passions; but he is bound by the same principle as woman, and he gains by it in his way as she gains in her way. His fidelity gives him a sincerity, gentleness, chivalry, and spirituality that loose habits are sure to destroy, while her fidelity rewards him with a magnificence of conjugal and maternal affection and devotion that give home its sacredness and bring both nearer heaven. We know something of the world and its ways, but the more we see of its sins the more we love the good old loyalties of the hearthstone and the altar.

If more humane and effective laws are need

ranks where public opinion is feeble or hardly | Man's nature may make this exclusiveness more exists, and religious obligation is not cherished, a sacrifice from the heat and endurance of his marriage is the frequent pretext to cover the vilest treachery, and the wife is deserted, burdened and desolate as the harlot can not be. The law promises redress, but what does the redress amount to when obtained at such trouble and cost, and when it may only bring about a second act of the same tragedy whose first act almost took the sufferer's life away? Why women allow themselves to be so entangled is the constant wonder, and the solution probably is that they see out of their own eyes, and judge men by themselves, and think a man's promises answer to a woman's heart as truly as to her ear. This very week I have been led to heared, in combination with more effective Christian the story of three who declared themselves victims of such falsity, and who bore the look of respectability and had its surroundings. The most estimable and cheering of them all, an exemplary and apparently religious woman, with an excellent reputation in high quarters, ascribed no small share of her present cheerfulness to being rid of a miserable man who had married her while two other wives of his were alive. This may have been a dark week as to matrimonial matters, but even this dark week has had other aspects of the subject quite sufficient to keep one from desponding.

influence, to protect the poorer and less educated classes, a purer and higher social code ought to prevail among the cultivated and refined. There is certainly an approach to such a code in the best society, and conduct which might pass with impunity elsewhere is there visited with the general ban. High society may neglect sadly its inferiors, and leave them to the mercy or the arts of its sons; but it guards its own daughters somewhat sternly from insult and wrong. Excommunication is the penalty to be paid by the offender who assails their honor, and even in our peaceful and anti-dueling community death is thought to be the seducer's just doom; and public opinion may blame, but does not denounce, the father or brother who takes the law into his own hands. Yet there are many wrongs that are not guarded against, and many sources of suffering that are left open. We can not say that man is always the aggressor, for we are sure that he is sometimes the aggrieved party; but it is clear that the social code is in many respects wrong or deficient, and it fails to adjust rightly affairs and relations that are vital to social welfare. We have been tempted to laugh at the Courts of Love which were held in the age of Chivalry to settle delicate questions of gallantry, and have been amused to note that the last of them was convened at the call of the great Richelieu, who found some matters too subtle even for his diplomacy, and who called in gentler fingers and brighter eyes than his to see into and unravel the web. Such a court would not be amiss now, and it is certain that the old code of thirty-one articles would be wholly inadequate to the present demands of

As to the question of the equality of man and woman in their relation to each other and before the court of public opinion, we need not say how much we abominate the old heathen notion that woman is born to be man's slave or toy. It is not so easy to meet another wrong done to her on the ground of her alleged purity, and the consequent enormity of her offense when she falls from that purity. Whatever may be the justice of the verdict, it is almost universal and inexorable; and an erring woman when detected is ruined and an utter outcast from society, while her betrayer may keep a certain position of nominal respectability. Strange to say, many women of society called respectable will notice him, while almost all women turn their backs upon their erring sister. There is undoubtedly some cause for this distinction in mere taste and prudence, since a fallen woman falls more deeply than a man is likely to fall, and more of her nature is polluted than his by the sin. More of her constitution, her sensibilities, her affections, is acted upon and degraded. Her loveliness in the high-society. But we need not fear that we shall est sense is gone, and the temple of her purity is foully desecrated, whereas the world readily regards laxity of like kind as but an incident in the life of a man, and one that may be atoned for by a life of sobriety after his wild oats are

sown.

