THE WORLD WE MIGHT HAVE LIVED IN. MARIA BARCLAY had been sitting before a blazing fire at the close of a winter's day, and had been contemplating the figures in its glowing coals with as much attention as if she expected to be able to read some mysterious secrets in their strangely grouped forms; when, rousing herself to obey the summons of the teatable, she murmured in a low tone of voice, accompanied by a heavy sigh—“ And I suppose I never shall know!"

"Is that the new planet again?" enquired her lively sister Harriet; and, without waiting for a reply, she addressed the group who had already taken their places round the table, "Maria is so engrossed with the new planet, that she nearly forgets the old one, which I think is rather ungrateful, considering how much more it has done for her than the new one is likely to do."

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'But everything there must be so different," rejoined Maria; “and it surely cannot be wrong to try to fancy what the difference consists in ?"

"It must be darker and drearier than our world," said her brother Arthur; "so I am satisfied for one."

'I don't know,” replied Maria, thoughtfully; "there may be compensations, and I like to fancy what they can be."

That reminds me," said Mr. Barclay, "of a manuscript I have of your uncle Bernard's, which he gave me, with many others, years ago; as he thought they might some time or other amuse you. I intended to produce them during this vacation, as they will make a little variety in some of your holiday evenings, and I think we cannot do better than begin to-night."

After the tea-things were removed, the portfolio in question was accordingly produced, and Mr. Barclay read as follows:

“From my earliest childhood I had a strong desire to travel : circumstances, however, which sometimes form the strongest fetters by which the actions of a man can be restrained, have throughout life prevented my indulging my tastes in this respect, nor is it likely now that they will ever be gratified. It will sound strange to my nephews and nieces to hear me say that I cease to regret having had my powers of locomotion so circumscribed, yet such is the case. I have often observed that those who have ravelled most, have returned dissatisfied with their homes;

indulging a habit of comparing what was pleasant abroad, with what was unpleasant at home, and overlooking discomforts at a distance, while magnifying those at hand. This has made me think that, if less of what may be called pleasure were placed within my reach, perhaps a larger share of happiness might be mine; and I insensibly acquired a habit of contrasting other lands with my own, (I have always been a tremendous fire-side traveller,) for the express purpose of finding out the advantages possessed by the inhabitants of our foggy little island over those of other countries. The result has been, that I have become a very-I suppose I must call it-prejudiced person, Be it so ; I see few happier. There was one period of my life when I was left very much to the companionship of my own thoughts; I was closely occupied with attention to business during the day, and when in the evening I descended from my high office-seat, and returned to my solitary lodgings, a weakness in one of my eyes prevented my opening a book during the long evenings of the longest winter I had ever known. The ruling passion did not forsake me, and I used to indulge in many a ramble in distant climes, picturing to myself the scenes of which I had so often read, and imagining myself the hero of many a thrilling incident. The subdued light of the room, and the soothing influence of perfect tranquillity after a day of exertion and fatigue, sometimes made my lucubrations approach very nearly to the character of dreams. Perhaps you will think the following narrative partakes too closely of that nature. However that may be, its perusal can do you no harm, and may perchance suggest a train of unwonted reflection.

"I imagined myself a wanderer in some remote land, whether in our own planet or some other I could not ascertain, but the latter appeared the more probable conjecture. The first impression conveyed by a hasty glance around was, that though existence might be supported in that dreary land, yet that enjoyment must be a thing unknown there; and all my future observations tended to confirm me in this conviction. The appearance of the people, and of their country, was alike unprepossessing; and there seemed so general a want of, or suspension of, what we are pleased to call the laws of nature,' that nothing could be calculated with certainty. The husbandman might sow, but none

could feel even a moderate degree of security that there would be anything to reap. The seeds, after being placed in the ground, might spring up within a limited time, but as frequently it would be found on inspection that they were unchanged, and that no prospect of their ever springing up appeared; in such cases the only alternative was carefully to disinter the seeds that had thus been buried, and try whether another soil and exposure would prove more successful. In other cases the seed would be found in a petrified condition, not only worthless in itself, but encumbering the ground, and making a great deal of trouble necessary before it could have any chance of being fruitful. There was no spontaneous vegetation; nothing grew without the agency of man; so that the sterility of the country can hardly be imagined. It may readily be supposed how little ornamental there was, when so much labor was necessary to supply the commonest wants of life. The wretched inhabitants seemed indeed in a state bordering on starvation, for even whɛn a plentiful crop appeared, there was no security that it was of a wholesome quality. Though closely resembling what had been so at the last harvest, yet it might be found to be impregnated with the most deleterious juices, and none could hope to partake with impunity of any substance that had not been submitted to the most rigid chemical tests. The business of eating was, at the best, an affair of danger, and frequently of exquisite suffering; the entrance to the throat was so close to the windpipe, that there was an equal probability of its descending by the one as by the other, and agonizing scenes were constantly occurring in consequence; especially among children, whose inexperience was insufficient to enable them to take those precautions which even · with the practice of years were hardly available.

