not stopping to heed the cries and groans of the weak and powerless, who are trodden under their feet.

The reader will pardon me for these prolonged reflections, because of their importance. Let him not pass them idly by, but give them earnest thought, and then he may lend a hand to hasten on the "good time coming."

CHAPTER XV.

A MEDLEY.

I MET frequently with Irene Dinneford, both at her home and at the store. I spent many of my evenings with her. Sometimes we went to the theatre, the opera, or to a concert, or evening lecture. I found her very intelligent and interesting. We discussed the merits of plays, actors and books. She was well versed in history, poetry and romance. Of all the poets, she liked Byron best. I preferred Shelley and Shakspeare. She was enraptured with the grandeur of Milton, the beauty of Thomson, the affection of Burns and the melody of Moore. I also admired them, but my feelings were not so intense as hers. Our tastes were similar in relation to literature, music and painting. She had a passionate love for the drama, but regretted that actors did not more respect themselves. "If they would be temperate and virtuous," she thought, "the strong prejudice against them would gradually wear away." She was right; for it is lamentable they should so often degrade themselves, and create injurious prejudice.

People sometimes express their surprise that play

actors should be so poor; but it is not any marvel, when they are continually visiting hotels and grog-shops, drinking, carousing, day after day. It is not because they receive so little, but they spend so much foolishly. It is folly to attempt to kill the drama, or do away with theatres. People will have amusements; and the drama should be made, not only a source of amusement, but of instruction and improvement. Improper language, such as is unfit and would corrupt the social circle, should not be uttered upon the stage. True wit is not coarse or vulgar. Words of vile import, indecent hints, etc., may please the low and depraved, but the more refined and virtuous will turn away in disgust. In this respect a reform is loudly called for, and stage-managers will do

Iwell to heed it.

Our favorite actor was the elder Booth, who has within a brief period "shuffled off this mortal coil." He was then in his prime; and very seldom, if ever, has he been excelled in his ability to delineate character. It mattered not that his face and form were not in accordance with your ideas of the character he personated, for you soon forgot all about them; you forgot Booth, for you saw only Hamlet. So of Richard the Third, the hunch-back king and assassin,- he was "himself again." That plotting devil, Iago, walked the stage of life once more; and old, garrulous, demented King Lear made you sad when you looked into his sorrow-stricken face, and heard him pour

Poor

forth, in broken words, the griefs of his heart. Booth! what a checkered life was thine! "Peace to thy

ashes!"

"After life's fitful fever, he sleeps well."

"Thou knowest it is common, all that live must die,

Passing through nature to eternity."

"Close up his eyes, and draw the curtain close,

And let us all to meditation."

Our tastes being so similar, it was no marvel that we should seek each other's society, and feel happy when we were together; but still there was ever something lacking. There was not that freedom and ease that I could have wished. Something stood between us, to keep us apart. Half ravished with her beautiful form and face, her soullit eyes, charmed with her conversation, I sometimes thought of asking her to become mine. But her manner was never sufficiently cordial to give me the required assurance that I should not meet with a repulse. And ever, when I thought of offering myself in marriage to her, I would think of Helen,- of the rescue, the happy hours I had spent in her presence, our pleasant rambles, gathering flowers, chasing butterflies, reading out of the same book, while sitting under a green, shady tree. How many hours has she read to me, in her clear, sweet tones! And then I was happy.

"O! sweet as the lapse of water at noon

O'er the mossy roots of some forest tree,
The sigh of the wind in the woods of June,
Or sound of flutes o'er a moonlight sea,
Or the low, soft music, perchance, which seems
To float through the slumbering singer's dreams, –

"So sweet, so dear is the silvery tone

Of her in whose features I sometimes look,

As I sit at eve by her side alone,

And we read by turns from the self-same book —

Some tale perhaps of the olden time,

Some lover's romance, or quaint old rhyme.

"Then, when the story is one of woe,

Some prisoner's plaint through his dungeon bar,
Her blue eye glistens with tears, and low

Her voice sinks down like a moan afar;
And I seem to hear the prisoner's wail,
And his face looks on me, worn and pale.

"And when she reads some merrier song,

Her voice is glad as an April bird's;
And when the tale is of war and wrong,
A trumpet's summons is in her words,
And the rush of the hosts I seem to hear,

And see the tossing of plume and spear !

Irene Dinneford was good, intelligent and accomplished, and more beautiful than Helen; but then, I ever shrank from doing what would separate me forever from the one who had been so long a dear companion and

*Whittier.