, when inclined to be careworn, as a cool, clear draught to the traveller; it recruits our strength and spirits, and we start afresh in the path of duty, more able to bear the toil of our pilgrimage.

If you gather nothing more from my remarks, you will at least gather this-that I regard the

faculty of laughter as one of the goodly gifts of God, for which we are all bound to be thankful. Oh, how I love to hear the cheerful laugh of a kind-hearted man among a group of merry children!

ON THE EXPRESSION

"WE LET THEM DIE."

WHETHER my pen has already touched upon the subject of irresolution and a want of perseverance, my memory is not sufficiently retentive to determine; but, however this may be, I feel urged to give utterance to my present thoughts. Not more dependent is the fire on the fresh fuel that supports it, than is man, in his undertakings, on the motives and fresh impulses that animate his heart.

Now and then, in my walks, I pass by a row of houses in ruins: some of these dwellings are without roofs, others without doors and windows, and none of them were ever entirely finished. When first their foundations were dug, no doubt the builder intended to complete his work; but unexpected occurrences took place. Perhaps, like a man who begins to build a tower without counting the cost, he found the expense

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