cause we think these essential, our native thrift sometimes demurs or forbids. These are mistakes in the methods of hospitality, but the root of the thing is in us. Where will you go in New England that you will not find it? At what door will you knock that it shall not welcome you? An hungered, weary, a stranger, or sick, unstinted kindliness will minister to your necessities. I have travelled much on foot through New England, much among the by-roads of our villages, and I never found any thing but the broadest welcome and the kindliest cheer, rude, rough, coarse, perhaps, but hearty and true. I found myself one winter's morning some twenty miles away from home. During the night there had come up one of those fiercely driving snow-storms, which now and then sweep along the coast, and lay their embargo upon all out-door movement. It was a pitiless morning, but I felt uneasy about my home, and I must go. Well wrapped in coat and shawl, and with a good heart, I started, only as I turned the first corner to find the shawl stripped from me and whirled into the air, and to see my hat, after some mad capers, plunged desperately into the river. The handkerchief that supplied its place soon became a useless mass of frozen snow and ice, and with a bare head I pursued my way, here fording, amid floating blocks of ice, a road over which the rebellious tide had made a breach, there lifting my sleigh bodily over a drift through which my mare could not drag it; now losing my balance and becoming actually buried beneath yieldir masses of snow, and now encouraging the faithful beast, who never through all that day's terror for a moment faltered. Once from an opened door I heard a voice shout out that, under the circumstances, very aggravating reminder of the difficulty of the road to Jordan, and once in the moment of despair, like an apparition, some good Samaritan appeared with a shovel, and as silently disappeared. That was all my cheer. It was not of myself, however, that I meant to speak; and as I have never told to any the full story of that day, I should hardly begin here. Let me only say, that the night had set in bitterly cold; I had deserted my broken sleigh; I had been compelled to abandon the willing back of my mare, brown when we started, but now from fore-top to fetlock unspotted white, and through the darkness, through the drifts, with words of cheer was urging her weary limbs, that made a path for me. Without rest we had toiled nine weary hours, and made ten miles, when her better instinct brought our labor and exposure to a close. Seeing a barn not far from the road-side, she made directly for it, and no coaxing of mine could prevent. I felt that she was right, and I turned toward the house, and knocked, and asked shelter and food. I know that it was a strange apparition presented itself before that young girl, with matted and frozen locks, hatless, shivering, probably the only mortal outside the house she had seen that day, and I did not wonder that she ran. But the gray-haired father came, and bade me welcome, went to the barn and provided for my horse, made me a place at the kitchen fire, while the good wife brought out the mystery and wealth of home-made pie and cake, the welcome luxury of tea. Around the evening fire we sat and talked, — I a stranger, yet a friend within his gates, he a courteous, kindly, and wellpleased host; and the evening I had dreaded waned, and when the night hours came, I found the best chamber, with its spotless drapery and marvellous feather-bed, inviting my weary and aching body to its embrace. With the morrow rose the sun, and after breakfast the old man went with me to the woods where I had left my sleigh, dug it out, and tied it up, and showed me how he thought I could best reach home. What could I do? Words were little, money was less; and yet, so universally is man reduced to a contemptible money shift, that as I uttered the words of acknowledgment, involuntarily I put my hand upon my purse. He fixed his mild, gray eye upon me as he said, "No sir; that would spoil it all." The act and the sentiment are type of that true spirit of hospitality whi not showy, or obtrusive such as it has to the pleasure of the friend. If now I were to be a land home, which is -I should answer some alone, roomy, convenien diately and only, to the far from some thrifty it should cluster all the farm, above it droop the spread meadow and orcl woods, waters, and hill every appointment the a niture, no show rooms, 1 expense, but only such the growth of heart and of comfort as should min ing sloth. Here I would including the baby, with complete. And the ho much as for me; more fo With these children I between myself and them ing them to find in me th home the dearest of all by surrounding himself with the things that m of his old home. In every language songs of home, touching the heart's deep among them all one to us dearer than the seems a special inspiration, so exquisitely do and the words join hands to express what were inexpressible. Scarcely thirty years n of genius and of disappointment, child of ngland home, gave in his need to Charles hen manager of the theatre at Covent Garhe sum of thirty pounds, the manuscript of of "Clari, or the Maid of Milan." As I it, it is mainly noticeable for its one lyric low, longing utterance of a weary and deexile. It made the fortune of every one ly connected with it, except the author, ot even complimented with a copy of his It secured to Miss Tree, who first sang hy husband; it filled the treasury of the ithin two years the publishers were estihave made $10,000 by it. Since then it herever the English tongue has gone, it is in every heart, its music and its words wake l all one sentiment, the first to live, the last hen the returning regiments - the wreck t of that great Crimean struggle-marched through the streets of London, stepping to |