some way, just to dry his mother's tears.

Poets love tears,

66 tears, idle tears”—idle indeed, for they are no proof of very deep feeling. It is the light cares that cry, and howl, and blubber it is the babe who rains down tears like an April day, but who, while they are yet standing on his cheek, like fresh dew-drops on a pretty rose, will raise his lungs and crow again with laughter. It is the careless, silly girl who will flood over with a sudden summer storm of crying; but it is the man's heart, wearied, desolate, and worn, that is dry as a desert well, and refuses to its owner the consolation of a tear. Pity for others—a soft and noble emotion-calls tears from The great Persian king beheld his sons and daughters led captive, his queens the prey of a conqueror, his royal house decayed and trampled down, his empire at an end, and wept not; but when he saw a slave-boy who had borne his cup led by, chained and insulted, the prize of a common soldier, he wept for him.

man.

Tears are very soothing, very pleasant. Perhaps in a woman's life there is no moment so pleasant, no half-hour, let us say, so charming, as that halcyon and peaceful interval which results after "a good cry." It is so pleasant to fancy one's self a martyr, to pity one's self, to say, "Ah, poor me! Well, well, some day some one will miss me, no doubt," and so on, and then to cry over "poor me!" Even stout Jack Falstaff, a man more given to laughter than to tears, to jollity more than to sorrow, is caught now and then pitying himself. "Well, go thy ways, fat Jack,” he says: "there is but one honest man left, and he grows old apace." How much this passion for crying has been indulged in by ladies our old writers will tell us. Almost every one of them

accuses woman of being able to cry to order, and of making a market of her tears. No doubt some have done so ; and no doubt the arts of deceivers like Delilah-to blush at will, to cry, to look hurt, astonished, and innocent—are arts of easy attainment.

Both men and women are, however, ashamed of crying in public-at a domestic tragedy, let us say. Formerly certain old moral plays, "The Gamester," "George Barnwell," and "The Stranger," drew from their audiences many tears; and grave citizens were not ashamed to weep at Mrs. Haller's troubles, or at the domestic trouble caused by Millwood. One cannot but think that they were right in so doing, and that the hackneyed old song of the "Soldier's Tear" has a good deal of truth in it, when it asserts that the man who can feel tenderly is not a whit the less brave than the man who can look at a moving scene with the stolid insensibility of a brute.

That a man, or woman either, who cries out upon every occasion is little more or less than a coward, is quite true. That one who grins continually with the face of an idiot, who laughs when an old woman falls and breaks her leg, or when a little child is tossed by a bull, is merely a cruel and inconsiderate fool, is also true. He is on a par with a boy; and a mere boy, in rude animal health, without any forethought or consideration, is one of the cruellest and most obnoxiously selfish animals in existence. But then there is a material difference between sound and reasonable employment of our faculties and their abuse. The two exhibitions of emotion, laughter and tears, were given us for some use; and a man who can enjoy both extremes is the better man.

What should we think of an animated piano which boasted that it could only play upon the middle notes, and that it was incapable of sounding the treble and the bass? It might play very quiet, even tunes; it might be said to have attained a "wise indifference;" but it would be rejected by every true lover of music as an exceedingly imperfect

MARKS OF HONOUR.

T is only a short time ago that a certain person assisted at a distribution of medals, and sundry inscriptions on parchment, to a number of brave fellows who had saved many lives from fire. Some had rescued two, others three, one man eight-a father, mother, and six children; and all this was done at the risk of the firemen's own lives, and in the simple execution of duty. The society to which these men belong, and by whom they are employed, is deserving of all praise. Excellently managed, it takes out of the hands of the Government any trouble, and all expense. By that voluntary taxation to which good people so readily submit, it collects about ten thousand pounds a year-a sum which enables them to keep a staff of a hundred trained men, and eightyfive fire-escapes. Last year the society saved sixty-seven persons from an awful death, besides helping the regular fire-brigade for saving property in the execution of its arduous duty. Now, if a millionnaire who spends his three hundred thousand a year were to do half the tangible good

which this society does, what a happy man would he be, and what a benefactor to his fellows!

But to our purpose. These noble men, who had saved life at the peril of their own, and who were and are content to do it again, for a few shillings a week, received their guerdon, a sovereign, a bit of parchment, and a few kind words of acknowledgment with a manly modesty and courtesy which did them honour. All the gentlemen of the society and the men were evidently friends and old acquaintances, and understood the matter; but amongst some strangers who were decorated and rewarded by the society, working men and others, there was one who, on the impulse of the moment, had saved two children, and who, when he received the money, appealed to the public, saying, "Here's a fine reward—only a sovereign for saving two lives !" and then disappeared grumbling. And the spectacle of this man, who so little understood life, and who made a very disagreeable exhibition of himself, set one a-thinking upon the nature of honours and rewards. First let us show why this man was a selfish, silly fellow; and then let us continue our subject.

In the first place, this society does not undertake to reward people for good actions. Only paying its own servants for a duty, it marks its approbation by a gratuity and an acknowledgment. Secondly, not only its own servants, but utter strangers it also rewards, merely to encourage others. Of course, in all cases the reward can be only nominal. No one can pay to another the value of a human life. Lastly, no noble impulse allows the mind to think of reward. When Nelson exclaimed "Death, or Westminster Abbey !" he did