remark. "I am certain the carriage has been ready more than half an hour. I think you must have been the delinquent." "To be sure I was detained a little hunting for my gloves, but that was no excuse for him. I hate to have my orders disregarded," returned Clara in an imperious tone. bear any thing if you only have the will to try; every thing is in the will," "But I have tried, mamma, again and again," persisted Clara, "but it is all in vain. If I feel impatience in my heart, it is always sure to burst forth sooner or later. Are you sure that nothing will ever cause you to evince anger, or impatience, or discontent? Come, I am going to watch you and Lucy, and see if I can detect some of my own characteristic petulance." “Well, well, dear, don't vex your temper with so trifling a matter; and do pray correct that expression you have a habit of saying, 'I hate.' Really you will look older than your mother in a Mrs. Spencer smiled encouragingly, but Lucy few years, if you suffer yourself to be fretted by sighed to herself as she thought of the fruitless every little thing. See," continued Mrs. Spencer, effort Clara might make, trusting thus to the casting a self-complaisant glance upon her hand-power of will to accomplish that which she knew, some face, reflected from the opposite mirror, by experience, could only result from the grace "see, I have not one real wrinkle on my face." of God overcoming the natural corruption of the "Dear me, mamma, I can never be like you, and take every thing so easily. If a smooth skin depends upon amiability, I am sure to be a wrinkled up old maid. I don't feel amiably." "That is just your trouble, Clara. If you would try and bear every thing patiently, and not permit yourself to get out of humor at every trifling circumstance that does not occur just | when and in the manner you prefer, you would soon acquire an admirable equanimity of temper. This impatience of yours will perfectly ruin your countenance; and besides, Clara, it is so unladylike to be ruffled or discomposed." "O, I can not help how it looks, or how I look," returned the young lady in a half-vexed, halflaughing tone. "When I feel impatiently, I must speak so. I am agreeable enough at other times." "Yes, but you can learn to control yourself." "I am sure I should like to know how," said Clara with more earnestness of manner. "It is not so pleasant to be always in 'the frets,' as blind Billy says. But, then, I am certain," added she with an incredulous shake of the head, "I am certain it will never be by trying. You, mamma, are naturally amiable, and I am naturally unamiable, I suppose. Lucy, how do you contrive to be always so pleasant? You must belong to the naturally amiable ones." "No, indeed,” replied Lucy, speaking for the first time. "On the contrary I was very impatient and irritable when a child." heart. It was true that Mrs. Spencer seldom or never exhibited an irritable spirit; but, as Clara had correctly observed, this arose from a naturally amiable disposition, and not from any real strength of mind to conquer difficulties. Indeed, as to difficulties, she had never encountered any. Reared in the midst of wealth, and never having been obliged to deny herself any gratification which wealth could procure, it was not wonderful that Time should have but lightly pressed her brow. But wealth can not lift its possessor above the faults and infirmities of others; neither can it exclude the petty vexations that occur in the life of all, whether the possessor of a palace or inhabitant of a hut. These petty annoyances Mrs. Spencer rather expected would occur, and she, therefore, thought to intrench herself in a kind of passive indifference, which, added to her really sweet disposition, strengthened, too, by a horror of wrinkles, which she considered the inseparable companion of ill-humor, enabled her to glide along through life with a placid brow and contented heart. It has been frequently observed that persons of very great amiability of disposition seldom possess much energy of character or warmth of affection. But Mrs. Spencer could not be thus judged. Her servants were trained with the utmost precision and punctilious regard to the requirements of refined life, and all the arrangements of her household betokened a just appreciation of the neat and elegant. She was "And got over it or grew out of it by dint of sincerely attached to her husband, and her chiltrying," interrupted her cousin, laughing. "Yes, cousin Clara, by dint of trying," replied Lucy; but the tone was serious; tears filled her eyes, and her lips quivered with emotion. "There, you will believe now, Clara, what I have often told you!" exclaimed Mrs. Spencer, not observing Lucy's serious manner. "You can dren knew full well a mother's heart flowed out to them in kind and tender sympathies. It was not, however, that highest kind of love, that will prompt the parent to watch with unremitting solicitude the development of mental and moral character, reprove, and even chasten with undeviating firmness, whenever, from a well-formed my family? and tell me, what would your aunt do without you? You know she consults you about every thing. I tell you, Lucy," and the tone was not the cold, haughty tone of former years, but that of kindness and subdued feeling, "I tell you, you are master and mistress, too, here. When I propose any measure to Mrs. Spencer, I always get for an answer, 'Well, we will ask Lucy-see what Lucy thinks,' and it is Lucy here and Lucy there, and, indeed, Lucy, the unconscious Lucy, rules the whole of us. Here, Mary," continued Mr. Spencer, as his wife and daughter entered the room, "here, Lucy is at the old story, asking if we are not tired of her, and all such nonsense. Can not you say something to stop her from