The higher ethics, however, puts a stop to this partiality, and holds man and woman accountable to the same exalted law. The great principle is the same for both-a life for a life, a heart for a heart. The true love is as exclusive as it is strong, and demands that each shall keep solely to the other till death do them part.

long be without such jurisdiction, for woman rules society as man rules politics, and sessions formal and informal are constantly held, that tend to adjudicate the rights and duties of love, and to define the just relations between man and woman, whether married or single. It is to be hoped that some day the social law may be digested and the common law of the heart be so codified that he who runs may read. It is to be hoped, too, that, while strictness prevails in duties essential, liberty will be allowed in things indifferent, and the result will be a more free and varied, genial and intellectual fellow

ship between men and women, that shall give the charm of the higher and universal love to general society, and help all worthy seekers to find their predestined mates in that form of the affection which is more private and exclusive.

Of all striplings who have been called scapegraces Cupid is the most hopeful, and he has the whole future to mend his manners and his morals. It is not impossible that he may grow up into a first-class angel, and his wings may be the means of his aspiration instead of the signs of his fickleness, while his bow and arrows may be turned to good account as part of the armament of the embattled cherubim that contends for God and humanity against the world, the flesh, and the devil.

So ends our essay on the Ethics of Love. Call it too gay or too grave, as you choose, but do not let the poor handling harm the good text.

THE REV. MR. ALLONBY.

I.

of religion in Hillsboro. These exhausted, Mrs. Lawson addressed her neighbor, Mrs. Keene; "Did you know," said she, "that Sam Forbes's folks had got a daughter?"

"You don't say so!" ejaculated the other. Yes, they have-born last night. A pretty little teenty-taunty babe as ever you see. Sam's real set up about it; it's his very pictur'. "It would have done better to look like her," said Mrs. Keene. "That was a queer match as ever I heerd tell of."

"Well, poor thing," said Mrs. Lawson, kindly; "she was very much in want of a home. Her folks was all dead, and she couldn't sew nor do nothing else stiddy enough to support herself on account of enjoying such poor health. And Sam's real forehanded, you know. It ain't in natur' that she could have been in love with him."

"Then," replied Mrs. Keene, "she'd no business to marry him."

Just as she delivered herself of this confession of faith a young lady entered and was introduced

N the dark, ungracious days of early April as Miss Davenport. Anna Davenport was a

I the Rev. Wentworth Allonby took possession handsome, distinguished girl in any place, but

off to advantage by a garb of rich material and prevailing mode. Her manner cordial, with that graceful ease which long acquaintance with society bestows, captivated little Mrs. Allonby, who had a mind open to influences of that sort. Nor did the Rev. pastor himself escape its charm. Miss Davenport managed to imply, without the suspicion of flattery, her admiration of his talents, and her sense of the good fortune of Hillsboro in obtaining them. When she rose to take leave both husband and wife were sorry she must go; and if she were skilled in reading faces, she must have seen in the two before her unequivocal tribute to her powers of pleasing.

of his new charge at Hillsboro. It was a gloomy she became doubly so by contrast with this humtime for moving, and the parsonage was not able dwelling and these plainly-dressed women. cheerful house; its walls were low, the paint | Her tall, elegant form and spirited face were set discolored, the paper soiled and worn. When to these defects were added the confusion of unpacking furniture-straw and old newspapers on the floor, chairs and tables and kitchen utensils standing promiscuously about-the tout ensemble was little calculated to elevate the spirits. Rev. Mr. Allonby and his wife looked at it cheerfully, however. It was six months since he left his last parish, from which he had been dismissed, after the amiable fashion of country congregations, with less ceremony than is commonly used in discharging a "hired man." After a weary tour of "candidating"-filling every vacant pulpit he could hear of from Sunday to Sunday he had gladly accepted the call of Hillsboro church. The place was small, the salary barely sufficient for the necessaries of life, but it was something secure. It offered him rest and the society of his family.

