Herein is the true secret of the nobility of character. The habit of acting from the highest considerations is that which makes a man noble. Nobility may be conferred upon men in only one way. The recognition of it may be conferred upon them. The king lays his sword on a man's shoulder, and calls him a knight; but he was a knight before he was knighted, or he would not have received the title. It was the heroic endurance, the death-defying courage, the skill and the coolness with which he achieved his notable deeds, that made him knight. He was in himself royal and noble, and the king, seeing it, said to all men, "I see it," when he laid his sword on his shoulder. The thing itself was wrought out. If you make nobility hereditary, see to it that you bring up your children to be as noble as their fathers

were.

Otherwise, nobility becomes a mere occasion. For nobles' sons are oftentimes monkeys, they themselves being clods. And where kingship, or earlship, or knightship descends, as a matter of course, it may or it may not descend nobly. We have families in America that, from fathers to sons, are historical, all of them having the same superior traits and excellences; and those families are noble. Nobility is the power of doing every thing, little or great, from the highest motives. It is not merely doing hard things. Many people seem to think that nobility consists in doing something that other people can not do; but it consists in bringing to bear motives which common and vulgar men do not know how to use. He that knows how to do daily deeds that every body does, from the top of his head, is noble. And that which he achieves he achieves easily, because he has long been in the practice of acting from the highest and noblest considerations. Valor, defiance of death, willingness to be sacrificed for one's

country-these are bred in men; but they were in them before the occasion found them, or they would not have been developed in them. The trouble is not that we have no opportunities for heroism, but that the opportunities come and we do not recognize them. God rings, and clears the stage, and no actor appears except some jester, who comes out trumpeting and dancing across the stage, and leaving no impression. But the habit of acting from the highest ranges of motives is ready when the occasion comes, and strikes the blow, and speaks the word, or does the deed; and many people say that the man is a hero, and envy him.

There is many an ideal hero that is no better than the spider in the window. One spins webs, and the other spins webs. One catches insects, and the other catches insects. Here is a man that dreams of opportunities, and opportunities come and go; but he never discerns them. And yet Florence Nightingale, all her life habituated to act from divine piety, and never dreaming of future honor or fame, discerned what other women in England failed to see-a beneficence based on self-sacrifice, and practiced in obedience to the will of the Master; and she became famous because God gave her the opportunity to do on a large scale what she had been doing on a small scale all her life.

Greatness is not an accident. Now and then a man seems to come to it by accident; but no person ever gains and keeps a reputation for nobility who has not acted daily and habitually from the highest reasons.

What we want is men all of whose faculties move harmoniously to the divine will; who are, in little, common things, manifesting the habit of acting from the highest and noblest considerations. We want them as the examples, the models, the influencers of the young.

THIS

July 1. HIS afternoon I received a call from Mrs. Barry, the object of which was surprising and embarrassing. Mrs. Barry is a character who, from her peculiarities, is worthy of being described by Dickens, who certainly possesses the talent of picturing people to us by word of mouth as no other person has ever been able to

do. Mrs. Barry has been very hard working and useful in the church, but always arbitrary. Connected with it at its commencement, she aided in building it up, as nobody else seemed ready to do. Her peculiar qualities of mind are just such as are essential to the success of a pioneer. The time has now come when these qualities are not of much service, but her love

of rule remains, and exhibits itself sometimes in laughable, sometimes in vexatious ways. She was recently very sick, and she solemnly vowed that, if she were permitted to recover, she would have the church thoroughly cleaned, although it was carefully cleansed at the usual time in the spring, and needed no further attention at present. As soon as she could drag herself to the church, she personally superintended the minutiæ of its purification. The poor old lady spent the whole of the very warm week in June at the church, sitting bolt upright, to see that the women slighted nothing. An offer of a rocking-chair would have been considered a griev

ous insult.

She to-day accosted me with, "Mrs. Sanborn I have come to have a talk with you about our church. It's running down; nothing is attended to as it ought to be. I've made up my mind that I'm through-my work is done. Mr. Barry and I belong to a past generation, and

it's time we stopped; but I've thought that I

must tell somebody I was going to stop, for just as long as people will do any thing there's nobody to take their places. When the church was all cleaned, I tried to feel as if I was ready to go whenever the Lord should call me; but I could not rest easy until I found some one to take my place. Now, Mrs. Sanborn, you are the right one, and I want you to do this."

Of course I declined such a summary descent of the mantle; for, beside feeling sure that I am. not the fit person to succeed Mrs. Barry, I know that there is at present Lo occasion for the kind of work she has done. There is no cause for anxiety in our church, unless its prosperity may be considered such. I escaped from the diffi

culty as well as possible, by saying that "I would

not assume such a position upon any account while there were so many ladies better qualified by their natural endowments and their long connection with the church." Mrs. Barry was offended, and I shall not be looked upon hereafter with favor; but this is one of the inevitables.

