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where can it be found? I have often heard of it, but I never succeeded in ascertaining its precise situation. Somewhere in the past, no doubt. I really should like to visit such a land. What a multitude of“ mights” must lie there together, what aspirations, what noble deeds never destined to have been performed! Yet from whitened lips comes the whisper, “ It might have been.” No, dear hearers, it could not be, because you, or some one else, would not allow it. Year by year we hear the words, day after day; they have been the subject of many a discourse and essay. We hear and read them, wondering who indulges in the“ might have been” delusion, instead of striving with the present and saying, “ it shall be.It is useless to mourn over the past, for it does not brighten it, and the moments thus wasted will in future cause more thoughts as to what“ might have been.”

It is good for every heart to commune with self to a certain extent, but when hours are spent in useless repining it ceases to be beneficial. Many, thinking they have failed in nearly every great task they wished to accomplish, will also think it is useless to undertake anything more. “It might have been,” if perseverance had not been lacking, but as it was, it could never have been.

Let not such thoughts possess dominion over us. have a fairy picture of what is to be, drawn in gorgeous colors; let us spare neither time, pains, pencil, nor paint. Let our hearts be in the work, and with unfaltering trust look upon the

map of the future, perceiving the destined goal we are to reach, after much labor. Turn not to the right or left; look not behind us lest we become mere drones. Leave the land of“ might have been" for weary ones to people; as for us, we must build a city in the land of To Be. ' city lo attract strangers, where beauties of mind shall not be forgotten in dress beauty; where life shall not be devoted entirely to self and sensual gratification; where love shall erect a fortress and defend our city from intruders. And how shall love deal with enemies? It shall, by its kind teachings and gentle influence, win them to our cause. Every day we shall witness the increase of numbers, and with light hearts and pleasant countenances move among our little band, distributing peace and good will. My land is the land of To Be.

Let us

Away with past regrets, for if my present opportunities are improved I shall have enough to occupy my mind. If we mourn for the past, we shall waste valuable time, and the future will find us with drooping heads mourning over these wasted moments. Let not“ it might have been" be inscribed over our tombstone when we die, to prove that our life was a failure. Rather let it be, “ Well done, thou good and faithful servant: enter thou upon the heritage of the just."

THE LOST HEIR.-THOMAS HOOD.

"Oh whare, and oh where
Is my bonnio laddie gone?"-OLD SONG.

One day, as I was going by
That part of Holborn christened High,
I heard a loud and sudden cry

That chilled my very blood;
And lo! from out a dirty alley,
Where pigs and Irish wont to rally,
I saw a crazy woman sally,

Bedaubed with grease and mud.
She turned her east, she turned her west,
Gtaring like Pythones, possessed,
With streaming hair and heaving breast,

As one stark mad with grief.
This way and that she wildly ran,
Jostling with woman and with man,-
ller right hand hell a frying pan,

The left a lump of beef.
At last her frenzy seemed to reach
A point just capable of speech,
And with a tone almost a screech,

As wild as ocean birds,
Or female Ranter moved to preach,

She “ gave her sorrow words":

“ O Lord! oh, dear, my heart will break, I shall go stick stark

staring wild! Has ever a one seen anything about the streets like a crying

lost-looking child ?

where can it be found? I have often heard of it, but I never succeeded in ascertaining its precise situation. Somewhere in the past, no doubt. I really should like to visit such a land. What a multitude of“ mights” must lie there together, what aspirations, what noble deeds never destined to have been performed! Yet from whitened lips comes the whisper, “It might have been.” No, dear hearers, it could not be, because you, or some one else, would not allow it. Year by year we hear the words, day after day; they have been the subject of many a discourse and essay. We hear and read them, wondering who indulges in the“ might have been” delusion, instead of striving with the present and saying, “ it shall be.It is useless to mourn over the past, for it does not brighten it, and the moments thus wasted will in future cause more thoughts as to what "might have been.”

It is good for every heart to commune with self to a certain extent, but when hours are spent in useless repining it ceases to be beneficial. Many, thinking they have failed in nearly every great task they wished to accomplish, will also think it is useless to undertake anything more. “It might have been,” if perseverance had not been lacking, but as it was, it could never have been.