In a few days things had brightened; the house was settled, its plenishing neatly disposed about the various rooms. Some thoughtful parishioners had sent in little gifts of cake and pies, poultry and vegetables-and one Wednesday afternoon the pastor set out for his weekly meeting with a feeling that the place was beginning to seem like home to him.

After meeting the parsonage was quite besieged by visitors. The deacons' wives came, of course, and Mrs. Lawson, the best of all good hearts looking out of her immense blue eyes. She was a woman whose price was far above rubies; ministers she loved as such, and in her view they could do no wrong. Mrs. Allonby's heart warmed to her at once.

The several parties being unacquainted conversation naturally turned on general topics, such as the state of the weather, the roads, and

"Oh, Wentworth," said Mrs. Allonby, as she watched their visitor pass down the walk, "what a beautiful, elegant girl she is!"

Mr. Allonby did not quite second his wife's enthusiasm. "Not beautiful, my dear," he answered, "her features are not correct enough for that—but very attractive, certainly."

"What difference does it make ?" inquired Mrs. Allonby. "I don't care in the least about every feature being just according to rule. I never saw any one that it was more delightful to look at; such rich tones in her complexion, such deep bright eyes, and her expression changing every minute. Then she seems so very kind and unassuming."

"Yes, her manner is agrecable."

"I think you'll have one appreciating listener," continued the fond wife. "She was too delicate to compliment you openly, but I could see she was very much interested in your sermons."

Poor Mr. Allonby! He had not had many appreciative listeners during his career, else he would not now have been "settled over" Hills

to enable her to overlook his deficiencies. Un-
der these circumstances the advent of a studious,
well-read, gentlemanly man was a real blessing.
She admired him from the first, but her atten-
tion was more particularly directed to him one
Sunday morning during service.
She wore a
new shawl that day, and a pair of gloves of her
favorite tint, fitting to perfection; in the inter-
vals of enjoying their effect she listened to the
sermon. Its vigor and originality took her by
surprise.

boro church. His talents were unusual, but | isfied her taste; nor was any of them rich enough two or three things had stood in the way of his advancement. In the first place, he had a religious conscience; in the second, a literary one. The former taught him that in a place devoted to the contemplation of awful and eternal interests, any species of quip or jest was nothing less than sacrilege. The latter obliged him to conform his every sermon, so far as might be, to a severe and lofty ideal of excellence; it entirely forbade indulgence in flowery description or sentimental flights. In consequence he was often considered dull and dry, while very commonplace men, by dint of sounding adjectives and vigorous gesture, gained for themselves the repute of wondrous eloquence; or while others, by the piquant levity with which they treated sacred things, attracted crowds of those to whom serious reflection is unwelcome. His manner, too, was against him; a shy, reserved man, it took an acquaintance of some length to show you his most valuable qualities; you had to know him before you liked him, in which respect he differed from many of his brethren whom you like only before you know them.

It would be interesting, had we leisure, to pause here a little space and study the causes which go to make up clerical success. As it is, I should like to epitomize for your benefit, my dear young friend just entering the ministry, the results with which a long course of observation has furnished me. Your most powerful auxiliary is a pleasing person; failing that, or added to it, as the case may be, an elaborate style of dress. Stylish connections, too, are exceedingly desirable; indeed, their importance to the Christian minister can hardly be overrated; but these, like the first-named item, are not within every body's reach. Study your attitudes, be fastidious as to your laundress, cultivate a pathetic intonation in your prayers, and lay in a bountiful supply of adjectives. (If there is time to spare from these weightier matters of the law you can devote it to any form of spiritual improvement you prefer.) Follow this receipt faithfully and your fame will spread; tempting proposals will flow in to you from other churches; and you can stay in your own as long as you like. The best qualification that I know of for attaching a congregation to their pastor is the conviction that he can leave them whenever he pleases for a superior place.

Anna Davenport soon became intimate at the parsonage. It was rather a dull season for her; her friends in various regions gave no hint that her presence was especially desirable; and she was confined to Hillsboro and such amusement as it afforded. Some people would have thought her well enough supplied: her parents were rich; their house full of luxuries and conveniences; she had new books, new music, new gowns and bonnets, plenty of company, and beaux à discretion.

