his master, and honourable, because by him the Lord had given deliverance unto Syria; he was also a mighty man of valour, but he was a leper." Ah! the gallant soldier, the puissant commander, the royal favourite had his skeleton, you see. Not less touching was the dying confession of noble David. " Although my house be not so with God; yet He hath made with me an everlasting covenant, ordered in all things and sure." A godless family; that was the skeleton which occupied the palace at Jerusalem, and invaded even the deathchamber of the monarch. You know who was the most illustrious apostle, and how large is the debt of gratitude which humanity owes him. Yet he

had "a thorn in the flesh." And these are but specimens of a limitless class. It is to-day as it was centuries agone.

Much nonsense has been written by dreamy and lackadasical poetasters about rural places and rural people. According to these rhymers, the former are free from vexation and worry, while the latter are pure-minded and content. Sketches are given of village maidens, modest, coy, and innocent, followed by fascinating descriptions of "swains" who are as honest and happy as the day is long. We are

treated to elaborate accounts of lowroofed cottages, the blue smoke rising from the chimney in bold relief against the foliage of the trees which embosom them, walls hidden by jasimine and woodbine, little gardens neatly laid out, industrious wives sitting under the porch in the quiet evening, and model husbands near them with a rosy-faced child on each knee. Oh, indeed, Mr. Poet. Now please favour us with the address of the persons in question. We advise the reader if ever he meets with an author who presumes so egregiously on the gullability of the public as to paint these arcadias, to bid him tell

it to the marines. The description given is a false because a partial one. Woodbine, blue smoke, garden, and all the other accompaniments, no doubt there are in thousands of places, but not to give so much as a hint of social and moral shadows athwart these lovely cottages is monstrously unveracious. There is a skeleton in every one of them; "always a summut." Ever and anon the said model husband jostles up to the door very late at night in a condition which enables him to see double, but deprives him of rightful control over his legs. The wolf gets there too, not unfrequently-the wolf of poverty, and a dismal howling he makes. Thatch and woodbine often cover terrible want. As to the other extreme of society, it is hardly needful that we speak. That royalty is not exempt from its share of tribulation is proved too well by the widowed lady who sits on England's throne. "Death is come into our palaces." Windsor has a skeleton in its stately castle. quote from the great satirist who has but lately passed from us :-"The writer of these veracious pages was once walking through a splendid English palace, standing amidst parks and gardens, than which none more magnificent has been since the days of Aladdin, in company with a melancholy friend, who viewed all things darkly through his gloomy eyes. The housekeeper, pattering on before us from chamber to chamber, was expatiating on the magnificence of this picture; the beauty of that statue; the marvellous richness of these hangings and carpets; the admirable likeness of the late Marquis by Sir Thomas; of his father by Sir Joshua, and so on; when, in the very richest room of the whole castle, Hicks-such was my melancholy companion's name stopped the Cicerone in her prattle, saying, in a hollow voice,

Το

'And now, madam, will you show us the closet where the skeleton is. We did not see the room, and yet I have no doubt there is such a one.'"* There is a bitter drop in the sweetest cup. The most beautiful rose has a most disagreeable thorn. Do you say the sky is clear? Perhaps so; wait a while, a cloud will shortly trail over it somewhere.

Without adducing other examples, since life every day furnishes so many, there are a few remarks on these skeletons which we commend to the reader's attention. Here is the first-Sometimes we put the skeleton in the house ourselves. As if the troubles which must infallibly, sooner or later, fall to our lot were not numerous enough, we add to them. Although the burden which we have to carry up the hill of life is heavy, we are so unwise as to keep increasing it. A few instances may easily be given. Mr. Bagshaw is a case in point. His skeleton is a feminine one. The truth is his wife is a virago. Then why did he marry her? He knew her cross-grain disposition before he uttered the fatal, "I will;" knew it as any one could do. Yes, but don't you see, there was hard cash in the question. "Money, Paul, will do anything," said stiff-necked Dombey to his child. So it seems. At any rate, Bagshaw was willing to put on domestic gyves and social handcuffs on the ground that they were made of gold. This being the case, while one is sorry for him in his present condition of conjugal bondage, that sorrow is mingled with indignation at his arrant folly in volunteering to endure the said bondage on condition that he had a sufficiency of bank notes. It is the old, old story of the spider and the fly, "Will you walk into my parlour, said the spider to the fly." Of course, if the fly had been a sensible insect he

• W. M. Thackeray.

