the desire. They have become associated together, and the appearance of the one suggests the other.

"For when the different images of things

By chance combined have struck the attentive soul

With deeper impulse, or connected long

Have drawn her frequent eye; howe'er distinct
The external scenes, yet oft the ideas gain,
From that conjunction, an eternal tie
And sympathy unbroken."

These associations are always increasing, and of course the suggestive tendency is growing stronger. This is the case both mentally and physically. The disposition to act or think in a certain way, acquires strength by exercise. Thus, the mathematician looks at everything in a very precise way, and expects that a chain of evidence or reasoning should be as clearly demonstrated as a mathematical problem; while the logician does not seek for such clear demonstrations, but can by a process of induction gather sufficient materials to enable him to draw a natural conclusion. Hence we are enabled the better to weigh the importance to be attached to the different opinions of men, when we know the way they are in the habit of looking at matters.

But, further, the influence of habit does not only increase the tendency to action, but renders its performance easier. Our first attempts may be awkward, but each repetition decreases this. We are afforded an opportunity of observing wherein any defect may lie, and how we may remedy it. We see what is essential for the due execution of the operation, and are enabled to cast off any superfluous exertion, or rather to concentrate all our exertions on what is necessary. We acquire a knowledge of what powers we require, and of the best means of employing them, and these themselves acquire strength by use. This is best explained by example. It is wonderful to hear the public orator practised in extemporaneous address, how without any preparation he divides his subject so logically, how he expresses "thoughts that breath in words that burn," and that apparently without any effort on his part. Think not that this is the mere outburst of talent. Nay, it is rather the result of much reflection, and patient labour. acquired by habitual exercise. So also with the performer on a musical instrument. How difficult the first attempts are; yet how gradually, at each successive repetition, the performance becomes easier, until the performer almost wonders how it should have cost him so much effort. The difficulty in both cases arises to a great extent, from being unacquainted with the various operations necessary. The music pupil does not know the various operations which he requires to perform, and in his first attempts the mind is engaged in a struggle about those. He must know what note he has to play, how he has to produce it, of what length it is, and whether it should be played loud or soft. The attention of the mind is divided between these, and hence

the difficulty of first attempts. But gradually by practice he acquires the faculty of knowing these at first sight, and a rapidity of execution truly astonishing. So also with speaking and reading. The first efforts of the child are very imperfect, but by habit he acquires great ease in both, if properly trained.

An interesting question here arises: Are we conscious, and if so, to what extent, of each of these individual operations after we have become habituated to their performance? This is a question which would require a separate paper for its discussion. Every one, however, must know, that if there is consciousness it is certainly not so vivid as during our first attempts. This is one of the peculiar characteristics of habit. It grows upon us without our fully apprehending its ever increasing strength. We become so familiar with it, that it costs us no thought. We are not conscious of its full effect. The benefits we derive are unthought of by us, until we are deprived of them. This is well exemplified in the cases of health and sickness. How little we think of the former when we enjoy it, and how much we esteem it after a protracted experience of the latter.

"See the wretch, that long has toss'd

On the thorny bed of pain,

At length repair his vigour lost,
And breathe and walk again!

The meanest flow'ret of the vale,

The simplest note that swells the gale,

The common sun, the air, the skies.

To him are opening paradise."

So it is with our desires. If we have been in the habit of gratifying them, it is only when they are removed that we fully appreciate them. Most people have had occasion, at some period of their lives, to make a struggle to throw off the influence of some long-standing habit. Then it is that we can fully appreciate its power. How firmly it grasps us. How it haunts us continually. How peevish in temper we become if the desire is not gratified. Even the most trivial habit, if not indulged in at the usual time, will produce results truly astonishing. Every one has heard of the distinguished lawyer, who, having been in the habit of twisting a piece of cord during his speeches, had it carried off one day during a speech and, in consequence, completely broke down. So we have observed a child could not go to sleep without sucking something. There is something so mechanical in those operations that it is difficult to find an explanation of them. It cannot be said that in either of these cases there is any real pleasure derived. The only reasonable explanation which occurs to us is that the desire to do again what has once been done is satisfied. That the two things having been formerly associated together, when one occurs, a feeling of uneasiness is felt, unless it is accompanied by the other. This is an additional illustration of the power which habit acquires over us, and how completely we can be made subject

to it. "Custom," saith the proverb, "becomes a second nature," and that of considerable strength. Many men we know, confess themselves totally unable to give up a habit. It may not be a vicious habit, but merely a trivial unimportant one, which has acquired such an influence over them that they cannot resist.

This then is a great power for good or evil. We may become heirs of all moral virtue and excellence, or slaves to the most vicious indulgence. The choice lies with ourselves. We for the most part form our own habits, and are responsible for them. If they are good, our life will be one of steady progress in all moral and religious virtue; if evil, one downward course of vicious indulgence. In either case, progress in the course adopted is inevitable. There is no stationary position. If we yield but a little in our moral life, if we relax our hold of religious principle, then the downward course is begun. Slowly it may be, but surely and progressively, the evil influence will grow upon us, until we become what we would before have looked upon with pity and contempt. "Vice is a monster of so frightful mien,

As to be hated needs but to be seen;
Yet seen too oft, familiar with her face,

We first endure, then pity, then embrace."

