feelings into operation; and we are convinced-judging by all reasonable analogies-that, if a mere sentiment of honour, a sense of purely moral obligation, could be substituted for the terror of the law, pecuniary liabilities in general would be more punctually discharged. In those cases, for instance, in which no legal obligation exists, we find that the majority of men, belonging to the class vaguely called gentlemen, will be more anxious and avail themselves of an earlier opportunity to pay their debts; and that no liabilities are so punctually met as those called debts of honour, which the law cannot recognise, and which are enforced merely by the loss of a certain caste and the expulsion from a particular section of society. This feeling we should be glad to see extended to all debts; and it is only by the abolition of the many degradations which at present detract from the respectability of the law, that it ever can be so extended. On the other hand, we read, on credible authority, that under barbarous extortionate governments, who employ physical torture to enforce the payment of taxes, those imposts are never paid, unless the customary punishments are inflicted; that the debtor will dole out the amount of their assessments, coin by coin, according to the degree of tyranny employed; aud will sometimes, with the whole sum in their possession, leave a balance unpaid, simply because they are not forced pay it.

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Facts like these are strong arguments for trusting to-and thereby elevating and calling into action-the more lofty and generous tendencies of human nature; for inculcating practically the great moral agency of improvement—a feeling of self-respect; and, for leading men to perceive, by actual and tangible demonstration, that society is not a competition of selfishness and isolated interests, but a net-work of mutual dependence and mutual charities.

The Dream, and the Awaking-a Tale.

It was a lovely young face, with soft blue eyes, shaded by glossy tresses of rich brown hair, and animated by an almost child-like expression of happy confiding innocence. A starting tear glistened in the eye of the old surgeon as he placed the miniature in the youth's hand, and said gravely, "I have brought you here to tell you the history of that portrait." "Did you know the original, then? She must have been a beautiful girl, if the likeness be a truthful one."

"I can vouch for its accuracy, as regards the features," replied he; "but they wore a very different aspect when I saw them. However, as you are now old enough to profit by it, I will tell you who she was."

Expecting a story of the old Doctor's early love, the boy looked up with a shrewd smile; but observing that he looked too serious for one to venture to quiz him, sat down to listen, and he began :

Many years ago, when I was surgeon in the -th, there exchanged into it a young Lieutenant named Montgomery, the son of an old friend of my father's. He was a fine, noble-hearted young fellow, much loved by all of us, and an especial favourite of mine. One afternoon, in the early part of December, about four months after the regiment had changed its quarters from H to B, I was hastily summoned from the Barracks to see a young officer who had met with an accident while hunting. At the Barrack-gate I met a party of soldiers and country people bringing in a hurdle, on which was stretched the lifeless form of my poor friend Montgomery. When they had conveyed him to his room, I soon found that, beside internal injuries, he was suffering from severe concussion of the brain: recourse was had to the usual remedies, but, as I feared would be the case, fever supervened; and for many weeks he lay in a state alternating between furious delirium and death-like stupor. His friends were sent for, and brought with them their family physician; but he could suggest no change in the treatment, and we began to feel much anxiety for the result. His friends relieved each other in watching him night and day, and I had left strict injunctions that, should the slightest change appear during my absence, they should send for me instantly.

Early one morning, his old servant presented himself rather abruptly. "Oh, Doctor!" he cried, with impatient earnestness, "please will you come to see master-he seems a little come to himself, but not quite, for he wanted to know how long he'd been bad; and when they told him,

he raved, and wanted to get out of bed-but sure he's as weak as a baby; and then he said he must see you in a minute."

I was soon at the bedside of my poor friend, and never shall I forget the fearful expression of agony and terror in his wasted face, as he clutched my hand, and in a hoarse whisper gasped out, "Doctorthey tell me I have been here five weeks-is that true ?"

I begged him to calm himself, if he valued his life; but there are times when pain of mind benumbs the sense of physical suffering, and I saw at once that the case before me was such a one. "Is it true, Doctor?" he persisted. I replied in the affirmative.

His sunken eyes glared wildly as he quivered out, "Then Ihave-murdered-her." "Doctor you must go into B- - immediately there is a poor girl-I brought her here-she is in lodgings in street-at Mrs. I have seen her constantly-since we have been here-and provided for her week after week—she will perish now-for she has not a friend or acquaintance in the place--and she will die rather than expose herself by sending to me-she will think I have abandoned her and that will kill her the people where she lodges know nothing of me, and when I last saw her she was within a week or two of woman's sorest trial. Doctor, you must go to her, and tell her the cause of it if she is alive-save her if you can-or I shall go mad. It is a long story; but one word will explain it all-a secret marriage-dread of friends and relatives who have the power to ruin me -a self-sacrificing affection-a romantic promise-all the consequences of a false position-she braves all rather than break that promise, to set herself right-imagine what I owe to her-the thought is worse than all these bruises." I tried, but in vain, to soothe him, and then started on my errand. After a little difficulty, I found the house to which he had directed me; the door was opened by a stout elderly woman, who, on my asking for Mrs., exclaimed, "Ah, poor dear, she is almost gone; do you know who she belongs to? Not a creature has been to see her but the doctor and Mrs. Blake, and it's a wonder to me she's. not dead long ago, and then," she continued, exposing the cloven foot of human selfishness, "who am I to look to ?"