thus annoying us every little while?" judgment, self-controlled temper, and sanctified heart, such discipline is deemed necessary. On the contrary, Mrs. Spencer thought that if her children were well dressed, afforded the best advantages of education and society, always accompanied with an effort to keep them amused and preserved from all ill-temper, she had fully performed her duty and answered the responsibility of a parent. But her husband's views of family government, though as far removed as her own from any really noble conceptions of the destiny of the immortal spirit, were considerably more enlarged. He often censured the extreme indulgence which characterized the mother's treatment, and, indeed, prohibited some special things which he foresaw would result in indolent selfishness. CHAPTER V. "Nonsense, indeed," replied Mrs. Spencer, smiling; "you know, Lucy, we can not live without you; so why do you talk so foolishly? But there is one thing, Mr. Spencer, that, in our good opinion of ourselves, we have altogether overlooked. Again and again have we assured Lucy that we could not possibly dispense with her-for, indeed, how could we?—but we have never thought of asking her, or even thinking, perhaps, that she could live without us. Are you tired of us, Lucy?" "O no, no, dear aunt," replied the affectionate girl, while the tears filled her eyes, "I am happyhappy as I could be," and she glanced upon the deep mourning in which she was robed; "but I fear I am doing no good in the world, and to live—” "Jesus, support my orphan child and train her for thy glory." Two years had passed since this prayer escaped the lips of the departing mother, and thrilled the hearts of the little group that circled the dying couch. Two years! the heart still ached, the eye still gathered its moisture, the tones of that voice still betrayed a deep sorrow living in that young spirit, but the prayer, welling up from the depths of a pious heart, reached his ear and was answered. Lucy had learned to trust in the love and goodness of her God; to see his hand in every event; to believe with the heart and exemplify in her every-day life the promise, "Trust in the Lord with all thine heart, and lean not to thine own understanding; in all thy ways acknowledge him, and he shall direct thy paths." Severe as was the trial of her faith in this bereavement, the same sweet resignation was always visible; and her deportment in her uncle's family was so uniformly kind and gentle as to win the esteem and affection of all, and they united in declaring that Lucy had become quite necessary to their happiness. Mr. Spencer often lauded the "wonderful fortitude" she possessed for one so young, but little dreamed he of the source from which she derived strength thus to bear up under her deep sorrow. "No good!" exclaimed Mr. and Mrs. Spencer, and Clara, simultaneously. "No good!" continued Mr. Spencer, "think of all the little ragged children you have picked up and clothed, and actually so overcome my prejudices, you would call them, I suppose, as to bring them en masse to my own library on Sundays to teach them— well, at least some of the decencies of life, if you do not accomplish all [and the lip was without its former curl] your ardent imagination desires and expects. And there-to say nothing of the good you do in various ways to your aunt, and Clara, and me, too-look, there is little Frank, who is climbing on your lap; why, you are to him nurse, and teacher, and friend, and playmate. Come," said he, assuming an ironical tone, "come, Franky, let us send Lucy away-naughty Lucy!" Plans were occasionally formed in her mind for her own maintenance; but whenever she spoke of them to her uncle, or in his presence, they were not only discouraged, but actually vetoed. “Lucy, child,” said her uncle one day, after such an allusion had been made, "what nonsense does come into your young head sometimes! You do not act at all with your usual good sense. Would you deprive me of the pleasure of having my own sister's child under my roof as one of "No, no, not naughty Luly; dood tousin Luly. I love tousin Luly," and the little fellow, in his zeal to evince his affection, almost smothered his cousin with his caresses. "Luly won't do way?" continued the child inquiringly, looking with a distressed glance, first at his cousin and then to his parents. "Luly do way and leave Fanky? Fanky die." "No, indeed, Franky," said Clara, "we'll not let 'tousin Luly' go away; so, Lucy, if you are not, as mamma says, really tired of us, don't distress us by forming any more of your wise plans. You know how hard I have been trying to be amiable, and I must have you here to encourage me. Papa, have you not observed how pleasant I am all-I mean a great deal-at any rate, some of the time?" Clara blushed, as she felt that candor required her thus to modify her expression. Mr. Spencer laughed outright as he noticed the gradation of terms Clara employed. Mrs. Spencer smiled encouragingly; but Lucy, observing the mortified look spreading over Clara's countenance, put little Frank gently down, and throwing her arm around her cousin said, as if she had not heard her last remark, "Dear Clara, I feel your love and kindness, and my heart repays it in gratitude at least," and then turning round exclaimed in a fervent tone: would take care of his own cause, she silently and fervently offered up a petition in his behalf. Little Frank stood gazing into her face with childish wonder, but when she ceased speaking with one bound he sprang to her side; and as she returned his sweet endearments, he whispered in her ear, "Tousin Luly hug Fanky, but Luly don't love Fanky, if Luly do way; will tousin Luly do away?" he persisted with such a distressed countenance as to make Lucy and