July 6.—The Fourth of July has passed, with its noise and confusion. We had a house full of company, and celebrated the day in orthodox style. All are gone now, quiet has returned and I have time to think of my new joy-my hope of having a child of my own. The words are continually in my thoughts, "My soul doth magnify the Lord," and they are full of rest, force, and beauty. One thing I must be constantly mindful of, that it is my duty to keep my mind in a calm and cheerful state. As I

want my child to be, so must I be. I may not ward off all evils of disposition in this way, for bad qualities that may have been pushed out of sight for years may again appear in my child, but I must do all I can, and leave the rest to God.

July 9.-Madge's love affair was near having an unhappy climax last week. She confided in me at the time. And to-day she has given me further particulars. She commenced by telling me that she was not "goin' to lave me yit," that she had "given Michael the mitten." "How is that, Madge?" I responded, "are you sure that you have done right? I thought you had a high opinion of Michael." "An' I'll tell you, ma'am: I found him to be a dhrinkiu' man, an' ye'll remimber that ye've been always prachin' I wud have not the laste objiction to a bye to me niver to marry a man that wud dhrink. takin' a dhrap once in a while, in the way av good-fellowship with his comrade byes, but

whin it comes to carryin' a bottle home wid him, shure it's not Madge that wud be afther marryin' him." "You did quite right, Madge, in sending Michael off, if such is the case; but how did you learn what you tell me?" "Shure, ma'am, Michael came to see me the Forth of July in the afternoon, an' I cud see by the look an' the walk av him that he'd been takin' a dhrap, an' I tould him so; but he said that niver a dhrap had passed his lips since the mornin', whin his boss had given him a glass av whisky to celebrate the day. He didn't stay long, and whin I thought he was down to the road-gate, I ran up softly to the locust grove and watched him along the road till he came to the big oak tree. An' there he jined two other byes, an' they pulled out a big black bottle from undher

a bush an' all tuk a dhrink, an' then went up the road, laughin' an' carryin' on. Sɔ, whin he came the next time I sint him off for good

and all, an' ye'll see no more av him."

To-day she has told me that the following evening brought the faithful Michael, quite pen-. itent, and with a story made up to account for his being seen with the bottle. He “was tak

ing it home to Ann Macarthy, who had been ordered by the docther to take a little whisky twice a day for her health." "It's not that I was after belaving his smooth tongue," continued Madge, "but I jist tuk him back to git rid av him." And in this most wrong-headed and Irish way peace was restored for a time.

July 15.-At a Society to-day there was a request from one of the members for advice about the feeding of her children. She said that she

had commenced with the idea that children must have no sweet food, and had kept them carefully from it. Finding that at the age of three years they developed a strong craving for meat, she added a little of it to their dinner, but still kept them from saccharine matter, for which she could perceive an equally decided craving appearing in her elder child. Her children are now five and six years of age and this constantly increasing longing for sagar in the older one has caused his mother much perplexity. It effectually dissipated one of her theories, namely, that if a child were not pampered with an article he would have no desire for it. She has lately, with all due deliberation, commenced giving the child some plain cake twice a day. They breakfast at 7 A. M, dine at 12 30 P. M., and have their supper at 6 P. M. The cake is eaten as a lunch. She says that she can see a great improvement in the child's appearance; before she made the change he would go without his lunch in preference to eating bread or crackers, and invariably became peevish and hungry while waiting for his regular meals. Several ladies with children jealously held to their opinions that the little stomachs would be much better off if all saccharine matter were kept out of them. Mrs. Hutton, our oracle, said that she "thought it quite probable that some systems demanded more sugar than others, and that Mrs. Ballard, in the absence of definite and certain knowledge, had done right in adopting the course she had pursued."

July 16.- Aunt Minerva visited me to-day in trouble. The Deacon has taken advantage of his again having a home, and somehody to take care of it, to bring to it his half-sister, who is very old and infirm. She is in her second childhood, and her chief fancy seems to be that every one is doing something inconsistent with their character. She has an idea that Henry comes to the house for the purpose of poisoning the family, and she declares with perfect assurance that the Deacon and his wife sit up late at night to play cards, and such like sinful games. Not long since they spent the evening away from home, and as they did not return until 10% o'clock. her imagination conjured up a picture which at once became reality to her, of the staid Deacon playing the violin for his equally sedate wife to dance. I can not comprehend their being disturbed by this, but they are very much so. This aggravating female, with malicious cunning, repeats the imagined sins of her victims to those persons for whose opinions she knows they have the most

regard. It was a new development in Aunt Minerva to see her unbend sufficiently to acknowledge trouble and indirectly ask for sympathy. She said to me, "Anne, the Deacon and I have got an egregious trial in Sister Hannah. She spends her time in thinking of all the things that we'd sooner cut our hands off than do, and accusing us of them before any one. When she told the Minister that the Deacon had been playing the fiddie for me to dance, I was so put out that I told the Deacon we must find another home for her." I could not avoid laughing at the recital of Aunt Minerva's trouble; for, beside being a most ludicrous accusation to bring against these people, it was made additionally funny by Aunt Minerva's faith in the idea that such a story would be believed by any one acquainted with them. When Henry came home and I repeated the story to him, he received it with peal after peal of laughter. The more we laughed, the more Aunt Minerva's good humor increased, for it was a great relief to her to find the story considered absurd. When her husband came for her she received him with a more happy and animated expression than I had ever expected to see on her face.