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I told her I was a medical man who had heard of her tenant's. illness, and wished to see her professionally; she preceded me to a bedroom on the first floor, and left me with the invalid. As I drew aside the curtains of the bed, I saw the grief-worn, death-like, though. still beautiful, features of the poor girl whose portrait is before you; the meek eyes, which had met mine with a sad anxious look, and

then sunk timidly again beneath their almost transparent lids, brightened up with a sudden flash when I stooped and whispered his name in her ear. In a few words I told her who had sent me, and why she had not seen him; her wan face lost for a moment its look of misery as she murmured-"I knew he would never desert me;" and tears of thankfulness coursed each other down her pallid cheeks when I said that he was better, and that the first effort of his restored consciousness was to send me to her. I told her my profession, and found the woman's account but too near the truth.

Entirely dependent upon a husband whom she had promised not to claim, his illness had left her, in a strange town, unprovided with even the common necessaries of life; while her sad condition prevented her making any effort for her support; day after day, she had watched and hoped that he might come once more, but the poor breaking heart grew faint with despair as the time passed on, and evening and morning found her still alone. Her landlady became alarmed and suspicious, and the few trinkets and articles of value in her possession were given to satisfy her: her little stock of money was soon exhausted, and when that fearful hour of woman's utmost agony and peril overtook her, she had not tasted food for days. Had not her doctor been previously engaged, it is probable she would have been suffered to die unattended; but, knowing that his fee had been already settled, the woman had sent for him; and to his humanity, the poor girl was indebted for the few comforts and necessaries that had been subsequently obtained for her; and, to the kindness of the neighbours, for the little attendance she had received. Most of this I gleaned from the landlady, for the sufferer would speak but little of herself; all her thoughts seemed centered in him, and it would have melted a heart of stone, while looking on that sadly beautiful young face, worn by exhaustion and mental torture to a death-like shadow, to hear the sweet faint voice, tremulous with emotion, asking anxiously of his illness, and of my hopes of his recovery.

The relief thus administered to her mind had operated so favourably that I was almost inclined to hope she might yet rally, and I tried to communicate to her the same hope, but she shook her head, "she knew she was dying, she said, and would not repine, but that she had longed to see him, but once more, if only to say good bye; and for her baby," and then, in the newly awakened anxiety of a mother's love, she wept silently and bitterly for the unconscious infant sleeping at her side. A long medical practice brings a knowledge of human misery, such as no other men witness I had seen much of it in my time; but there was a touch

of pathos here beyond the average, and with a few broken sentences of encouragement, and a promise to see her again on the following day, I took my leave of her, and after satisfying the demands of the landlady, hastened back to the Barracks, where I found Montgomery far worse even than I had anticipated. From extreme excitement, he had rapidly relapsed into a state of feverish delirium; rendering it impossible for him to comprehend the news that I knew would be his surest remedy. As the day wore on he grew worse, and all through the night I watched by the bedside of a raving maniac. The next morning I again went to B, in fulfilment of my promise to poor Mary, but with her the time when human aid could have served her was past; her short life of love and suffering was ended: she was far away beyond the reach of earthly sorrow. Lovely, even in death, there was a faint smile on the pale thin lips, the first that had visited them for many, many days, and a locket which contained his hair rested over the poor crushed heart. Far from the home of her happy childhood, far from all whose affectionate care should have soothed her path to the grave, there was no one with her to close her eyes, or hear her last message to him whom she had loved so dearly and devotedly, and she died alone in the chill darkness of that winter night.

With a heavy heart I made arrangements for her simple obsequies and the support of her infant, and then returned to what proved to be the death-bed of her husband. His case now grew hourly more hopeless. As his physical strength diminished, he relapsed into a state of heavy stupor, which marked the crisis of his disorder, and awoke in the last stage of bodily exhaustion. With a parting gleam of recovered consciousness, he indicated a wish to speak to me; and in a voice almost inaudible with weakness, gasped, "I am going-bury me with her-you will take care of my boy-tell him "-his voice ceased, a strange expression came over his features, his eyes moved slowly, as though following some object passing across the room, and then grew fixed and glazed. The great change was very near-his friends, summoned by this time, were gathered round his bed, but he took no heed of them. Suddenly he started up and, gazing forward, wildly shrieked out, “Mary! no, no, Mary!" he fell back again on his pillow. There was a sudden gasp a stifled moan-and another young and passionate heart had ceased its wild throbbings for ever.

The old Doctor paused, and taking the youth's hand kindly in his, resumed, "How I have discharged the trust bequeathed to me you must decide; your father and mother sleep in one grave in the little churchyard of B