tives, many of them of a facetious turn, and all of whom came to wish the new married couple joy, and crack the jokes usual on such occasions. Nay, more than this, Mrs. Nightshade, though she had never read Mary Woolstonecraft, was a zealous advocate for" the rights of women;" that is, she had made up her mind to have her own way in all things, and accordingly insisted upon her husband doing just as she pleased, even to the extent of being gay, merry and sociable. She protested against being "moped up," and made Jeremiah go along with her to balls, plays, concerts, and other places of amusement; she kept up a running fire of parties, and had some of the women people of the neighbourhood sipping tea and chattering scandal with her, five days out of the seven; nay, she actually, (my spirit is exceedingly sorrowful for thee, Jeremiah!) instead of allowing him his morning stroll among the tombs, took him a-shopping with her! This was too much for of all the impertinencies that a grave, reserved man can be subjected to, that of going "a-shopping" (as they call it) with a fantastical woman, is the most grievous and unbearable.

This unnatural state of things could not last long. It was not to be expected. Such a total change of system was sure to be highly prejudicial, and Mr. Nightshade's health visibly declined apace.

He

One day she took it into her head to give a a party on an "uncommon genteel' scale. The company, however, was more numerous than select; and their mirth was of that hearty, hilarious character which, among certain people, generally accompanies good cheer and no reckoning. A fat cousin of hers, a devilish droll fellow," who told marvellous stories and sung a good comic song, sat next the unfortunate Nightshade. was one of those gentlemen that do not need any pressing to make themselves quite at home," and at the end of every joke he kept slapping Jeremiah on the shoulder with the familiarity of an old acquaintance, and inquiring "why the deuce he did not laugh?" Laugh! Jeremiah well knew the danger of such a course of conduct, but he was of a complying disposition, and he tried. The unnatural exertion, as might reasonably have been conjectured, proved too much for him. A blood-vessel burst in the middle of the attempt, and he was immediately carried to bed; although

66

he was thought (by those who did not care much about him) not to be much worse. In the morning, however, when Mrs. Nightshade desired him to get up to breakfast, she received no response, and, on examination, found that during the night his gentle spirit had evapo. rated, and that she was once more a disconsolate woman. Of course, as might have been expected from a lady of her experience, she conducted herself in the most approved manner; that is, she first called in the neighbours, and then went into hysterics, which did not, however, prove fatal.

Though the end of Mr. Nightshade was sudden, no inquest was held upon the body, it being the general opinion (whatever might be said about the bloodvessel) that he had made a very natural termination, having, like many a good fellow beside, "come by his death in consequence of matrimony."

THE MAN WITH MANY TROUBLES.

MANY centuries ago, there dwelt in the city of Memphis an Egyptian nobleman, in high favour with the king and all the people. His name was Hophara. He was possessed of great riches and of great influence; moreover, he was exceedingly learned and pious. He knew all the records of the past, and the secrets of the holy books; and it was the common practice of the people of Memphis, when they wished to express their love and good will towards their friends, to say, "May you be as happy as Hophara!" Notwithstanding all this, however, there were times when he was far from being happy, and, while all the world was envying him, he was envying all the world. Sometimes he would retire from the royal presence, fearing that there was a change in the king's mind towards him, and that some more successful courtier than himself was about to supplant him in the councils VOL. I. (14.)

P. 210..

and confidence of his sovereign. If the king looked more than usually grave, then Hophara was afraid of his anger; but if there were unusual symptoms of gaiety and cheerfulness, then would he speculate on the evanescence of smiles, and dread some latent treachery lurking in ambush under these gay and pleasant looks. Besides all these imaginations and apprehensions, which were perpetually disturbing his peace of mind, he had many other troubles of various kinds, and it was one of his greatest vexations that he was supposed to be much more happy than all the rest of the world, when he knew that the fact was far otherwise; so that while he saw himself an object of envy, he felt that in truth he was rather an object of pity.

It happened one day that Hophara wandered in moody meditation far beyond the walls of the city, scarcely knowing whither he went, and what he was seeking. He at length found himself in a solitary place by the