would have treated the invitation as editors often do (no doubt with equal wisdom) divers communications which are "respectfully declined." But the web was so beautifully woven, the threads were so silken and delicate, the corner in which it hung looked so snug, that although he knew it was a web, in poor Bagshaw went. And now, as you may easily divine, he reaps the consequences. To wit. He brings a friend in to spend the evening, raises his eyes to her (with timidity in his look), and says "Xantippe, my dear, I have asked Mr. Smith in to see us." She immediately protests that she is proud and delighted to seo you, which is as downright a falsehood as "the father of lies" ever instigated. You should see the look she gives her husband when the visitor's attention is distracted. As to the lecture with which he is rocked asleep, that, as novelists. say, is "more easily imagined than described." Although she is as stout and strong as need be, she says that smoking disagrees with her, therefore, when cigars and tobacco are brought after supper, up rises Xantippe and asks if we will excuse her leaving the room. Really, one feels desperately disposed to reply, "With pleasure, madam." Now, you observe, this frightful skeleton was introduced into the house with the distinct knowledge that it was a skeleton. Mr. Bagshaw deliberately platted the scourge under which he writhes.

Let us go back to the best of books for the next example. "All this availeth me nothing, so long as I see Mordecai the Jew sitting at the king's gate." All what? Almost everything that heart could desire. Haman had marvellous riches, “a multitude of children," royal favour, and promotion. It mattered not. Jealousy saw an enemy occupying a

ness.

Had

position of honour. That was enough; popularity and prosperity went for nothing, so long as the rival was there. Here, again, the man himself introduced the skeleton. There was no need for discontent. Haman been wise he would thankfully have enjoyed his own honours and opulence, regardless of another being in the same position. Nay, had he been magnanimous, that last fact would have increased his happiThis Scriptural incident will suggest to the reader another. "And And Saul eyed David from that day and forward." That he had but slain thousands, while David slew his tens of thousands was intolerable. Just as the most fashionable and elegant attire cannot atone for the obnoxious little gnat which has secreted itself in the sleeve, and is bringing blood from one's skin, so the grandeur and power which Saul possessed were rendered null and void by the malignant insect of envy. Why did he not pounce upon it, press it closely between his fingers, and so put a "finis" to the cruel little tormentor. So true is it, however, that

"Out of the earth the lightning sometimes springs,

Not always from the sky descends; so men, Yea, good ones too, will even plant themselves

The seeds of their own ruin."

Newspapers often have advertisements To persons about to marry." It may be that some such individuals are now honouring us with their perusal. If so we hope they will appreciate our consideration for them, inasmuch as our final specimen of people creating their own troubles will be appropriate to all who proprose entering the estate of matrimony. Taking Horace's advice, then, and going at once in medias res, we would respectfully, but solemnly, lift our voice against a skeleton

which inexperienced folks not seldom bring into their houses. Debt is its name. My dear Miss, you are to be wed in a few months, are you? Very good. And you have delightful visions of walnut-wood couches, pier-glasses, lace curtains, ormolu clocks, in fine, a whole paradise of upholstery, grandeurs, and luxuries. You hope that you and your beloved Alfred will be able to give nice little evening parties to a few select friends in a quiet way. Certainly; it is to be hoped you will. By all means have and do these things if -note the word-if you can afford it. Mind that you are on the safe side. Depend upon it, if you get into the habit of taking tradespeople's credit, you will go wrong. Truer proverb never became proverbial than this, "He that goes a borrowing goes a sorrowing." When your name begins to figure conspicuously in the day-book, and repeat itself ominously in the ledger of the shop-keeper, you may, to use a nautical phrase, "look out for squalls." The household weather-glass will point to "stormy." The knell of your peace is struck. You have, with your own hand, brought a skeleton into the house. Now begins the dreary category of disasters and miseries which the skeleton debt always introduces where it goes. When you draw your chair to the fire, and place your feet comfortably on the fender, the burning coals seem to say, "We are not paid for." As you satisfy your appetite at dinner, even the frugal joint you carve appears to cry, "When shall you settle with Mr. Steelyard, who sold me to you?" Fingers that before marriage toyed with openwork, and coquetted with Berlin wool, are now doomed to try their skill in patching up old garments, and trying to make them hold out a little longer. When an unexpected

ring is heard at the door, there is a nervous dread of bills. The announcement by the servant that you are wanted gives you uneasy suspicion that a draper's or grocer's assistant has called with what he calls "that little account." Pray don't throw down the magazine in a huff, my young madamoiselle, declaring that it is too stupid and dreadful to read. Whether it is or is not, be assured that it is neither so stupid nor so dreadful as the stern reality. Let all who are yet unchained keep clear of pecuniary slavery. To return to the general topic under consideration, we shall act a commendable part to keep as many skeletons out of our houses as we can. To fetch the ghastly, ghostly, grinning thing in, and put it in a conspicuous place is perfectly idiotic. There is always one present, without our seeking more. Make the best of it; lessen its horrors; but, in the name of reason, do not bring it companions.

