EXTRACTS FROM LETTERS.

BY MRS. N. T. MUNROE.

QUIET, calm, never varying quiet. dull monotony the days wear on.

With what a Every morning

the sun rises, and all day I look upon the same landscape, the same routine of human life; every night he sets, and the dim twilight comes on and the stars look upon me with their sad eyes—ever, ever the same. No startling event breaks upon the monotony of this every day life. How happy, say they, is thy calm, peaceful life! how little care is there to trouble thy mind! Care, what is it? I have heard the mother, surrounded by some half dozen children, say what a care they were to her. When they are sick she tells of sleepless nights and anxious days, and her cheek grows pale and her feet weary with labor, and she says to me, 'Ah! if you had the care of children, your life would not glide so peacefully.' But her days do not succeed each other like mine, dull, monotonous by their very freedom from care; she does not count the hours of

may be, does

the long, bright summer day, and sit listlessly, va cantly gazing at scenes which have met her eyes hundreds of times before. Every hour, every minute hath its task, and hard though it not the very thought for whom it is done make it pleasant and light? Oh! there are hours of watching that are holier, better, than any of dreamless, quiet sleep. I have known such, and I have known that care brings with it oft a blessing and a comfort. Peace and quiet and are these such an envied lot? Are these words synonymous with happiness? Peaceful and quiet are the lives of the hermit in his cell, the nun in her cloister; but far rather would I be struggling on in the strife of humanity, in the very midst of its unrest, its cares, yes, even its wickedness and sin.

Oh! it is pleasant to walk out from the noise and bustle of a great city, into the green fields, beneath the overarching woods, by the gurgling brooks, and listen to the hum of the bees, the twitter of the birds, the rustling of the green leaves, the music of the waters. But what makes its pleasantness? It is the mere force of the contrast. Sit there day after day and listen to those sounds, beautiful, enchanting though they may be; gaze day after day at the deep blue sky, and ever running water, and ever waving branches; drink in the peace and quiet of the scene;

would you not tire? Would it not be a dull, listless life, and lose its charms and beauty? Nature

is lovely, and she speaks to man with a soft, soothing voice; but to appreciate her in all her fulness and beauty, we must mingle with our creatures, we must bear the burden of humanity, we must toil and work. Sleep is refreshing to the tired, over-tasked body, but a continual sleep is death.

I feel that my mind grows stagnant and dull in this monotony. Can you suggest nothing to vary it? You will say, Study and read; surely you can employ your mind upon something useful. I have read, I have studied; but to what purpose ? These are old, hackneyed prescriptions; they minister not to my

case.

I

I have sought for rest, but I have not found it. Poverty narrows the mind and the affections. went to them with open hands and pitying heart; for a while I found pleasure in giving, but at length I saw my gifts were taken as a matter of course. I grew tired of walking into filthy rooms and seeing children with unwashed hands and faces, and uncombed hair. I saw no beauty in their narrow apartments, no interesting relics of better days, such as poets and romance writers have described, and I turned

away; my heart opened not to them. blame?

Was I to

I know the mind is diseased, that the head perhaps errs. But I would fain find the right; my heart seeks the true way, but finds it not.

I gaze upon the works of art as listlessly as upon nature. The most beautiful pictures speak to me of beauty gone, the almost breathing marble of the cold, lifeless dead, and they say they return no more!' The warm sun tells but of green graves wheron it shines, the moon of white tombstones in the lone churchyard, and the quiet stars of the meek, sad eyes of the departed, and they say, 'they return no more!' And so with my restless and perturbed spirit; I live in the quiet of my home. When will this inner life find peace? When will it cease to be the antipodes of the outer? Would that I dwelt 'mid tumult, and bustle, and contention, for these would be in accordance with my spirits, and I might, perchance, find relief. Ah, frail, sinful humanity! I err, I murmur against the decrees of God!

It is, then, a disease of the mind, this perpetual unrest, this dissatisfaction with the quiet of my outward life, for this peace and quiet are only outward.

Has it been brought

And what has caused this? about by circumstances, or is it a longing for something higher and better? If the former, you say I must rise superior to the circumstances; if the latter, I must press onward, and in the very attempt I shall find strength and consolation.

Would that I could feel it were indeed a longing for something better and higher; but let me not mistake a wish for something different, a desire for change, for noble aspirations. Let me not deceive myself.

Circumstances! Are we indeed the creatures of circumstances. It may be that this unrest has been brought about by these. Let me consider.

I have been disappointed in my dearest hopes. Have I striven to look upon these disappointments in their true light? I have looked upon the face of the dead, and in the bitterness of the trial have said, There is no good in aught below the sun. I have listened to the voice which said, 'Thy affliction is greater than thou canst bear,' and been unmindful of that truer voice which says, 'Cast thy burden upon the Lord, call upon him in the day of trouble.' I am searching into the recesses of my own spirit, and I find that I have brooded over the darkness and seen not the light; I have looked upon the cloud, but seen not the sun behind it. In the