mercial crisis and done incalculable evil.

Uncle John,

on the contrary, thought Old Hickory had been quite right in his intentions, and more than half right in his measures: he had no doubt hastened that crisis, not produced it; and, perhaps, it is well that he did hasten it, otherwise diseased matters might have come to a worse head.

"Our present credit system," said the merchant, "is attended with great evils; yet this country has advanced in wealth and general prosperity, much more rapidly than it could have done without it; and, on the whole, perhaps we should consider it a good: what do you think of it?"

"I cannot consider that a good which is in itself a Lie. Has not your late general Bankruptcy proved your credit system a Falsehood? It was the tumbling in of a fair surface spread over a frightful pit: the Pit is still there beneath your whole business, though a thin film of Fair Appearance has covered it again. Lies are of two kinds, Lies of word, and Lies of deed; and the last are infinitely worst. What is the real worth of that man whose whole outward look is that of great possession, while, in his heart, he knows that were his debts paid, he would stand naked as he came into the World? It is pretty certain that while these people dance the Piper waits for his pay."

"Who is the Piper, and who pays him?" asked Harriet. "The Piper," Uncle John replied, "is the Devil; that is pretty plain. Who shall pay him is not quite so clear. Men now living shall pay part of the scot; men yet unborn shall pay the balance. Properly speaking, however, the account which the Devil keeps with mankind is of the kind called a running account; of which

the balance is carried forward, or settled by a draft on time."

After a little more talk of a rambling kind, our party broke up and scattered itself.

I walked abroad and spent an hour or two in the office of the Lawyer, who is a man of leisure; litigation not being one of the prevailing sins in Pebblebrook. Some half dozen of the neighbors were there and one stranger. They were discussing the merits of the License law; and the remark of some one; that we have too many laws; opened a wide field for argument. On one side it was argued that written law is the creator of morality; that public sentiment cannot, for any considerable length of time, be sustained above the level of the laws; and that many laws are needed for the good of society.

On the other hand some said, that the aim of every government should be to make its laws few in number, plain in tenor, and universal in application: such should be the aim of every government, and especially of a republican. This last rests on Public Opinion, and professes to preside over Freemen: it should therefore leave to every individual as much freedom of action as is consistent with the safety of society.

There was much talk on both sides, and something `like ill feeling shewed itself: the breach grew wider, and the two sides could not get together. The stranger, taking advantage of a pause in the argument, rose and said. "I have noticed that little good comes from strife of this kind. One thing all history has made plain; that the Public Benefactor is not the man who enforces the dead letter of the law, but he who, in the Spirit of Truth, by word and deed, incites his fellow-men to a higher life than written law can prescribe." This man had a deep,

quiet look, was plain in his general appearance, and spoke in a calm tone with remarkable distinctness. He invited one of the company, whose dwelling-place lay on the road he was going, to ride thither in his wagon, and the two departed. · I rambled about some time in lanes and by-ways, and toward night turned homeward. When I came near the house I saw all the family and visiters in the garden. They stood in a group looking toward the western sky, where large masses of broken clouds, above and beyond the hills, lighted up by the setting sun, made the Heaven-drapery of Earth. I wish the Reader could have seen these members of the Harding Family standing there, amid the green foliage of the garden, in the evening sunlight. It was such a family picture as any man would be proud of. They had a common object of interest: each one stood unconscious of individual existence, rapt in contemplation of the Beautiful. I loitered in my walk toward them: it is pleasant to see one's friends in such high, peaceful union. An Artist would say that one figure was not in keeping with the whole. The Merchant's lady, with her furbelows and flounces and flaunting cap, lacked simplicity. I am thankful that our Family cannot be called to account for her she did not grow up in it; she came into it full-grown.

Next morning our visiters departed. The Lady was very gracious in her invitations to each member of the family; and meant, doubtless, to be kind: but her condescension was manifest. She had a patronizing air, and seemed to stoop from a height, which, however, was a height of circumstance, of place; in nowise a height of Being.

After they had gone away, Uncle John said: "Poor Robert, he is full of care, and is troubled about many

things; which, however, at bottom, are all one. He is afraid he shall lose half his wealth, and be almost ruined: as though the loss of money could ruin a Man. There is strange self-abasement in such elevation of outward things."

"And yet," said Amelia, " every one would like to be rich: I don't know how much money I would take, could I get it for the asking."

Harriet said: "for her part she would be satisfied with a thousand dollars per annum."

I repeated the saying of a man who had had much experience in getting: "Whether one have little or much, a little more than he has got is always enough.

CHAPTER XIX.

MISCELLANIES.

IN one of my evening walks, I saw an old man transplanting young trees from a nursery into a field. He looked up as I came near, and I saluted him, with the reverence due to an old man so employed. He leaned on his spade, and seemed disposed to talk. After some common chat, I asked his age: he answered: "I am fourscore and nine years old, and this is my birth-day." I said; he could not be planting for himself then. "No, young man," he replied, "I know not for whom I plant: yet it is right to plant. In my day, I have reaped what other's sowed. Those who have gone before, have done much for us, and we should do something for those who are coming after: this is no more than common honesty requires. Once I planted Poplars and other short-lived trees: I have seen the folly of that; they injure the soil, and already I see them decay and die. Now, in my old age, I plant Oaks and Elms." He took up a small oak, which he was about to fix in the ground, and continued: "Some years ago this thing was an acorn: I planted the acorn in that nursery and this has come of it. Now, I shall transplant this here, where it will have more room: