fectly quiet for a long time, and Mr. Dombey only knew the child was awake by occasionally glancing at his eye where the bright fire was sparkling like a jewel, little Paul broke silence thus:

"Papa, what's money?"

The abrupt question had such immediate reference to Mr. Dombey's thoughts, that Mr. Dombey was quite disconcerted.

"What is money, Paul?" he answered, "money!"

"Yes," said the child, laying his hands upon the elbows of his little chair, and turning the little old face towards Mr. Dombey's, "what is money?"

Mr. Dombey was in a difficulty. He would have liked to give him some explanation involving the terms circulating medium, currency, depreciation of currency, paper, bullion, rates of exchange, value of precious metals in the market and so forth; but looking down at the little chair and seeing what a long way down it was, he answered, "Gold and silver and copper, guineas, shillings, half-pence. You know what they are?"

"Oh, yes, I know what they are," said Paul. "I don't mean that, papa. I mean, what's money after all?" Heaven and earth, how old his face was, as he turned it up again towards his father's.

"What is money after all?" said Mr. Dombey, backing his chair a little that he might the better gaze in sheer amazement at the presumptuous atom that propounded such a question.

66

"I mean, papa, what can it do?" returned Paul, folding his arms (they were hardly long enough to fold) and looking at the fire, and up at him, and at the fire, and up at him again. Mr. Dombey drew his chair back to its former place, and patted him on the head.

"You will know better, by and by, my man," he said. "Money, Paul, can do anything." He took hold of the little hand and beat it softly against one of his own as he said so. But Paul got his hand free as soon as he could, and rubbing it gently to and fro on the elbow of his chair, as if his wit were in the palm and he was sharpening itand looking at the fire again, as though the fire had been his adviser and prompter, repeated after a short pause, "Anything, papa?"

66

66

Yes-anything-almost," said Mr. Dombey.

Anything means everything, don't it, papa?" asked his son, not observing, or possibly not understanding the qualification.

"It includes it; yes," said Mr. Dombey.

66

Why didn't money save me my mama?" returned the child. "It isn't cruel, is it?"

"Cruel!" said Mr. Dombey, settling his neckcloth and seeming to resent the idea, "No. A good thing can't be

cruel."

"If it's a good thing and can do anything," said the little fellow thoughtfully, as he looked back at the fire, "I wonder why it didn't save me my mama.

He didn't ask the question of his father this time. Perhaps he had seen with a child's quickness that it had already made his father uncomfortable. But he repeated the thought aloud, as if it were quite an old one to him and troubled him very much, and sat with his chin resting on his hand, still cogitating and looking for an explanation in the fire.

Mr. Dombey having recovered from his surprise, not to say alarm (for it was the very first occasion on which the child had ever broached the subject of his mother to him), expounded to him how that money, though a very potent

"Very far from it," said Mrs. Chick with the same profound expression as before. "Dr. Pilkins recommended to-day sea-air."

"Sea-air," repeated Mr. Dombey, looking at his sister. "There is nothing to be made uneasy by, in that," said Mrs. Chick.

"Of course," said Mr. Dombey, and taking a book, sat looking at one page for an hour without speaking a word.

WILD WEATHER OUTSIDE.

MARGARET E. SANGSTER.

WILD weather outside where the brave ships go,
And fierce from all quarters the four winds blow.
Wild weather and cold, and the great waves swell
With chasms beneath them as black as hell.
The waters frolic in Titan play,

They dash the decks with an icy spray,
The spent sails shiver, the lithe masts reel,
And the sheeted ropes are as smooth as steel.
And oh, that the sailor were safe once more
Where the sweet wife smiles in the cottage door!

The little cottage, it shines afar

O'er the lurid seas, like the polar star.

The mariner tossed in the jaws of death

Hurls at the storm a defiant breath;

Shouts to his mates through the writhing foam,
"Courage! please God, we.shall yet win home!"
Frozen and haggard, and wan and gray,
But resolute still; 'tis the sailor's way.

And perhaps at the fancy the stern eyes dim-
Somebody's praying to-night for him.

Ah me, through the drench of the bitter rain,
How bright the picture that rises plain!

Sure he can see, with her merry look,
His little maid crooning her spelling-book;
The baby crows from the cradle fair;
The grandam nods in her easy-chair;
While hither and yon, with a quiet grace,
A woman flits with an earnest face.
The kitten purrs, and the kettle sings,
And a nameless comfort the picture brings.

Rough weather outside, but the winds of balm
Forever float o'er that isle of calm.

O friends, who read over tea and toast

Of the wild night's work on the storm-swept coast,
Think, when the vessels are overdue,

Of the perilous voyage, the baffled crew,
Of stout hearts battling for love and home
'Mid the cruel blasts and the curdling foam;
And breathe a prayer from your happy lips
For those who must go "to the sea in ships;"
Ask that the sailor may stand once more
Where the sweet wife siniles in the cottage door.

-Harper's Magazine.

EXTRACTS FROM ESSAYS.

RALPH WALDO EMERSON.

CIVILIZATION.

CIVILIZATION depends on morality. Everything good in man leans on what is higher. This rule holds in small as in great. Thus, all our strength and success in the work of our hands depend on our borrowing the aid of the elements. You have seen a carpenter on a ladder with a broad-axe chopping upward chips from a beam. How awkward! At what disadvantage he works! But see him on the ground, dressing his timber under him. Now, not his feeble muscles but the force of gravity brings down the

axe; that is to say, the planet itself splits his stick. The farmer had much ill temper, laziness and shirking to endure from his hand-sawyers, until one day he bethought him to put his saw-mill on the edge of a waterfall; and the river never tires of turning his wheel.

I admire still more than the saw-mill the skill which on the seashore makes the tides drive the wheels and grind corn, and which thus engages the assistance of the moon, like a hired hand, to grind and wind and pump and saw and split stone and roll iron. Now that is the wisdom of a man in every instance of his labor, to hitch his wagon to a star, and see his work done by the gods themselves. That is the way we are strong, by borrowing the might of the elements. The forces of steam, gravity, galvanism, light, magnets, wind, fire, serve us day by day and cost us nothing.

And as our handiworks borrow the elements, so all our social and political action leans on principle. Gibraltar may be strong, but ideas are impregnable, and bestow on the hero their invincibility. Let us not lie and steal; no god will help; we shall find all their teams going the other way. Work rather for those interests which the divinities honor and promote, justice, love, freedom, knowledge and utility. The true test of civilization is not the census, nor the size of cities, nor the crops-no, but the kind of man the country turns out.

ART.

A study of admirable works of art sharpens our perceptions of the beauties of Nature; a certain analogy reigns throughout the wonders of both; the contemplation of a work of great art draws us into a state of mind which may be called religious. It conspires with all exalted sentiments.