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and which would have secured for him his country's applause, and that self satisfaction which is always the result of rightdoing, have been nipped in the very bud and left to perish unborn on account of the failure which it was possible might ensue.

Books of wisdom, which would have commanded the respect and admiration of every one who read them, have been left to waste their sweetness on the desert air of obscurity and seclusion, on account of the dread of a cold reception which haunts the mind of their composer.

If this fear had prevailed in all cases, where would those great men be who by their dauntless heroism, their irresistible eloquence, or their almost unsearchable wisdom have gained for themselves well-merited praise and renown?

Who could fill up the place of a Mozart astounding the world by the mellifluous harmony which ever flowed from his

pen?

Where could our Milton be found entrancing his fellows by the inimitable grace and majestic grandeur of his poetry?

How could we spare the names of Stephenson or Davy from the list of our profound thinkers ?

If this fear always prevailed the whole fabric of society would instantly be destroyed, for no one is completely certain of success in his calling, and that fact would prevent men from entering into any business or profession.

“In politics what begins in fear usually ends in folly; in morals what begins in fear usually ends in wickedness; in religion what begins in fear usually ends in fanaticism.” What has kept men down has been the indulgence of fear and delay, until they were not able to shake the iron chains which encompased them, and gradually sunk into a state of inactivity and indolence.

Unless a man has stultified his nature and quenched the spirit of immortality which is his portion, it is not for him to rest in absolute contentment. He is born to hopes and aspirations, as the sparks fly upwards. And surely examples are not wanting of successful climbing, and ultimate success.

On the gth of January, 1806, the English nation was endea. vouring to do honour to the remains of the great naval hero, Nelson. A nation's wail was uttered as the brave man's body was conveyed to its resting place in St. Paul's Cathedral. Nelson had died in the defence of his country. He had been successful in his endeavours to establish the naval supremacy of Britain, and thus to render its homes and sanctuaries secure amid the fierce and long contested war which had been ravaging Europe ; had he been hindered by fear, had he hesitated

, in his duty in one single instance, the consequences might, ay! would, have proved disastrous in the extreme, not only to England, but to the whole of Europe.

It is by perseverance we rise, and it is through perseverance alone that we can hope for success.

It is by this one thing that the quarry becomes a pyramid, and that distant countries are united by canals. If a man were to compare the effect of a single stroke of a pickaxe, or one impression of a spade, with the general design and last result, he would be overwhelmed by the sense of their disproportion.

Yet those petty operations, incessantly continued, in time surmount the greatest difficulties, and mountains are levelled, oceans are bounded, by the slender hand of human beings.

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HUBERT MAITLAND'S WRAITH.

A NOVEL

By FELIX HOLLAND.

CHAPTER XIII.

ONE MORE UNFORTUNATE.—(Continued.)

"No, sister,” Philip said; “I too am miserable, but we will not die yet. We are too young--and I fear neither of us quite fit for heaven till we have suffered a little longer. Come, sister."

Why do you mock me with that name ? ” she asked. “I have no brother, and I know too well what other peoples' brothers are to desire one."

“Your experiences cannot have been fortunate,” said Philip, pained at the stubborn mistrustfulness. “Look in my face and tell me if there is anything there to make you doubt me, when I tell you I desire nothing but your good.”

The beautiful dark eyes turned on him with such a keen intense light that, all guiltless as he was, he winced and looked down.

When the next instant he met her eyes again their fierce light had faded all away, and they were beaming on him in all the tenderness and pity of purest womanhood, so sweetly and lovingly did they beam on him through their gathering tears that Philip could hardly restrain his own. A minute they walked on in silence, then Philip said,

“You invited me to a very cold home to-night. Did you intend me to understand you had no other ?"

His companion looked sorrowfully up into his sympathetic face, and nodded assent.

“And I,” said Philip, “have no home, but I have money. Take it, and promise me not to go near the river again too night, all life is sacred-even yours and mine, sister. There is always someone in the world we may make happy by our lives and sorry by our deaths. Let us live for others, then, most when life is no longer precious to ourselves.”

“But I have no one to live for," she sighed.

“Then,” said Philip softly, “ live for me. Pray take my purse, there is not much in it, you can repay me when we next meet, for we shall meet again. The world is a very little place after all—there is not room enough in it for anyone to be lost."

Philip smiled sadly as he spoke, and his strange com. panion faintly returned it.

“ Thank you very much,” she said, “for your generosity, more for your kindness. If all men were like you, there would be no women like me. No, I will not take your money. I have a little, and could have more than I want for the asking; but it will buy me neither love nor home. Good bye. I would say God bless you, but He would do nothing at my request."

She spoke so sadly, she looked into his eyes so kindly, and her own were so bright and beautiful as she smiled on him through her tears, and her trembling lips were so pure and childlike, that Philip felt he would have liked to kiss them. He pressed her hand very tenderly.

Good-bye, sister, au revoir," he added to himself. Au revoir,” she echoed; and Philip was again alone in the street with his own sad "hunger in his heart."

He was yet gazing regretfully after the dim retreating figure, when he was startled by the clatter of wheels and that peculiar savage whoop by which London drivers announce a runaway horse to the endangered public ; and before he had time to think he was lying stunned and bleeding on the ground. So swiftly had the vehicle rounded the corner, so sudden was the accident, that when Philip's senses

a

returned he was quite unable to understand what had occurred. He found himself lying in a chemist's shop surrounded by strange faces. Two persons were kneeling over him, one seemed a doctor and was holding his hand, the other, a girl, was bathing his forehead with something that looked like blood and water.

“Where do you live ?" asked the latter, as soon as he opened his eyes-it was the voice of his late companion. But before he could fairly smile at her welcome face, or comprehend the question, the place swam round; the faces swam round, grew indistinct and vanished, and Philip re-entered the dark borderland that lies betwixt sleep and death.

CHAPTER XIV.

CONCERNING MR. MOSS AND HIS AFFAIRS.

INDEPENDENT of the property he was anxiously expecting toinherit from his father, Emily Aldair's lover, Mr. Abraham Moss, was already a thriving small capitalist on his own account. The fortunate means by which he had acquired his present possessions were still in full operation, and proving very fertile in the augmentation of them.

Every fortune that ever was made in business was the result of energetic action on a predetermined plan. Given a man with a plan, and industry, and his fortune is made from the hour he pulls down his shutters, or nails his brass plate on the door.

Mr. Moss's plan was as follows. He set himself resolutely to acquire the leases of certain houses in certain unobtrusive streets abutting on main thoroughfares; and, if possible, in proximity to some large music hall or dancing saloon. These were all houses that, owing to their position, and the negligence of their owners, had fallen into the hands of the vile harpies who prey upon the victims of vice. These wretches

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