The

This leads to our next reflection. Let us not look too much and too often at the skeleton. It is well to glance at it now and then. great and good Being who permits it to abide in the house has a merciful and wise object in so doing. The gaunt long figure reminds us that "this is not our rest;" reminds us that the present world can never satisfy the deep aspirations of our being; reminds us that there is something behind the veil which is better infinitely than anything which we at present possess. He has read the book of life to little purpose who is not able to say,

"I thank thee, Lord, that all our joy
Is touched with pain;

That shadows fall on brightest hours;
That thorns remain ;

So that earth's bliss may be our guide,
And not our chain.

"For thou who knowest, Lord, how soon, Our weak heart clings,

Hast given us joys, tender and true,
Yet all with wings,

So that we see, gleaming on high,
Diviner things."

Cui bono?

Notwithstanding, there is a habit of morbidly brooding over care and sorrow which forms no part of religion. It is possible to acquire a method of looking at the skeleton until the remembrance of it haunts us in our happiest moments, and throws a sombre shadow across our sunniest days. A man makes a bad debt, commits a commercial blunder, effects a woeful breach in etiquette, or, worse still, a disastrous breach in morality, and he pores over it until it effectually destroys his peace, and his spirit fails within him. He did far better who spoke of forgetting things that were behind, and reaching forth to things that were before. Popish legends tell of saints who, to show their invulnerability to wickedness, went deliberately into scenes of the most fascinating temptation. Did they? Indeed! then, to speak plainly, they were fools for their pains. There is no virtue in rushing after an enemy, squaring your fists, assuming a pugilistic attitude, and attempting to provoke an assault by inviting him to "come on." Not at all. Inducements to evil present themselves often enough without our going out of the way to seek them. Yet this is precisely what we do when we dwell so much upon our trials: we put ourselves needlessly in the way of temptation,-the temptation to indulge in discontent. Therefore, do not spend much time in looking at the skeleton. If there are two windows in your parlour, the one commanding a view of a bare, dismal, blank brick wall, and the other of a cheerful garden, with neat grass-plot, deftly trimmed beds, and manycoloured flowers, you had better sit

with your back to the former, and your face to the latter. Do the same in respect of the vexations and the blessings of life.

The way in which many refer to Providence is very unsatisfactory. According to them, it is a capricious thing meddling with mundane affairs only to annoy. They speak of it as if it did no more than take away. "It pleased God to take away my child," or "my health," or "my money," say they. Very well. But does God do nothing but take away? Is He simply a great destroyer? Oh ungrateful ones! remember that He gives as well as takes; He destroys, but He also creates. Be just, and while you talk so readily of the few blessings He has seen fit to remove, mind that you state the other side of the case, and acknowledge the many blessings which He has both given and preserved to you. There is a skeleton in your house; there are likewise angels.

Again: we can, if we will, render the skeleton less hideous. The ancient Egyptians used to place a skeleton at the head of the board when they feasted and made merry. This ghastly memento of death was unwelcome to the young people, whereupon they frequently brought garlands of roses and violets, and twined them around the naked bones to conceal them. Their oblivousness of human mortality we ought not to imitate, but we may surely learn from them how to act in reference to our troubles. There is the skeleton. Well, put the wreath of divine promises around its shining skull, hide its bare arms with the garlands of heavenly consolation, festoon its hollow bosom with flowers culled in the garden of the Lord, cover its naked feet with amaranthine branches plucked from the tree of

life. The cross, once an object of abhorrence, is now one of beauty. The great sacrifice of love which was offered on it has transfigured the "shameful tree." Thus may it be with the minor crosses which we are called to bear.

And now, in closing, let us fall back on the good old truth which our mothers taught us while we were yet bairns, and which our preachers have been telling us from the pulpit ever since. There is a house wherein there is no skeleton. "We have a building of God, a house not made with hands," even our "Father's house.". The evil spirits of sin are for ever absent from it. It is haunted by no dark spectres of trouble. Angels of purity and love, with flaming swords, guard this new and better Eden not from man but for him. In this present world two attendants walk on either side of us. The face of the one is radiant with smiles, that of the other is pale and plaintive. Joy and sorrow they are called. But when we reach the gate of heaven, if we are the servants and disciples of its Great Ruler, sorrow will remain behind; her work will have been done; we shall have no further need of her kind discipline. Meanwhile, joy will dwell with us for ever, conducting us to Him who shall lead us to "living fountains of water."