P

river's side, far away from the tumult of the city or the sound of human voices; for he felt sorely troubled by the lively manifestations of joy and satisfaction which he continually heard around him. The sun was high in the heavens, and the heat of it began to be oppressive, when happily he saw at a distance a cave that had been hollowed out from a rock. Thither he directed his steps with eager haste, and, when arrived there, he sat down on a stone bench not far within the mouth of the cave, and which seemed to have been placed there for the accommodation of weary travellers. He was so delighted with the refreshing coolness and pleasant rest of the place, that for a while he forgot his troubles; but afterwards, when he had somewhat recovered from his fatigue, he felt his curiosity excited to examine more closely the place in which he had sought refuge from the heat of the sun. He had not proceeded many steps towards the interior of the cave, before he saw the figure of an aged man as still as a marble statue, seated with a book in his hand, and apparently reading with profound attention by the dim light of a small lamp suspended from the roof of the cavern. Hophara was struck at the strange sight, and was held in pleasing astonishment at the remarkable beauty of the old man's face, which seemed to him a perfect model of pure contentment and benevolence, looking as though his own cup of happiness was more than full, and was overflowing beneficently for others. It was not fear, but awe and admiration, that held the Egyptian silent, as he gazed upon this interesting sight; and so long did he stand looking upon the aged man in silence, that at length when he would have spoken he felt a kind of charm that held him speechless. As if, however, knowing his thoughts, the old man raised his mild and beautiful eyes from the book in which he was reading, and fixing them upon Hophara with a pleasing and friendly expression, said, "Man of Memphis, what seekest thou?"

There was so much music in the tone of the voice that Hophara felt at once enchanted and disenchanted; for he was delighted with the kindness

Then the old man replied, "Canst thou not find it in Memphis? Hast thou not riches? Hast thou not station and power? Hast thou not learning, and piety, and many friends? Is there aught which men desire, and which thou possessest not? If there be, speak, and it shall be given to thee!"

Hophara felt reproved, and replied, "It is true as thou hast said; the blessings of life are mine abundantly, but alas! I can enjoy them but imperfectly. Though I am rich, I have no more enjoyment from my riches than the poor seem to have from their poverty; though I am high in station and in power, I often envy the slaves who envy me.'

"Wouldst thou then become poor and humble?" asked the stranger. "Wouldst thou part with all or any of the blessings which thou now possessest?"

Readily enough he answered to this question, saying, "Not willingly; for though I do not feel quite happy with them, yet I am sure that I should be quite unhappy without them."

"What wouldst thou, then?" said the sage.

Hophara replied, "I would fain be rid of those many cares, and troubles, and anxieties which embitter my life, and prevent the full enjoyment of my blessings."

"But dost thou not know," said the old man, “that every living being is destined to endure some trouble, pain, or trial? Wouldst thou unreasonably then ask for a lot which no mortal man has yet possessed?"

"Nay," replied Hophara, "I ask not for a degree of happiness which no mortal man has ever enjoyed. I know that it is impossible to live without some troubles or causes of uneasiness."

"Thou wouldst then have," said the old man," as few as possible, and them as light as possible?"

"Even so," replied the Egyptian. "Have then thy wish," said the stranger. There was something so

awful and preternatural in the sound of the voice, that Hophara trembled when he heard the words, for he felt that they were spoken with power. Forthwith the lamp in the cavern burned brighter, and cast around them both a light as bright as the sun at mid-day. The old man rose from his seat, and, presenting the book to Hophara, he said, " Man of Memphis, thou art a man of many troubles, and thou seekest to be free from these troubles, that thou mayst enjoy the many blessings which thou possessest. Thou knowest that no one of the living is exempt from all cause of sorrow, and thou art not so unreasonable as to seek for that which no mortal hath ever enjoyed. Take then this book and preserve it as an inestimable treasure; choose for thyself whatever trouble or troubles thou wilt, however few or however small, still thou canst not be altogether without trouble, and whatever be the existing trouble, it shall remain with thee till thou hast chosen for thyself a new. Whatever thou choosest thou must write in this book, and it shall be unto thee as thou desirest, and no other trouble shall come unto thee save that which thou desirest, so long as thou keepest possession of this book, and thou canst only get rid of the book by bringing it again to me in this cave."

Hophara eagerly received the book, regarding it as the instrument of his happiness, and was about to thank his unknown benefactor with intemperate and passionate gratitude, when suddenly the bright light of the cave disappeared, and he was left in total darkness and solitude. He called aloud, but no one made answer, and so bewildered was he by what he had seen and heard, that he knew not which way to turn towards the entrance of the cave. He feared to turn either one way or the other lest he might go wrong, and so be more and more involved in the labyrinth of darkness. He began to think that he must be dreaming, but he felt that he had actual possession of the book; yet what use could it be to him in this darkness, for he could not see to write anything therein, and he recollected that the old man had said to him, "Whatever be the existing trouble,

it shall remain with thee till thou hast chosen to thyself a new." Therefore he began to fear that this trouble of darkness and bewilderment must endure so long as he kept possession of the book, and more than once he thought to cast it away from him as a gift more for evil than for good; but there was a charm which prevented him from parting with it, because, though he felt it a trouble to him where he then was, yet he thought that it would be a great treasure to him could he but once find his way with it to his own home. He was now under the necessity of using patience and sagacity in order to find his way out of the cave, and he could not help thinking how much trouble it cost him to get rid of his troubles. At length, after much wandering in the darkness, he thought he saw some glimmer of light, and, directing his footsteps that way, found to his great satisfaction that he was now about to emerge again into the light of day.

