TO A FRIEND WHO, THOUGH HE HAD NO PROFESSION, COULD NOT FIND TIME FOR HIS VARIOUS INTELLECTUAL PURSUITS.

It has always seemed to me that the great and beautiful principle of compensation is more clearly seen in the distribution and effects of time than in anything else within the scope of our experience. The good use of one opportunity very frequently compensates us for the absence of another, and it does so because opportunity is itself so dependent upon time that, although the best opportunities may apparently be presented to us, we can make no use of them unless we are able to give them the time that they require. You, who have the best possible opportunities for culture, find a certain sadness and disappointment because you cannot avail yourself of all of them; but the truth is, that opportunity only exists for us just so far as we are able to make use of it, and our power to do so is often nothing but a question of time. If our days are well employed we are sure to have done some good thing which we should have been compelled to neglect if we had been occupied about anything else. Hence every genuine worker has rich compensations which ought to console him amply for his shortcomings, and to enable him to meet comparisons without fear.

Those who aspire to the intellectual life, but have no experience of its difficulties, very frequently envy men so favorably situated as you are. It seems to them that all the world's knowledge is accessible to you, and that you have simply to cull its fruits as we gather grapes in a vineyard. They forget the power of Time, and the restrictions which Time imposes. "This or that, not this and that," is the rule to which all of us have to submit, and it strangely equalizes the destinies of men. The time given to the study of one thing is withdrawn from the study of another, and the hours of the day are limited alike for all of us. How difficult it is to reconcile the interests of our different pursuits! Indeed, it seems like a sort of polygamy to have different pursuits. It is natural to think of them as jealous wives tormenting some Mormon prophet.

There is great danger in apparently unlimited opportunities, and a splendid compensation for those who are confined by circumstances to a narrow but fruitful field. The Englishman gets more civilization out of a farm and a garden than the Red

Indian out of the space encircled by his horizon. Our culture gains in thoroughness what it loses in extent.

This consideration goes far to explain the fact that although our ancestors were so much less favorably situated than we are, they often got as good an intellectual training from the literature that was accessible to them, as we from our vaster stores. We live in an age of essayists, and yet what modern essayist writes better than old Montaigne? All that a thoughtful and witty writer needs for the sharpening of his intellect, Montaigne found in the ancient literature that was accessible to him, and in the life of the age he lived in. Born in our own century, he would have learned many other things, no doubt, and read many other books, but these would have absorbed the hours that he employed not less fruitfully with the authors that he loved in the little library up in the third story of his tower, as he tells us, where he could see all his books at once, set upon five rows of shelves round about him. In earlier life he bought "this sort of furniture" for "ornament and outward show," but afterwards quite abandoned that, and procured such volumes only" as supplied his own need."

To supply our own need, within the narrow limits of the few and transient hours that we can call our own, is enough for the wise everywhere, as it was for Montaigne in his tower. Let us resolve to do as much as that, not more and then rely upon the golden compensations.

NOTHING TO WEAR.

BY WILLIAM ALLEN BUTLER.

[WILLIAM ALLEN BUTLER: An American poet and author; born in Albany, N. Y., in 1825. He is a graduate of the University of New York (1843), a lawyer, and the author of "Nothing to Wear: an Episode in City Life" (1857), a biography of Martin Van Buren (1862), and "Domesticus" (1886), a story of labor troubles.]

MISS FLORA M'FLIMSEY, of Madison Square,

Has made three separate journeys to Paris;
And her father assures me, each time she was there,
That she and her friend, Mrs. Harris

(Not the lady whose name is so famous in history,

But plain Mrs. H., without romance or mystery),

Spent six consecutive weeks without stopping,
In one continuous round of shopping;

Shopping alone, and shopping together,

At all hours of the day, and in all sorts of weather,
For all manner of things that a woman can put
On the crown of her head or the sole of her foot,
Or wrap round her shoulders or fit round her waist,
Or that can be sewed on, or pinned on, or laced,
Or tied on with a string, or stitched on with a bow,
In front or behind - above or below:

For bonnets, mantillas, capes, collars, and shawls:
Dresses for breakfasts, and dinners, and balls;
Dresses to sit in, and stand in, and walk in;
Dresses to dance in, and flirt in, and talk in;
Dresses in which to do nothing at all;
Dresses for winter, spring, summer, and fall;
All of them different in color and pattern-
Silk, muslin, and lace, crape, velvet, and satin;
Brocade, and broadcloth, and other material,
Quite as expensive, and much more ethereal:

In short, for all things that could ever be thought of,
Or milliner, modiste, or tradesman be bought of.
I should mention just here, that out of Miss Flora's
Two hundred and fifty or sixty adorers,

I had just been selected as he who should throw all

The rest in the shade, by the gracious bestowal

On myself, after twenty or thirty rejections,

Of those fossil remains which she called "her affections."