Clara exclaim simultaneously, "No, no, Franky dear, tousin Luly will stay as long as you want her." The child drew a long breath, as if relieved from some great weight, and again putting his plump little arms around his cousin's neck said, in a soft, gentle tone, "Now Fanky learn to be dood, and Fanky do to heaven." From that day Lucy was more than ever a favorite. Well that the lessons of early discipline were hers; well that the prayers of a pious mother had ever been ascending in her behalf; well that that last prayer of faith was that she might be trained for God's glory, not her own; well that the Bible had been her most cherished "My dear uncle and aunt, you forget not the and confidential friend; well that the mercy-seat orphan: O that you would remember the orphan's was daily, ay, hourly, visited; well that the Holy God! You lavish your affections upon one who Spirit reigned in that heart to purify and guide; is unworthy of that affection; one who does noth- well! else the day of prosperity had proved the ing for you: O that you would love Him who day of dark adversity; else, when the destroying does all things! Happy, happy, happy would I angel hovered over that dwelling, seeking its be, could I be the humble instrument of drawing fairest treasure, coveting its brightest jewel, the your attention, and if attention, your hearts' best heart had been weak in itself, the spirit had been tribute would be given to Him who hath pur- unable to render consolation and wield the influchased for you riches, and glory, and eternal life. ence indispensable to undisciplined hearts and Uncle, the religion of the cross guided my father rebellious wills. It was but one week from that through life, the religion of the cross sustained day little Frank lay tossing upon his couch, rollmy mother, and, imperfectly as I have showning his head from side to side, exclaiming in piteforth its power, the religion of the cross has ena-ous accents, "O Luly, tousin Luly, my head so bled me to endure my orphanage, and even re- sick, my head so sick. Won't Luly make Fanky joice amid my sorrows. O, the cross! the cross! well? Fanky be dood if Luly make sick do What power there to alleviate the sufferings of way." Ah! those heart-rending words, that exthe human family, to lift them above circum- quisitely imploring look! The parents stood by stances, to open up communion, even with the in speechless agony; the sister wept the affectionGod of heaven and earth! The cross! the cross! ate but unavailing tears; but Lucy it was-Lucy, Glory be to that Savior who died upon the cross the Christian-who soothed the pain, watched the to lift me to lift you, my uncle-you, my aunt-pulse, administered to his every want, and anyou, my cousins-the world, from death to life, ticipated his every desire. Ah! Lucy, Lucy, thy from poverty to riches, from ignominy to glory." faith now shines resplendent as when thy mother Lucy paused; she had never before spoken so died. Now, in this season of thy recurring trial, freely; she glanced timidly toward her aunt, but when the nerves are taxed, the heart's sincere instead of reading indifference or displeasure, she submission required, holy resignation demanded, beheld her gently wipe away the falling tear; but thy faith, more bright and clear, seeks, obtains, Mr. Spencer, without speaking, arose hastily and lives upon the declaration of God's holy word. left the room. "He is offended," thought Lucy Four days passed, and still the little fellow to herself; but quietly committing what she had moaned in pain. In his more easy moments, said into the hands of God, whom she knew Lucy succeeded in diverting his mind by simple stories of the Savior's love, and he would frequently exclaim, with childish delight beaming from his sweet countenance, "Fanky love Jesus, cause Jesus died to make Fanky dood. When Fanky die, Fanky do live with Jesus." The shadows of evening were gradually vailing the room. Lucy was seated at the bedside. The door opened and some one advanced. "Hush; be very quiet; move gently," whispered she, "he has just fallen into a sweet sleep, from which we may hope every thing." It was Mrs. Spencer who approached, with swollen eyes and dejected look; for from the first hour of her boy's illness, her usual calmness had fled, leaving nothing upon which her soul could be staid. There was even at times a fretfulness betrayed, as she wandered around the house, uneasy and unhappy, and presenting a striking contrast to the suffering but chastened Lucy. Upon Mrs. Spencer's solicitation Lucy, who had not left her charge even for the refreshment of food or sleep, yielded her place; but, as if conscious of something wanting, the little fellow opened his eyes, and seeing her receding figure, spoke in a low tone, "Luly do way, Fanky die." The whisper reached her ear, and returning to his couch Lucy gently assured him of her presence. As he recognized her voice, he feebly placed his little hand within hers, and looking up into her face said, as plainly as words could have done, "Don't leave your little Fanky." The hand was cold, and as Lucy gazed into that upturned eye, O what a change had been wrought! It was sparkling with unwonted brilliancy. The little form lay perfectly quiet, freed, apparently, from all suffering; and as Lucy, with a thrill of anguish darting through her very soul, bent over to scrutinize him more closely, the truth flashed upon her, it was the ease preceding death. Suppressing, with a strenuous effort, the exclamation that rose to her lips, she whispered to her aunt to watch him closely, and then quickly rung the bell. As the father and sister hurried to the bed the little fellow gently unclosed his eyes, and, pointing to the ceiling, exclaimed, "Up there, up there, I want to