ner. Angry, indeed! it was not always so-you never used to bring such charges against me."

Mr. W.-"Well, you are not angry now, I suppose? Why, your very eyes flash fire, and your face is red with rage."

Mrs. W.-"Not quite so red as yours, sir, nor from the same cause. I think you have no stones to throw about red faces. A man that can drink a bottle of port at a sitting—at least with very little help-may well have a red face, and a hot temper too, for that matter, as I pretty well know to my cost."

Mr. W.-"You know to your cost! What do you mean,

madam?"

Mrs. W.-"Oh! nothing, sir-nothing at all; I mean nothing and I care for nothing."

Mr. W.-" Then be silent."

Mrs. W.-"I shall not; I shall say just what I please, and talk as long as I please."

Mr. W.-"Then quit my presence, madam, and talk to yourself, for I will not put up with your insolence; and I wonder how you dare act as you do."

Mrs. W.-" Dare! Mr. Wilson; did you say dare? I say, then, in answer, that I wonder, when you take certain circumstances into consideration, I do really, I say, wonder at you. Recollect, sir, my position; you forget yourself." Mr. W.-"I do not know what you mean."

Mrs. W.-"Ay, ay, it is all very well to pretend you do not know what I mean. Whose money was it that enabled you, when you were

?"

Mr. W.-(interrupting)-" And who was it that raised you from a tradesman's back parlor to the rank of a lady? I am a gentleman, madam-was born such, you will please to remember. Position, indeed! as if money gave position."

Mrs. W.-" A gentleman born! ha! ha! And pray who would be clear-sighted enough to select the gentleman born from the beggar, if money were out of the question? A fine sort of figure your gentlemanly birth would have made without wealth, sir—my wealth-my wealth, bestowed upon you." Mr. W.-"Silence, madam; (much excited) hold your venomous, rattling tongue. You are a disgrace to your sex and to the name of wife."

Mrs. W.-“ Thank you, Mr. Elisha Wilson, I thank you; and am glad you have at last given me to understand exactly the esteem in which you hold me. This is your gratitude to my father for the thousands he threw away upon a poor gentleman, and this comes of all your fine promises. I tell you what, sir, I will not put up with it. I will have a separation, if it takes every farthing of my fortune; I will have a separation, I say.”

Mr. W.-"Do so; do, do, I advise you; better set about it now directly."

Mrs. W-"You think I dare not; but I will show you that I have a spirit. I will go where you shall never discover my abode, and then perhaps you may wish that you had behaved differently; or perhaps you will be ten thousand times happier without me."

Mr. W.-"You choose to say so, you know, not I."

Mrs. W.-"Yes, and I repeat it-I dare affirm that you would rejoice to be rid of me; and if once I did separate from you, I would never return to you again; I would die alone (sobbing hysterically,) and never plague you with my hateful presence-no, not if you were to go on your knees and beg of me to do so; I would spurn you" (suiting her action to the word).

Mr. W"You would have no occasion to apprehend my going on my knees, I assure you; I should view your conduct then, as I view it now, with calm contempt."

Mrs. W.—“ A very calm state, indeed, you are in just now.” The father of Mrs. Wilson, a wise and venerable man, had recently entered the garden near the open window of the room where this dispute took place; and, having caught some of the speeches of both wife and husband, the reasonable conclusion he instantly formed was that some dire catastrophe had happened-that one or the other had committed some disgraceful fault, or, at least, had given some serious grounds of suspicion. The worthy man's courage began to give way, when he considered how thankless an office it generally is to interfere between man and wife; but they ⚫ were his children, and he ventured in, pale with apprehension.

Mrs. Wilson was sitting at the extreme end of the room,

her chair pushed close against the wall, where it had arrived by successive jerks backward, at every fresh ebullition of passion, while Mr. Wilson was cutting his nails to the quick, seated at the utmost opposite side of the apartment, each casting at the other an occasional glance of vengeance or contempt.