The Deacon's daughter-in-law is rapidly failing. Aunt Minerva commenced her acquaintance with her by finding fault with her for not having more ambition and energy, for lying in bed after sunrise, etc. Mrs. Smith told me yesterday that she did not wish to become a martyr to fault-finding, and she therefore had a plain talk with Aunt Minerva, telling her that her disease had made rapid progress, that in all probability she should not live until the coming winter, and that what comfort and ease she could have she considered it both her privilege and duty to take. Therefore she should take the liberty of spending as much time in bed as she needed, and she would be very grateful to Aunt Minerva if she would not attempt to interfere with her. Aunt Minerva now treats her with some degree of consideration. So much for a little plain speaking.

July 21.-Sickness seems brooding over the place, and I have written to Miss Embury to postpone her visit. Dr. Hutton is among the number of sick ones; his people are very anxious. In his sick room I have seen the art of nursing in its greatest loveliness. Mrs. Hutton's sister must be a natural nurse, for surely art could not teach so beautiful an imitation. The blinds are always turned at just the right angle, to soften without obscuring the light; she has a flower here, a bunch of fruit there,

just in the place to attract and rest the eye. Each day she makes some slight change in the disposition of the furniture, so that the eye may not become wearied with sameness. She seems to know with unfailing judgment what to do and when to do it, and what and when to leave undone. She does not creep and creak around the sick-room in that way which must be so trying to the preternaturally sharpened senses of sick persons, but walks apparently the same as she would at any time, and yet making no noise in so doing.

July 28.-Dr. Hutton is convalescent, and many hearts are rejoicing. There is much to be done in the way of nursing and watching among both rich and poor. To make the most of my strength, I rest one day and work among the sick every second day. This has been my day at home, and I have been resting myself with the observation of the "same old story," which is always new and beautiful to somebody. The gloom of evening has now hidden the chief actors in it from my view, and I have drawn the curtains and lighted the lamps, and write to pass away the time until Henry returns. For some time I have been interested in this love affair, for it has some of the elements of a regular romance. The principal characters are a young sewing-girl and a very wealthy and accomplished young man. Bessie Little's father died just when her education was completed, and left her mother and herself without means of support. Finding no opportunity to teach without leaving her mother, they together opened a little store, into which they took any sewing they could obtain. The first year they barely made their expenses, but they have been steadily improving since that time, so that now they are very comfortably situated, and have supplied several poor young girls with respectable employment. To the credit of the people of this place, Bessie Little and her mother have occupied just the same position in society that they would have done if they had retained their wealth. And this is the way that Edward Norwood became acquainted with Bessie. For several past summers, when visiting at Dr. Hutton's, he has met her and has evidently admired and liked her. This summer he has prosecuted the acquaintance, with the evident intention of becoming something more than a mere acquaintance. It has been pleasant to observe the straight-forward, manly way in which he has shown his preference, and the modest, womanly manner in which she has not been afraid to allow something of her own

liking to appear. This evening, and many another time this summer, I have seen Mr. Norwood and Bessie sitting in the porch in front. of their cottage talking and learning to love each other. I was speaking of this to Henry one day, and said how delighted I always felt at seeing two good people thus learning each other's worth. Henry laughed merrily, and said, "Who would ever have thought of your developing into a match-maker, Annie?" I was amused at myself, but a little startled, too, for I could not but perceive that a fondness for seeing marriages made is the spirit which is at the root of match-making. There is no wrong in the feeling, only in the following it out so so far as to influence any one to a step which he or she might not have thought of taking without the influence. Marriage is so sacred, so solemn a thing, that one incurs a fearful responsibility by doing any thing to advance it. However, I think I may enjoy the observation of these young people to my heart's content, without incurring any danger of becoming a practical match-maker.

July 29.-In the middle of last night we were roused from sleep by the ringing of the church bells. I lay listening to them for a minute as if it were the most natural occurrence, but as I became more thoroughly awake the consciousness dawned upon me that it was not customary, and I arose as quickly as possible to discover the cause. Just then I discovered that Henry was gone, and almost as soon as I learned this he came up stairs in haste to tell me that there was a fire in the lower part of the village. As soon as I was dressed we hastened to the spot; for in this quiet place there was no reason to prevent me. The night was calm and dry and beautiful, and I found a large concourse of people engaged in taking out the furniture and other articles of value. Henry went to assist them, leaving me in a safe place under the trees with some acquaintances. The first thought was, of course, that of sympathy for those who were deprived of a home, but when we had expressed this with all our hearts, we watched the progress of the fire with admiration of its grandeur. There was opportunity for the play of a variety of emotions, and we passed rapidly from awe and admiration to amusement at the odd dress of ourselves and others; one having a nightcap under a bonnet, the ruffles of a night-gown protruding from the neck and sleeves of another's dress, and one small boy actually appearing upon the scene with noth. ing but a night-gown and coat.