I don't believe the Devil would give half as much for the services of a sinner as he would for those of one of these folks that are always doing virtuous acts in a way to make them unpleasing .-- That young girl wants a tender nature to cherish her and give her a chance to put out her leaves,--sunshine, and not east winds.
He was silent,--and sat looking at his handsome left hand with the red stone ring upon it .-- Is he going to fall in love with Iris?
Here are some lines I read to the boarders the other day:-- THE CROOKED FOOTPATH Ah, here it is! the sliding rail That marks the old remembered spot, -- The gap that struck our schoolboy trail, -- The crooked path across the lot.
It left the road by school and church, A pencilled shadow, nothing more, That parted from the silver birch And ended at the farmhouse door.
No line or compass traced its plan; With frequent bends to left or right, In aimless, wayward curves it ran, But always kept the door in sight.
The gabled porch, with woodbine green, -- The broken millstone at the sill, -- Though many a rood might stretch between, The truant child could see them still.
No rocks, across the pathway lie, -- No fallen trunk is o'er it thrown, -- And yet it winds, we know not why, And turns as if for tree or stone.
Perhaps some lover trod the way With shaking knees and leaping heart, -- And so it often runs astray With sinuous sweep or sudden start.
Or one, perchance, with clouded brain From some unholy banquet reeled, -- And since, our devious steps maintain His track across the trodden field.
Nay, deem not thus,--no earthborn will Could ever trace a faultless line; Our truest steps are human still, -- To walk unswerving were divine! Truants from love, we dream of wrath; -- Oh, rather let us trust the more! Through all the wanderings of the path, We still can see our Father's door! V The Professor finds a Fly in his Teacup.
I have a long theological talk to relate, which must be dull reading to some of my young and vivacious friends.

I don't know, however, that any of them have entered into a contract to read all that I write, or that I have promised always to write to please them.

What if I should sometimes write to please myself?
Now you must know that there are a great many things which interest me, to some of which this or that particular class of readers may be totally indifferent.

I love Nature, and human nature, its thoughts, affections, dreams, aspirations, delusions,--Art in all its forms,--virtu in all its eccentricities,--old stories from black-letter volumes and yellow manuscripts, and new projects out of hot brains not yet imbedded in the snows of age.

I love the generous impulses of the reformer; but not less does my imagination feed itself upon the old litanies, so often warmed by the human breath upon which they were wafted to Heaven that they glow through our frames like our own heart's blood.