do up there! Dood by," and kissed his little hand in token of separation. They looked-they looked again he had gone "up there." "Jesus, support my orphan child and train her for thy glory!" Two years had passed, in which this prayer had been signally answered through the silent influence Lucy's Christian character had exerted in her uncle's family. Four years sped into eternity, and the pious petition still lived in its fruits. The family mansion, with its elegances, was no longer in the possession of Mr. Spe | For months she lay cer. Through various losses by derangements in the commercial world, his property was first mortgaged, then sold to relieve his pecuniary embarrassments, till, at length, his own loved home passed into the possession of strangers. Within view of its lawns and its trees, its fruits and its flowers; within view, too, of the lake, whose tiny waves still danced and sparkled to the morning sun; ay, within sight of the cherished spot where slept their little boy, a small but comfortable house became the home of the reduced family. But while the elements were in action that wrought out this great change in the temporal circumstances of the Spencer family, other agencies, more secret but none the less certain, were producing a moral revolution in the character of its members, connected not with time only, but whose results reached into the far future, ay, even into the great forever. Whither now was the restless mind of Clara roaming? The amiable and gentle aunt-was the brow still placid and the heart unruffled? Ah! as the strings of an instrument, when stretched beyond the power of their tension, quiver and snap asunder, so Mrs. Spencer's nerves, weakened by the loss of her favorite child, and the subsequent reverses that crowded upon her family, became exhausted by their own intense action. upon her couch in almost an unconscious existence; but before the silver chord was finally loosened, her voice, in feeble accents, proclaimed a Savior's love, the superiority of grace over nature, and acknowledged there was in Lucy's modest and unaffected piety, an element to which she had always been a stranger. And that haughty uncle, before whose "stern, dark eyes" the young and timid Christian had once shrunk abasheddid the brow contract and the lip curl in scorn as he passed her room one evening and heard her voice in prayer? The tone was fervent-the spirit was evidently struggling to grasp the Immutable. Faith was gaining the victory, and in a voice thrillingly distinct she ended, "Holy Spirit, for the sake of Jesus, who died for his salvation, convince my dear uncle of the truth of thy holy religion. O thou wilt! thou wilt!" she repeated again and again, her faith still strengthening with each repetition. The words caught his ear; he paused; a change passed over his features. Like a gleam of sunshine darting to the bosom of a dark cloud flying over its surface the radiance of light and beauty, even such was the change. The door was opened, and the skeptic bowed at Lucy's side; he bowed before Lucy's God and acknowledged himself a sinner. And Clara-the impulsive, wayward Clara has she still no object, no aim in life? At the Need I make any moral from my narrative? L REASON AND INSTINCT. ORD MONBODDO maintained that man is only an improvement on the monkey, occurring as a result from the general tendency to advancement claimed to exist in nature. He seemed to think that man bore a relation to the monkey somewhat like that which the frog bears to the tadpole, and that as the tadpole becomes the frog, so the race of man was produced by a change at some remote period of the creation, of the monkey into a man. This ridiculous notion of the erudite but fanciful Scotch philosopher is really but another phase of the more recent theory of gradation, or development, as it is sometimes called, which in different forms is now advocated by so many European philosophers. And, although few, comparatively, adopt this theory definitely and fully, there is quite a disposition among many to obliterate the distinctions by which the Creator has in so marked a manner separated man from the inferior animals. It is well, therefore, that we should have a clear idea of these distinctions. But It is often very loosely said that while man is governed by reason, instinct rules in the animal. If it be meant by this that, as a general rule, reason predominates in man, while instinct does so in animals, the statement is a correct one. if it be meant that animals are wholly governed by instinct, and that man is distinguished from them as a reasoning animal, it is not correct. For some animals do reason; that is, if making inferences be considered as reasoning. In tracing out the differences between man and animals, I shall not attempt to show what the nature of instinct is. This is a great mystery, and all attempts to solve it have utterly failed. I shall content myself, therefore, with pointing out some of the differences between instinct and reason. In doing this it is not always easy to say just where the one begins and the other ends, so intimately are their phenomena often mingled together. The actions of instinct are more unaccountable than those of reason. In the operations of reason we see something of the processes by which results are reached. But it is not so with instinct. For example, as a man travels over an unexplored country, we can understand by what means he obtains a knowledge of the country, in order to guide him on his journey. The processes of his reasoning in regard to this we can comprehend. But when an insect travels with unerring certainty to its place of destination without any guide marks that we can see, or when a swarm of bees or a flock of birds wing their flight to distant |