Chemistry was the principal study of the people; and indeed without its aid they could hardly have existed. The elements of every substance were to be found around them, but they were useless unless skilfully combined; even the air they breathed was full of danger, for it would frequently assume, not only an impure, but even an inflammable form,* and the difficulty of keeping its constituent parts in a state of equilibrium can hardly be imagined. Water, too, in wide districts there was none. There it had to be

* See our last volume, p. 513.

I

formed, drop by drop, by the mingling of different gases. In other places it abounded, but always loaded with mineral substances, rendering it both unpalatable and unwholesome. ascertained upon enquiry that formerly no part of the country had been totally destitute of water, such as it was, but that on every occasion of frost, the ice formed on the surface had rapidly sunk to the bottom, where no rays of the sun could ever melt it, and thus what had been water-courses were gradually transformed into sheets of ice.† Many other circumstances I might mention, such as the uncertain return of the seasons, the various lengths of day and night, a short day being frequently followed by a succession of very long ones, and vice versá; but I think my readers will by this time be as glad to leave it as I was. I hope they will bear one thing in mind, that desolate as that planet is, it is one that they themselves might have inhabited, IF

"The remainder of the sentence I must leave them to supply." "And now," said Mr. Barclay, as he laid down the manuscript, "is this anything like your idea of the new planet, Maria ?” "Certainly not, papa," she replied. When people are conjecturing what may be, I see no use in fancying all manner of uncomfortable things. I like to imagine places bright and beautiful, and free from all the inconveniences to which we are exposed here."

"Well," said Alfred, " your musings and uncle Bernard's have directly opposite results; his made him better satisfied with all about him, and yours must make every thing seem very dull." "I don't think there is any harm in it," said Maria; "it is so pleasant to live in a beautiful world of one's own."

"There must be harm," said her father, "in all that makes us overlook the blessings that Providence has surrounded us with; and our daily comforts are apt to be overlooked for that very reason. Our feelings are the reverse of David's, for he said of them, 'They are new every morning;' whilst we say, or rather think, (for perhaps it is a feeling we would not put into words,) that they are only old, familiar blessings, and therefore do not bestow a thought upon them. We take it for granted that things could not go on otherwise than they do, unless they were very much to be improved, and we overlook all the care

+ Ibid.p. 413.

and foresight that have been employed to make them what they are."

"But what," said Harriet, "does that emphatic IF, of uncle Bernard's mean? Of course we might have lived in that planet, if we had lived there, or if we did not live here; but you might say the same of any fairy land.”

"Not quite in the same sense though," said her father. "We shall find that everything he mentions might describe the state of things on this very globe, if Chance had made, and managed it, as some affirm; or even if it were subject to laws that admitted of no control, or were never departed from, for wise and beneficent purposes, as those are by which our world is governed. Were not the preserving care of God as signally manifested as his creating wisdom, all these distressing perplexities might have occurred. Though this world be a comparative wilderness now, yet, still, as when it was first created. God makes every plant to grow after its kind, and gives what is not only good for food, but pleasant to the sight.”

"And how is it, papa, that we are not choked like uncle's friends?" enquired Maria.

"Because of the wonderful mechanical arrangement by which the windpipe is closed when the process of eating is going on. I must refer you to Paley's Natural Theology,' for the detailed account of it; a book you have often declined reading, but which will show you that you live in a world of wonders, surpassing what your imagination can suggest.

"To those who refuse to acquaint themselves with the works of God, much of his word must seem exaggerated, or pointless. How different must be the sensations of that man who, on reading the words, "In wisdom hast Thou made them all," can recall instance upon instance of contrivance and care, from his who has never reflected upon the subject!

"What a miserable thing to be sure it would be to have the seasons at random," observed Mrs. Barclay : never to know what we have to anticipate in the way of weather."

16 "Yes," said Mr. B., "but how much we lose when we do not observe the use which is made of all these ordinances of God in the Bible. They are constantly used to illustrate his dealings with mankind, and thus in the highest sense we are taught to