These last were to Anna a necessary of life; but she was somewhat fastidious as to their quality. Unhappily none of those at hand quite sat

She decided that this was a conquest worth making, and she should set about it with the least possible delay. I do not mean that she intended to interfere with Mrs. Allonby's claims. She only wished to convince an interesting man that she was the most beautiful, intellectual, and charming woman he had ever met. If, after that, his heart still remained faithful to that poor little wife of his, I do not think she would have had any serious objections. On the other hand, I dare not aver that she would have been displeased to overcome his affection as well as his taste, and to know that he waged a constant struggle with forbidden passion. People may set up the shark as a type of voraciousness, but his appetite can not compare with that of the coquette for admiration. And if we are to be called upon to pity the unhappy creature as it roams the deep in quest of prey, let us not refuse our sympathy to the woman as she goes on her path, her hungry vanity still insatiate, though it stoops to gather food from the meanest it encounters.

Good little Mrs. Allonby found her life exceedingly warmed and brightened by this new friendship. Anna came often. She petted and praised the children; she brought pretty little presents of fancy-work, a mould of ice-cream, a basket of choice fruit, occasionally. She sat with her friend of an afternoon, and lent the aid of her deft fingers to diminish the piles of sewing in the work-basket. She told her about books which the busy wife had not time to read, but liked to hear of; she described celebrated scenes and people; narrated amusing stories with the greatest life and spirit. And in the frequent visits at her own house, which she insisted upon claiming, Mrs. Allonby enjoyed a rare treat in the fine piano and finer voice which the young lady knew how to handle so skillfully. How do these people manage to pour that indescribable soul into their singing? I have felt myself soaring with the exultation of a seraph, and anon sunk in a despairing sadness that no words could utter, as I listened to a woman who, I was perfectly conscious all the time, had no more heart in her than a tin whistle.

Mr. Allonby, meanwhile, had not the same comfort in the acquaintance. It is pleasant to be appreciated, and there could be no doubt, as the wife sometimes said, that "Anna appreciated Wentworth." She was able, too, to make him consider her opinion worth about ten times as much as it really was. We have all of us met her sort of woman-clever, fluent, with a

ready faculty of adaptation; we have seen her | estness he endeavored to put away temptation,

and fix his hopes upon the heavenly crown! These suggestions he regarded as coming from the great enemy of souls, known in the familiar

absorb the attention of the best man in the room, while some really gifted person, who could stow her away in a small corner of her brain, sat by entirely eclipsed, lost in admiration of the brill-ity of religious parlance as the "adversary.” iancy before her.

Anna succeeded in placing herself in the pastor's mind as an ideal of beauty, intellect, and refinement. He enjoyed her society and was proud of her friendship; yet he never left her without a vague pain. She always awoke the least noble qualities of his char

acter.

Remain tranquil. I am not going to picture for you a brute who neglected a fond wife for a brilliant beauty, or a hypocrite who forgot his sacred office in a lawless passion. His troubles were of quite another sort.

We have had such a plethora of Shadysides and Sunnysides that the subject is entirely written out; still it is by no means lived out or lived down in the experience of ministers. The fact still remains, that a class of men among us, with tastes that crave, that demand, at least a sprinkling of the beautiful in life, are condemned to a scanty measure of its necessaries. I am not always sorry for such. When I have listened to a good, dull man, who might have hammered out a living in some decent trade that called for hand-work, not for head-when I have watched him painfully plodding through laborious commonplace, stopping to refresh himself now and then with a quiet yawn, my soul has ached for compassion.. But to others I have seen doled out a miserable pittance; I have heard their abilities contemptuously rated by people not worthy to wipe the dust from their feet; I have known them undergo treatment which, to speak in moderation, I had rather be cut into inch-pieces than receive. I have felt it hard that they were not able to resent such insults, but must love and pray for even such despicable enemies; and yet I have not pitied them, but envied. The eternal verities outweigh a few silver forks and velvet carpets; the soul that God's own love inhabits may disregard the vulgar din of worldly scorn. But how if one has all the outward trials and knows not of the inner blessedness?