"My dear daughter," the old gentleman began, with an air of deep concern, "what has happened?"

“Ask him,” said Mrs. W., pointing to her husband with spiteful looks.

The old gentleman turned to Mr W.

"Your daughter threatens to leave me, sir," was the reply. "But what for?" demanded the father; "where lies the offence?"

Each now began simultaneously to repeat the aggravating expressions which had been used on both sides. "He had said so and so." "She said so and so."

"Stay, my children, stay," said the father; "set aside all that has been elicited in anger during your quarrel-I do not want to hear that-and allow me to ask you again, what is the offence, and which of you is the aggressor?" Both were silent.

"This is strange," said the father; "surely you can tell me how this disgraceful scene commenced. There must have been some great fault committed."

Silence still prevailed. The simple process of common sense, which the old gentleman had set to work, carried the infatuated couple back to the frivolous origin of their quarrel. Nothing could appear more ridiculously absurd than the reply which was at last elicited; "We quarrelled about a hole in the carpet."

"A what?" said the old gentleman, lifting his hands, shrugging his shoulders, as with staring eyes, he looked aghast, and turned on his heels. "What a pair of simpletons," said he; "I am ashamed of you both; go to school again and learn to put off childish things. Truly as said the wisest of men,' The beginning of strife is as when one letteth out water; therefore leave off contention, before it be meddled with.'"

We are glad to add, that Mr. and Mrs. W. did take the

old gentleman's advice; and heartily ashamed were they, when they came to a calm reflection, that they had allowed so small a matter to kindle so large a fire. It should be remembered that it always takes two to quarrel; therefore, whenever there is an unhappy disposition evinced by one partner to be querulous or irritable, the other should always be either silent or soothing. Such forbearance, exercised in the spirit of prayer and Divine trust, will seldom fail to avert all domestic storms and household breezes. I often think of Cowper's beautiful lines on "Mutual Forbearance," and wish they were engraven on the memories and hearts of every wedded pair:

"Alas! and is domestic strife,
That sorest ill of human life,
A plague so little to be feared,
As to be wantonly incurred
To gratify a fretful passion
On every trivial provocation?

Old Birch, who taught the village school,
Wedded a maid of homespun habit;
He was stubborn as a mule,

And she was playful as a rabbit.
Poor Kate had scarce become a wife

Before her husband sought to make her

The pink of country polished life,

And prim and formal as a Quaker.

One day the tutor went abroad,

And simple Katie sadly missed him;
When he returned, behind her lord

She slyly stole, and fondly kissed him.

The husband's anger rose, and red

And white his face alternate grew:

"Less freedom, ma'am!" Kate sighed and said, "O, dear! I didn't know 'twas you."

A THANKSGIVING.-LUCY LARCOM.

For the wealth of pathless forests,
Whereon no axe may fall;

For the winds that haunt the branches;
The young bird's timid call;

For the red leaves dropped like rubies
Upon the dark green sod;
For the waving of the forests
I thank thee, O my God!

For the sound of water gushing
In bubbling beads of light;
For the fleets of snow-white lilies
Firm anchored out of sight;
For the reeds among the eddies;
The crystal on the clod;
For the flowing of the rivers,
I thank thee, O my God!

For the rosebud's break of beauty
Along the toiler's way;

For the violet's eye that opens
To bless the new-born day;
For the bare twigs that in summer
Bloom like the prophet's rod;
For the blossoming of flowers,
I thank thee, O my God!

For the lifting up of mountains,
In brightness and in dread;
For the peaks where snow and sunshine
Alone have dared to tread;
For the dark of silent gorges,
Whence mighty cedars nod;
For the majesty of mountains,
I thank thee, O my God!

For the splendor of the sunsets,
Vast mirrored on the sea;

For the gold-fringed clouds that curtain

Heaven's inner mystery;

For the molten bars of twilight,

Where thought leans glad yet awed;

For the glory of the sunsets,

I thank thee, O my God!