Whipping to him was a barbarous rule, He lived in the house by the hawthorn lane, And made him forget he was old and poor. "I need so little," he often said, "And my friends and relatives here below Won't litigate over me when I am dead,” Said the kindly old pedagogue, long ago. But the most pleasant times that he had, of all, Over a pipe and a friendly glass; "This was the sweetest pleasure,” he said, The kindly old pedagogue's wrinkled face Till the house grew merry from cellar to tiles; "I'm a pretty old man," he gently said, "I've lingered a long while here below, But my heart is fresh, if my youth be fled!" Said the jolly old pedagogue, long ago. He smoked his pipe in the balmy air, Every night when the sun went down, While the soft wind played in his silvery hair, Leaving its tenderest kisses there On the kindly old pedagogue's kindly old crown; And feeling the kisses, he smiled and said, ""Tis a glorious world down here below Why wait for happiness till we are dead?" After the sun had sunk in the west, There were angels waiting for him, I know; This kindly old pedagogue, long ago.-George Arnold. (305.) THE ROAD TO RUIN. Thomas Holcroft, dramatist, b. 1745, d. 1809. Son of a shoemaker. At first a stableboy, then a tramping shoemaker, then a strolling actor, and finally a successful dramatist, and the first to introduce to the English stage adaptations from the French. [Harry Dornton, a noble-hearted young fellow, spoilt by over-indulgence, and his friend Milford, are the travellers on "the road to ruin." The extravagance of Harry brings his father, a wealthy banker, to the verge of bankruptcy, from which he is saved by the interposition of his partner, Sulky.] Enter MR. SULKY. Harry. My dear Mr. Sulky, how do you do? Sulky. Very ill. Harry. Indeed? I am very sorry! What's your disorder? Harry. Ha, ha, ha! Sulky. Ruin, bankruptcy, infamy! Harry. The old story! Sulky. To a new tune. Harry. Ha, ha, ha! Sulky. You are Harry. What, my good cynic? Sulky. A fashionable gentleman. Harry. I know it. Sulky. And fashionably ruined. Harry. No;--I have a father. Sulky. Who is ruined likewise. Harry. Ha, ha, ha! Is the Bank of England ruined? Sulky. I say, ruined. Nothing less than a miracle can save the house. The purse of Fortunatus could not supply you. Harry. No; it held nothing but guineas. Notes, bills, paper for me! Sulky. Such effrontery is insufferable. For these five years, sir, you have been driving to ruin more furiously than— Harry. An ambassador's coach on a birth-night. I saw you were stammering for a simile. Sulky. Sir! Harry. Youth mounts the box, seizes the reins, and jehus headlong on in the dark; passion and prodigality blaze in the front, bewilder the coachman, and dazzle and blind the passengers; wisdom, prudence, and virtue are overset and maimed or murdered; and at last, repentance, like the footman's flambeau lagging behind, lights us to dangers when they are past all remedy. Sulky. Laugh on, sir! Perhaps you will be less ready to grin when you see how you have paragraphed yourself. Harry. Paragraphed myself! Me! Where! Sulky. In the St. James' Evening. Harry. Me? Sulky. Stating the exact amount. Harry. Of my loss? Sulky. Yours. You march through every avenue to fame, dirty or clean. Harry. Well said!-Be witty when you can; sarcastic you must be, in spite of your teeth. But I like you the better. You are honest. You are my cruet of Cayenne, and a sprinkling of you is excellent. Sulky. Well, sir, when you know the state of your own affairs, and to what you have reduced the house, you will perhaps be less ready to grin. Harry. Reduced the house! Ha, ha, ha! Enter MR. DORNTON, with a newspaper in his hand. Dornton. So, sir! Harry. [Bowing.] I am happy to see you, sir. Dornton. You are there, after having broken into my house at midnight! And you are here [pointing to the paper], after having ruined me and my house by your unprincipled prodigality! Are you not a scoundrel? Harry. No, sir. I am only a