That poor old "adversary!" he has had a great
deal laid off on him for which we ourselves were
properly accountable. Do not let us be shabby
with him, but bear our own burdens. When a
voice said to Mr. Allonby that he was unfit for
his office; in the wrong place; that he would
do better and be better somewhere else-it was
no Satanic whisper, but only the speech of his
own consciousness. He had never passed through
that mysterious change, which, however we re-
gard or name it, gives a new direction to the
human will. He was "preaching Christ" with-
out having "known" Him. Miserable condi-
tion!-a soul alien from God demanding of it-
self the holiness and the joys of the believer!
So it was that every time he encountered Anna
he was troubled. "The world," which took in
ber a form so graceful and alluring, appealed
anew to him. Her evident admiration, her half-
expressed feeling that he was thrown away in a
position beneath his talent and desert, stirred
the latent ambition, and "the adversary's" sug-
gestions became painfully frequent.

While matters were in this state a sudden calamity scattered all lighter troubles to the winds. His wife died. She took her place among the angels, and he was left to follow on as best he might.

I have often thought upon that wondrous change which death produces. An angel! Perhaps some perfect summer day we have imagined what it might be to behold such a heavenly visitant descending; we have fancied the shimmer of white wings adown the blue infinity, the presence near us of a radiance caught from the Divine. But we never clothed the vision in familiar form. Indeed it is quite surprising to me when I reflect that Jane Barker, whom I used to know so well-a stiff, angular creature, and the fit of her clothes a sight to behold-does really belong to that celestial host. And old Mr. Crane, who used to saw our wood in days gone by: when I looked out of the kitchen-window, and saw him bending over his saw-buck, I was never reminded of Michael or any other stately cherub; yet there can be no doubt about him either. My dull eyes could not behold the stirring of angelic pinions under that coarse garb of every day; but to a purer vision it was plain enough.

Such was the case with Rev. Mr. Allonby. He had made a great mistake in life. In a period of mental storm and anguish he had, obedient to fancied duty, renounced a profession he delighted in, and entered the ministry. His was a nature-weak I own-that felt a sordidness in narrow means and their attendants; the ugliness of poverty pained his spirit. I do not de- The poor pastor had lost in his wife the dearfend him. But this was comparatively little. est treasure of existence, for which, he thought, Ambition, which should have been dead within there could never be substitute or compensation. him, still retained a strong hold upon life. He Oh, that is of course, you say; every body feels put it down with prayers, and fastings, and so. Begging your pardon, my dear ma'ammany forms of exorcism; but it would return- they don't. No doubt every man who has lived would whisper of the horrible injustice of Fate in tolerable peace with his wife does feel a great in condemning his talents to this burial of ob- shock, a certain amount of gloom and loneliness, scurity, in putting out of his reach all the prizes when she is taken from him; but he gets over and pleasures of the world. How he suffered it, and that before long. If I were not a great in these seasons! With what an agony of earn- deal too honorable to entice you into a wager

that you are sure to lose, I would venture almost | ence he dared to hope; little things too slight to any sum that nineteen widowers out of every name but delightful to recall gave him confitwenty experience before six months are over a dence. But she was proud, she was ambitious; pleasing consciousness of being again in market. would she ever consent to marry a poor and unAnd are widows more faithful? At the first known minister? And that great point once blush one would answer yes, seeing that so many gained, could he marry her? Was she the womore remain unmated. But it may be only that man to aid his life's work? The fitting companthey have not so much as men the power of ion for one who sought to win souls to Christ? choice. And, after all, what is this muchpraised constancy? What is any emotion or quality on which we plume ourselves, if you come to analyze it? Let us not inquire too closely. Under the most delicious curves and swells of beauty exists an ugly osseous structure -in plain words, a skeleton; but I don't know that we need hack away with an unskillful scalpel till this is laid bare. Mrs. Allonby had deserved that her husband should mourn her with more than common grief. She had left a luxurious home to share the privations of his; she had cheered his dark hours, brightened his bright ones, by her unfailing sweetness and sympathy. She had borne all trials uncomplainingly; had loved him till the last moment of her conscious existence with a fond affection that held him first and best of all the world. No wonder he thought the loss irreparable.