Let not such thoughts possess dominion over us. have a fairy picture of what is to be, drawn in gorgeous colors; let us spare neither time, pains, pencil, nor paint. Let our hearts be in the work, and with unfaltering trust look upon the

map of the future, perceiving the destined goal we are to reach, after much labor. Turn not to the right or left; look not behind us lest we become mere drones. Leave the land of“ might have been” for weary ones to people; as for us, we must build a city in the land of To Be. i city to attract strangers, where beauties of mind shall not be forgotten in dress beauty; where life shall not be devoted entirely to self and sensual gratification; where love shall erect a fortress and defend our city from intruders. And how shall love deal with enemies? It shall, by its kind teachings and gentle influence, win them to our cause. Every day we shall witness the increase of numbers, and with light hearts and pleasant countenances move among our little band, distributing peace and good will. My land is the land of To Be.

Let us

Away with past regrets, for if my present opportunities are improved I shall have enough to occupy my mind. If we mourn for the past, we shall waste valuable time, and the future will find us with drooping heads mourning over these wasted moments. Let not“ it might have been" be inscribed over our tombstone when we die, to prove that our life was a failure. Rather let it be,“ Well done, thou good and faithful servant: enter thou upon the heritage wf tho just."

THE LOST HEIR.-THOMAS HOOD.

“Oh whore, and oh where
Is my bonnio laddie gone?"-OLD Song.

One day, as I was going by
That part of Holborn christened High,
I heard a loud and sudden cry

That chilled my very blood;
And lo! from out a dirty alley,
Where pigs and Irish wont to rally,
I saw a crazy woman sally,

Bedaubed with grease and mud.
She turned her east, she turned her west,
Staring like Pythoness possessed,
With streaming hair and heaving breast,

As one stark mad with grief.
This way and that she wildly ran,
Jostling with woman and with man,-
Her right hand held a frying pan,

The left a lump of beef.
At last her frenzy seemed to reach
A point just capable of speech,
And with a tone almost a screech,

As wild as ocean birds,
Or female Ranter moved to preach,

She“ gave her sorrow words": "O Lord! oh, dear, my heart will break, I shall go stick stark

staring wildl Has ever a one seen anything about the streets like a crying

lost-looking child?

Lawk help me, I don't know where to look, or to run, if I

only knew which wayA child as is lost about London streets, and especially Seven

Dials, is a needle in a bottle of hay. I am all in a quiver-get out of my sight, do, you wretch,

you little Kitty M'Nab! You promised to have half an eye to him, you know you

did, you dirty deceitful young drab! The last time as ever I see him, poor thing, was with my

own blessed motherly eyes, Sitting as good as gold in the gutter, a playing at making lit

tle dirt pies. I wonder he left the court where he was better off than all

the other young boys, With two bricks, an old shoe, nine oyster-shells, and a dead

kitten by way of toys. When his father comes home, and he always comes home as sure as ever the clock strikes

one, He'll be rampant, he will, at his child being lost, and the

beef and the inguns not done! La bless you, good folks, mind your own consarns, and don't

be making a mob in the street; O Sergeant M'Farlanel you have not come across my poor

little boy, have you, in your beat? Do, good people, move on! don't stand staring at me like a

parcel of stupid stuck pigs; Saints forbid! but he's p'r'aps been inviggled away up a

court for the sake of his clothes by the priga; He'd a very good jacket, for certain, for I bought it myself

for a shilling one day in Rag Fair; And his trowsers considering not very much patched, and

red plush, they was once his father's best pair. His shirt, it's very lucky I'd got washing in the tub, or that

might have gone with the rest ; But he'd got on a very good pinafore with only two slits and

a burn on the breast. He'd a goodish sort of hat, if the crown was sewed in, and

not quite so much jagged at the brim. With one shoe on, and the other shoe is a boot, and not a

fit, and you'll know by that if it's him. Except being so well dressed, my mind would misgive, some

old beggar woman in want of an orphan Had borrowed the child to go a begging with, but I'd rather

see him laid out in his coffin ! Do, good people, move on! such a rabble of boys! I'll break

every bone of 'em I come near; Go home-you're spilling the porter-go home, – Tommy

Jones, go along home with your beer. This day is the sorrowfullest day of my life, ever since my

name was Betty Morgan;

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