THE LESSON OF A MOMENT.

"THE heart knoweth its own bitterness," is a truth, which the unhappy repeat to themselves, perhaps, too often. That the bitterness of other hearts is unknown to them, is equally true; and if it were more habitually and distinctly present to their minds, would often stifle the murmurs of discontent, if it did not illumine them with a ray of cheerfulness. We magnify our own troubles. We extenuate those of our friends. We draw comparisons unfavorable to ourselves, with a most superficial knowledge of those with whom we put ourselves in contrast. From a smiling and sunny exterior, we infer that all is peace within, forgetting that the same erroneous impressions might be received in our own case, by one who saw only that side of us which is turned to the world. Were all the houses of our friends unroofed by another Asmodeus, we should find that none of them was without its dark shadow, and we should realize the truth of the Italian proverb, which says, that there is a skeleton in every house. Were there a window in every breast, what startling revelations would be made of unknown sorrows and unsuspected struggles, - the rust of discontent eating the heart of the prosperous, and the vulture of care gnawing the vitals of the gay, -untold and hopeless grief lying with the weight of mountains upon apparently the

lightest bosoms, and the settled gloom of despair resting upon those, whose life seemed glowing with the brightest hues of morning. How often should we find, that the repose which we supposed to flow from the absence of disturbing impulses - the glassy calm of the waveless lake- was the equilibrium of resisting and struggling forces, which, without the unslumbering presence of the great law of duty, would make shipwreck of the life which they perplex, but cannot subdue. How often should we learn, that he, whose sparkling wit and airy vivacity had won our admiration, and perhaps awakened our envy, had fled to society to escape the presence of some spectral care, which haunted his solitary hours, and that his vivid eloquence and pointed sallies owed their birth, in some measure, to the stimulating and morbid influence of "some fatal remembrance," which kept his mind in a state of perpetual effervescence and unrest. Could we see others as they see themselves, what lessons of submission might we not learn; and not merely of submission, but of toleration also. How many wrong opinions should we correct, how many unjust judgments should we reverse, how many cruel censures

should we recall.

It was at an early hour in the evening, in the month of December, 18-, that a young man was walking through one of the most fashionable streets of one of our large cities. The last lingering traces of daylight were still visible in the heavens. The western sky was all a-glow with those blended hues, which give to our winter sunsets so peculiar and striking a charm. The space nearest the horizon was occupied by a broad strip of deep orange, from which the colors gradually and

imperceptibly softened until they disappeared in the sober tints of the zenith, ending in a faint and quivering line of the most delicate green. The evening star sparkled in its station, as if it were conscious of the beauty by which it was surrounded, and of which it formed so conspicuous a part. The dying wind sighed among the naked branches with a sound, melancholy or inspiriting, according to the mood of mind in him who listened to it. The elastic air gave quickness to the pulse, and made the "bosom's lord sit light upon his throne." It was a scene and an hour which affect an imaginative mind the more from the absence of that verdure and bloom, which make the charm of summer's scenery, and which seem like a veil which the hand of winter withdraws, bringing us face to face with the Invisible. The hues which glow and burn upon the western sky, appear like the glittering portals of another world, and the spiritual, low-toned wind seems to blow upon us from a realm "beyond the flight of time."

Our young friend was, from his age, character, and position, peculiarly susceptible to these influences. He was one of that class, which make no inconsiderable element in the pride and glory of New England. Born in an humble position, he had achieved, mostly by his own efforts and with little assistance from others, the best education which the institutions of our country can afford, and now that he stood upon the verge of manhood, he felt himself equal in capacities and opportunities to those who had begun life under the most favorable auspices. His powers and energies were of a high order, and his moral nature was such as would help him to make the most of them. He had won literary dis

tinction, confidence, respect, and attachment, and many were watching his progress with assured hope. Surely these were happy elements, but the picture was not without its shadows. Like most hard students in our country, he had earned his honours with some sacrifice of health. He had passed triumphantly through many struggles, and surmounted many obstacles; but the efforts, though successful, had infused a tinge of gloom into a character naturally cheerful as well as resolute, as the captive's fetter, though broken, leaves, long after, its mark upon the freed limb. His future was bright, but indistinct, and the distant future was brighter than the near. It seemed to him that a long space was yet to be passed over, new difficulties yet to be overcome, before he could gain a well-defined social position, and take the part which he felt to be his due in the business of life. Though assured that all his reasonable wishes would be gratified, though confident that the energies which had brought him to where he was, would carry him onward still further, he could not distinctly perceive the manner in which it was to be brought about, nor trace clearly the successive steps of the path which was to lead him to honour and distinction.

Reflections like these gave a shade of pensiveness to an usually animated brow, and made him walk more slowly than was his usual custom. Raising his head suddenly as he came opposite the lighted windows of a very handsome house, his eyes were involuntarily attracted by a scene, which made him pause for a moment to behold it, though he felt conscious, that there was something of an impropriety in his so doing. It was a room beautifully furnished, betokening wealth, taste,

and cultivation in its occupants. Pictures hung upon

the table, in such a once that they were

the walls, and books lay upon way that the scholar's eye saw at there for use, and not for show. The lamps had not been lighted, nor the curtains let down, but a blazing wood-fire threw a ruddy and flickering blaze over the walls and ceiling, and made the room and its contents distinctly visible. The apartment was occupied by two persons, a male and a female, in the bloom of youth, and apparently man and wife. Their position was such that the student could not see the faces of either of them. The gentleman was speaking, as it appeared, from his attitude, with a good deal of earnestness; but no inference could be drawn, from the position of the lady, who sat in front of the fire, buried in the recesses of a deep arm-chair. The imagination, however, could easily represent her as listening, with tranquil delight and assured happiness, to the voice of her husband-lover. The whole scene realized the young student's fondest day-dream. Here was before him, in open vision and actual presence, that which his imagination had delighted to trace in the dim, distant future. Here was the goal, towards which he was pressing, the prize for which he was contending. "How happy should I be," said he to himself, "could I find myself in that young man's position! He has all that my heart covets. Competent fortune, books, pictures, doubtless troops of friends, literary leisure, the exercise of generous hospitality, and all the thousand delights that centre in the word, home. With all these, and, dear Mary," (our student was in love,)" with your sweet face and loving nature to fill my heart and my house with sunshine, how happily