Other people, however, did not so regard it. Plenty of maids and widows were ready to strew his desolate pathway with the flowers of consolation. He turned from them all; the depth of his sorrow was sacred from their intrusion. But it was only natural that the dearest friend of her he had lost should be his friend also. They talked of her of her virtues, her piety, her gentleness. They agreed together that the man who had known a love so perfect, so unselfish, could never descend to value any meaner affection. And so time went on-and on-and on; and a year or so from the date of his wife's death Rev. Mr. Allonby was startled to find himself exceedingly in love with Anna Davenport.

Summer is over; the grass withers, the birds depart, the leaves fall; it is November. Raw winds and leaden sky and frosty earth are our portion, and we see beyond them only the intenser cold and storm of winter. But lo! we wake one morning, and instead of a pale slant of sunshine on the wall there are broad bars of ruddy gold; without, the air is soft as May; a dreamy haze hangs over hill and forest, and the wind-oh! rarest, delicatest, most poetic wind of Indian Summer!-wanders fitfully across the world. You know the charm of the season? With such charm came the new love to Mr. Allonby. Romance had long passed out of his account; life had lain before him chill, prosaic; much work and small reward. And now shone this late, transfiguring glory, and raised it into beauty tenderer, dearer than any promise of the spring.

Anna, admired so long without one appropriating thought, might possibly become his own! With a thrill in his blood never felt before, he set himself to count his chances. For her pref

Hard problem! Ah, my reader, were you ever brought to that crisis in your inward life where, finding it impossible to reconcile duty and inclination, you had to make your choice between the two? You remember, don't you, that it was a fearful struggle whichever way it ended? In novels, we know, the decision is always final. The man elects to obey virtue, and is peaceful and happy ever after; or he declares for the other side, and thenceforth his course is steadily downward. But in real life it is quite otherwise. Many a one has gone through all the suffering, all the conflict; has renounced self and its delights though at the cost of untold agonies; yet after a little has forgotten the strife, the resolve, and turned back to the "beggarly elements." And some, blessed be a gracious Heaven! having wandered far in forbidden paths have listened to the voice that called after them; have found courage to retrace their steps and walk once more the strait and narrow way. But the number of these last is fearfully few.

To such a point the pastor had now come; on one side were the prepossessions and the principles of years; on the other a single form, alluring as the Sirens of old. Desire and duty tugged at his heart; conscience restrained and passion drew him. Of course he lay awake all night. When morning came he had decided— to put off his decision. This was cowardly, and he was rightly served.

When an important move is to be made one should have all possible light upon it. The choice lying between duty and Anna, he ought to see as much as practicable of this latter alternative that the decision might be given with open eyes. You may be sure she left no fascination untried to influence him. If while his wife yet lived there were bounds to her vanity, no such painful limit restrained her now. She was free to charm to the uttermost. She wiled his soul away by the veiled splendor of her eyes, the music of her voice. She came between him and the sermon-paper; flitted up the pulpit stairs, and warned him from "the desk." He was fast coming to a decision when circumstances precipitated it.

Miss Davenport spent a month in the city and came home again. Reports came after her, and a tangible presence soon followed the reports. He was one of the eligible matches, and his name was Frederic Lansing. A young man with no long-lived father to wait for, no supernumerary brothers and sisters to divide his inheritance. His fortune was in full possession, and a very handsome one; just how much I decline to state, for your ideas may be in advance of mine, and you would despise me in exact