fool. Sulky. Good-night to you, gentlemen. [Going. Dornton. Stay where you are, Mr. Sulky, and be a witness to my solemn renunciation of him and his vices! Sulky. I have witnessed it a thousand times. Dornton. But this is the last. Are you not a scoundrel, I say? Harry. I am your son. [To Harry Dornton. [Calling off] Mr. Smith! Bring in those deeds. Enter MR. SMITH, with papers. You will not deny you are an incorrigible squanderer? Harry. I will deny nothing. Dornton. A nuisance, a wart, a blot, a stain upon the face of nature! Harry. A stain that will wash out, sir. Dornton. A redundancy, a negation; a besotted sophisticated incumbrance; a jumble of fatuity; your head, your heart, your words, your actions, all a jargon; incoherent and unintelligible to yourself, absurd and offensive to others! Harry. I am whatever you please, sir. Dornton. Bills never examined, everything bought on credit, the price of nothing asked! Conscious you were weak enough to wish for baubles you did not want, and pant for pleasures you could not enjoy, you had not the effrontery to assume the circumspect caution of common sense! And, to your other destructive follies, you must add the detestable vice of gaming! Harry. These things, sir, are much easier done than defended. Dornton. But here.-Give me that parchment! [To Mr. Smith.] The partners have all been summoned. Look, sir! Your name has been formally erased! Harry. The partners are very kind. Dornton. The suspicions already incurred by the known profligacy of a principal in the firm, the immense sums you have drawn, this paragraph, the run on the house it will occasion, the consternation of the whole city-You are disinherited !-Read! Harry. Your word is as good as the bank, sir. Dornton. I'll no longer act the doting father, fascinated by your arts! Harry. I never had any art, sir, except the one you taught me. Dornton. I taught you! What, scoundrel? What? Harry. That of loving you, sir. Dornton. Loving me! Harry. Most sincerely! Dornton. Why, can you say, Harry-rascal, I mean-that you love me? Harry. I should be a rascal indeed if I did not, sir. Dornton. Harry! Harry! No; confound me if I do!—sir, you are a vile! Harry. I know I am. Dornton. And I'll never speak to you more. Harry. Bid me good-night, sir. Mr. Sulky here will bid me goodnight, and you are my father!-Good-night, Mr. Sulky. Sulky. Good-night. Harry. Come, sir— Dornton. [Struggling with passion.] I won't!-If I do!— Harry. Reproach me with my follies, strike out my name, disinherit me; I deserve it all, and more,-But say, "Good-night, Harry!" Dornton. I won't!-I won't!-I won't! Harry. Poverty is a trifle; we can whistle it off;-but enmity-Dornton. I will not! Harry. Sleep in enmity? And who can say how soundly?-Come! good-night. Dornton. I won't! I won't! [Runs off. Harry. Say you so? Why, then my noble-hearted dad, I am indeed a scoundrel! Re-enter MR. DORNTON. Dornton. Good-night! Harry. Good-night! [Exit. [Exit. (306.) UNCONSCIOUS INFLUENCE. Horace Bushnell, D.D., American theologian, b. 1802, d. 1876. We I mention, first of all, the instinct of imitation in children. begin our mortal experience, not with acts grounded in judgment or reason, or with ideas received through language, but by simple imitation, and, under the guidance of this, we lay our foundations. The child looks and listens, and whatsoever tone of feeling or manner of conduct is displayed around him, sinks into his plastic, passive soul, and becomes a mould of his being ever after. The very handling of the nursery is significant, and the petulance, the passion, the gentleness, the tranquillity indicated by it, are all reproduced in the child. His soul is a purely receptive nature, and that for a considerable period, without choice or selection. A little further on he begins voluntarily to copy everything he sees. Voice, manner, gait, everything which the eye sees, the mimic instinct delights to act over. And thus we have a whole generation of future men, receiving from |