at first all seemed mere confusion, blind hurry, aimless effort or sluggish failure. Surely those bubbles could be subject to no law: such tumult could be only destruction. There could be no hope of safety among those roaring torrents. There was an inevitable hurry of the spirits from merely watching the stream. I could not help wishing it would flow by, or at least stop a little, that I might rest a moment from the sound of its thrilling voice, and the sight of its dazzling swiftness. I loved better the little quiet side-rills, that came stealing round among the fissures in the broad ledges, under the shade of boughs, not melancholy but only modest and tender, by comparison with the bold torrent. Pure and gentle, musical though not loud, these tributary streams reminded me irresistibly of some lines we have all seencontent to swell the great tide unrecognized-to contribute without receiving. They ask no immunity-steal no selfish repose; ceaseless, unsleeping, as the noisy river, they do their work unnoticed; willing ministers, seeking strength from Heaven alone.

But looking long and often at the great stream, we fail not to discover its subjection to immutable laws, and to see that its very bubbles are under control, as much as the everlasting rocks which they reflect in faithful miniature. Yon cresting spray has its rule: in an instant it must sink into the black pool whose surface the sunshine never reaches. That great glassy wave, so seeming still that you might almost think it frozen, approaches the fall which will dash it into millions of fragmentary drops,

part of which will rise in mist to hang trembling on the delicate branches of those bending elms, while the rest rush wildly on, over tumbling rapids and glorious rainbows, yet destined, at last, only to turn a mill a little further down!

But the scene assumes a new character-a truly human interest, when a young man-a fine youth-who has spent his childhood in watching these waters, till he knows every fall and rapid-every pool and eddy, by heart, after drawing a little skiff laboriously up the rocky platform, launches it, and himself, fearlessly on a series of rapids that threaten swift destruction to one less acquainted with their laws. See the skill and accuracy with which he poises himself in the fairy vessel, with firm hand grasping the rudder, with keen, watchful eye scanning the course which alone can bear him safely through a thousand yawning deaths that wait on either side. Now a swift descent threatens to engulf him; now a whirling eddy tries to dash him against those sharp ledges. The wreaths of foam that follow and surround him, make one feel as if the water-spirits were fighting for their prey. Wo to the unwary who shall tempt these treacherous depths! No friend, however strong and watchful-no human power that could be summoned to this deep, lonely spot-this cleft in earth's green bosom-could avail him for an instant. Down, down he must go, into flinty caves so horrible, that if even the relics of his youth and beauty should come again to the light of day, his own mother would not

know her child! But no; he has too long studied the danger and the safety from the shore to make a single blunder in his steering. On he goes, triumphant-let us hope not vain-glorious-in his youthful strength and skill. On he goes, sometimes half-hidden by the dancing spray, and again emerging on what seems, from its stillness, a mere platform of water. Below is a fall, but that he avoids by quietly mooring his boat before it nears the treacherous edge; and at length, panting a little, but happy in his success, he sits down quietly under this rocky roof, and enjoys repose the sweeter for past labours.

I do not intend to tire my readers by a long exposition and application of my old-fashioned simile, drawn, as it is, from realities that filled the eye and excited the inagination as only Nature's can. But when I sat down to write a few words of introduction for this unpretending book of mine, I could not but think that we who record our observations and conclusions on the subject of life and character, are trying, in a humble way, to give those who are about launching upon the great stream, some such theoretical knowledge of its course and dangers, as that possessed by the young hero of the skiff. Something may be learned by observing the current from the shore; and if there be-as, indeed, there too truly are-dangers from which only heavenly Goodness can guard us, there are also those from which sober advice may perhaps turn us aside. At least, such is ever the cheering hope of the moralist, whether grave or gay; and happily there are found docile and gentle listeners, to accept kindly

what is well intended, even though the aid it offers be small and seemingly unimportant.

The volume now offered to the public, under the shelter of a title dear to my heart-THE HOME CIRCLE-is, in truth, another 'Evening Book,' such as found favour a year ago. It embraces Essays, short and long, on various subjects, Sketches from Life, and Delineations of Character. The West, which makes an indelible impression on whoever remains in it long enough to catch its spirit, is represented, almost of course; for my interest in it is undiminished; while from other sources a habit of observation is always gleaning something which it is natural to record, in hope of sympathy, if not of usefulness. As a whole, I would hope the collection is not inferior to its predecessor of last year, though of this I am, perhaps, not the best judge.

One paper it contains of especial interest to me-the concluding story, the substance of which was written by my mother, although in its present form it may be called mine. All its charm is truly hers; and I wrote it over only because she lacked the practice necessary to give due effect to thoughts full of vigour and sprightliness. Her pen was to her an amusement during long years of affliction and ill-health: if she had devoted herself to it as a profession, I should have had no occasion or opportunity to remodel her productions.