Now he was glad indeed, for the terror under which he had been labouring in the cave had given a double relish to liberty and daylight. He hastened to his home, full of pleasing anticipations that he was now about to be the happiest of mortals, and the very hope of happiness that was to come, gave him a higher degree of rapture than anything he had hitherto enjoyed. His first care, trouble indeed it was not, was to choose some other trouble in the place of those under which he was then labouring; but it so happened that the delight which he felt in the acquisition of this new talisman was so great, that he scarcely regarded his troubles as anything; they seemed merely to give a zest to his being, so that though his actual condition was precisely the same that it had been previously to his obtaining this wonderful book, yet he viewed things with so different an eye, and under such an agreeable and promising aspect, that he considered this treasure which the old man of the cave had given him, to be of itself a charm protecting him from all real evil. Moreover, he had some little reluctance and hesitation to change troubles that now seemed no troubles at all, for others that might become

real annoyances; and he also felt that there was really some difficulty in making a choice among evils. For a time, therefore, the book lay by him not used, though not useless, for its possession was the means of reconciling him to the troubles under which he laboured.

After a time, however, when the novelty of the treasure was somewhat abated, and the excitement of his interview with the strange old man in the cave had worn off, life began again to resume its usual form. He felt again, in all their force, the mortifications of his pride, the frustration of his wishes, the uncertain tenure by which he held the royal favour, and the anxiety lest days of darkness should come upon him. He considered that though this charmed book enabled him to choose his ow troubles, it did not promise to confer upon him any blessing; so that if he should lose his wealth or the royal favour, there were no means by which he could recover them; but if no other trouble could come upon him save that which he himself might write in the book, so long as it continued therein uncancelled by himself, he knew of course that his wealth and favour were secure. This thought, therefore, set him with great diligence upon meditating what trouble he should choose. He recollected that he was permitted to make choice of as few or of as many troubles as he pleased, and of as light a nature as possible, only he must have a real, and not merely a nominal trouble. Now he spent a vast deal of time, and gave himself a great deal of trouble to find out some trouble that was no trouble. And when he had carefully considered and meditated upon all the troubles and calamities, mental and bodily, personal and relative, to which mortals are subject, he could find none that he liked; for so great is the reluctance of men to inflict pain upon themselves, that they will not voluntarily undergo a smaller pain sometimes, even to get rid of a greater. So felt Hophara, when he had been driven by his many troubles to think seriously of choosing some one calamity as a means of expelling all the rest. Many things which he had formerly looked

upon as mere trifles, and scarcely deserving the name of troubles, now that he was permitted to choose which of them he would endure, seemed to be serious annoyances.

Not being able to choose for himself, his next thought was that he would let accident choose for him ; that he would go about the city, and would talk among his friends, and see if any among them were labouring under troubles and calamities of a lighter and more tolerable nature than his own. He was quite astonished, when he set about the enquiry, to find that so many of his apparently prosperous and cheerful friends had some one or more sources of complaint. He used to think everybody happier than himself, but now he saw that his neighbours were as sorrowful as he. When he gravely and seriously talked over various troubles, he found that many of his acquaintance had indeed as just ground to complain, and he heard of few troubles which on consideration appeared much lighter than his own.

In this state of hesitation and suspense, he happened to meet with a friend, who had been the most light-hearted of all he knew, and was envied for his wealth and for the splendour in which he lived. But now his looks were altered, and his brow was corrugated with care. Hophara thought within himself, as he beheld this sad spectacle, that there was very little chance of any relief being gained from this quarter. A natural sympathy with calamity, however, led Hophara to enquire what could be the cause of his sad and melancholy looks.

"Alas!" replied his friend, "I have met with the most serious misfortune that could possibly befall me! I had a daughter as beautiful as light, and as pure as truth, but wo is me-wo is me!"

"Ah, poor man, his daughter, his beautiful daughter, is dead!" said Hophara, in a low tone of voice.

"No," replied the other, "my daughter is not dead, but she is married to a poor man."

"Is that all?" said Hophara, "then make the poor man rich, you have wealth enough."

"Ah, no," said the other, "I have no superfluous wealth."