How different the life of the virtuous man, True it is, that he does not require the influence of habit to force him to the performance of his duty. No, a higher motive is at work impelling him to high thoughts and noble works. He does this from love. But though this is so, still the fact of his having formed good habits gives him a greater tendency to do his duty, and renders its performance easier, while he has not the counteracting influence of bad habits to struggle against. It adds strength and support to his good principles, and prevents him from being so liable to succumb to temptation. It gives him a moral standing from which he is not likely to fall. All the influences at work upon him are directed for good. His progress is ever upward and onward. He ascends in the scale of being, and attains to the true nobility of manhood. He exerts a beneficial influence on all, and sheds a light around him which ever increaseth in brilliancy. He has the inward satisfaction of having done his duty to his neighbour and himself, as well as to

"That God which ever lives and loves,

One God, one love, one element;"

and he looks forward with joy and gladness, to that

"One far off divine event

To which the whole creation moves,"

confident that he shall then be greeted with the welcome from the King of kings: "Well done, good and faithful servant, enter thou into the joy of thy Lord."

RAILWAY ROMANCES:

OR

STORIES TOLD IN A TRAIN.

II.-THE LAWYER'S STORY.

"ARE there any more passengers for the Birmingham Express?" Yes, there was a white-haired old gentleman running along the platform, who jumps into the carriage where I was seated half a minute before the express started. Some weak-minded traveller had uttered the invariable remark "off she goes," without which it seems impossible to ride by rail in England, and we were rushing along through the grey wintry morning mists which made the bare fields look still more bare and wretched. The carriage was full, the white-haired passenger who had nearly lost the train sat opposite to me, and the others were mere nonentities, or so at least I fancied by their appearance, and I consider myself a bit of a physiognomist. Presently, I got into conversation with the old gentleman opposite. He was a cheery talkative man, keen and shrewd in many of his remarks, and a very agreeable companion in an express train on a dull December day. We talked about all sorts of things, and places, and people, and at last got upon the Lakes (conversationally, I mean), where I had been staying during the summer. My friend, who was evidently on familiar ground (perhaps I ought to say water), asked me where I had been staying, and when I mentioned the village of C—, “Oh," said he, "I was born not ten miles from there, at Underwyck, one of the sweetest spots I know."

I had visited Underwyck, and quite subscribed to the old gentleman's opinion. He seemed for some minutes to be thinking over his old home, as he murmured to himself, and shook his head once or twice.

"How well I remember the old spots," he said presently, "though I haven't been there for many a year. Many a day I've spent in fishing on that lake by Underwyck; did you try it, it's a fine fishing place?"

I was obliged to confess myself ignorant of old Isaac's "gentle craft." "That's a pity," said the old gentleman; "it's fine sport, much better than fox-hunting or coursing; it's more philosophical, the others are too rough and boisterous. I was just thinking of a thing which happened down by that lake years ago, when I was a boy, or little more, a romantic story if ever there was one."

The old gentleman said no more, but took a pinch of snuff, muttered to himself once or twice, and took out a newspaper. Now there was nothing in the paper I knew, and I didn't want to read, so I asked the

old gentleman if the story was a secret, and if not, if he would mind telling it. "It's no secret at all," said he, "it's a very short affair, but it's a fact, mind; and if you care about it, I'm very happy to tell it.”

"I lived in the times I'm going to tell you about, with my father at Underwyck, and was there articled to a solicitor; for you must know that I'm myself a lawyer, or rather was, for I've retired now. Well, I suppose I was like nine-tenths of the young fellows of my age, very idle and good-for-nothing, a thousand times fonder of fishing in Underwyck lake, than in grinding law and spoiling paper. Many a day when I ought to have been deep in some case or other, I was dreaming away my time by the green banks of the lake; casting my line and generally landing a fair lot of fish. It was a glorious spot, as I recollect it, and I suppose it isn't much altered now, though tourists and railways do play the deuce with every place under the sun. It was the fairest bit of scenery for miles, and the best fishing place too, and not the least attraction of the place was the village inn. Every one for miles round knew the comforts of The Angler's Home,' and I expect many a fisherman who spent a week or more at Underwyck was induced to do so more by the pleasant life at The Angler's Home' than by the prospect of sport in the lake. The inn was well known to me in those days. I was a favourite with the landlord, Dick Kingsford, but I would much rather have been a favourite with his daughter. There was the real attraction of the place, the ale was excellent, the wine not bad, the rooms most comfortable, and the landlord a jolly fellow far above the average of his class; but the real gem of the place was Nellie Kingsford, the landlord's daughter.

6

"I recollect her fair delicate face, her rich brown eyes and glossy hair as if I had seen them but yesterday; but then, sir, you must remember that I loved her distractedly for six months or so, and was one of some dozen others in the same condition. I don't know what the other lovers of Nellie looked for, whether for herself or her money, for it was well known that she was an heiress by the death of an old miserly relative who had died about this time. All I can say is that my love looked to Nellie and to nothing beyond. Well, she didn't care a straw for me, I soon saw that. I daresay she was right, there was nothing very attractive in a young lawyer, though on the verge of becoming a full-blown solicitor. She was always kindly to me, and I, like a young fool, would linger about 'The Angler's Home,' wasting my time for the sake of a word or a look from Nellie.

"Well, one spring when the fishing time had commenced, and I was down at the lake whenever I could find time, a gentleman arrived at the inn on a fishing excursion. He came, he said, for a week, to try the lake and the inn of which he had heard so much.

"He was much liked at 'The Angler's Home,' for though a little haughty and reserved at first, he soon became great friends with Richard