So we were engaged. Our troth had been plighted,

Not by moonbeam, nor starbeam, by fountain or grove,

But in a front parlor, most brilliantly lighted,

Beneath the gas fixtures we whispered our love.

Without any romance, or raptures, or sighs,
Without any tears in Miss Flora's blue eyes;
Or blushes, or transports, or such silly actions,
It was one of the quietest business transactions;
With a very small sprinkling of sentiment, if any,
And a very large diamond, imported by Tiffany.

Well, having thus wooed Miss M'Flimsey and gained her, With the silks, crinolines, and hoops that contained her,

I had, as I thought, a contingent remainder

At least in the property, and the best right

To appear as its escort by day and by night;

And it being the week of the Stuckups' grand ball —

Their cards had been out a fortnight or so,
And set all the Avenue on the tiptoe-
I considered it only my duty to call

And see if Miss Flora intended to go.
I found her as ladies are apt to be found,
When the time intervening between the first sound
Of the bell and the visitor's entry is shorter
Than usual-I found (I won't say, I caught) her
Intent on the pier glass, undoubtedly meaning
To see if, perhaps, it didn't need cleaning.

She turned, as I entered-"Why, Harry, you sinner,
I thought that you went to the Flashers' to dinner!"
"So I did," I replied; "but the dinner is swallowed
And digested, I trust, for 'tis now nine and more;
So being relieved from that duty, I followed

Inclination, which led me, you see, to your door.
And now, will your ladyship so condescend
As just to inform me if you intend

Your beauty, and graces, and presence to lend

(All which, when I own, I hope no one will borrow)

To the Stuckups', whose party, you know, is to-morrow?"

The fair Flora looked up with a pitiful air,

And answered quite promptly, "Why, Harry, mon cher,

I should like above all things to go with you there;
But really and truly - I've nothing to wear!"
"Nothing to wear! Go just as you are:
Wear the dress you have on, and you'll be by far,
I engage, the most bright and particular star
On the Stuckup horizon." She turned up
(That pure Grecian feature), as much as to say,
"How absurd that any sane man should suppose
That a lady would go to a ball in the clothes,

her nose

No matter how fine, that she wears every day!"

So I ventured again—"Wear your crimson brocade."

(Second turn up of nose) —"That's too dark by a shade." "Your blue silk"-"That's too heavy;" "Your pink"-"That's

too light."

"Wear tulle over satin" "I can't endure white."

"Your rose-colored, then, the best of the batch,"

"I haven't a thread of point lace to match."

"Your brown moire-antique "-"Yes, and look like a Quaker:" "The pearl-colored,” —“I would, but that plaguy dressmaker Has had it a week." "Then that exquisite lilac,

In which you would melt the heart of a Shylock" (Here the nose took again the same elevation)

"I wouldn't wear that for the whole of creation."

"Why not? It's my fancy, there's nothing could strike it As more comme il faut· "Yes, but, dear me, that lean

Sophronia Stuckup has got one just like it, And I won't appear dressed like a chit of sixteen; "Then that splendid purple, that sweet mazarine; That superb point d'aguille, that imperial green, That zephyr-like tarlatan, that rich grenadine" "Not one of all which is fit to be seen,"

Said the lady, becoming excited and flushed.
"Then wear," I exclaimed in a tone which quite crushed
Opposition, "that gorgeous toilet, which you sported
In Paris last spring, at the grand presentation,

When you quite turned the head of the head of the nation,
And by all the grand court were so very much courted."
The end of the nose was portentously turned up,
And both the bright eyes shot forth indignation,
As she burst upon me with the fierce exclamation,
"I have worn it three times at the least calculation,

And that, and the most of my dresses, are ripped up!"
Here I ripped out something, perhaps rather rash,
Quite innocent, though; but, to use an expression
More striking than classic, it "settled my hash,"

And proved very soon the last act of our session. "Fiddlesticks, is it, sir? I wonder the ceiling

Doesn't fall down and crush you. Oh! you men have no feeling
You selfish, unnatural, illiberal creatures!

Who set yourselves up as patterns and preachers,
Your silly pretense-why, what a mere guess it is!
Pray, what do you know of a woman's necessities?

I have told you and shown you I've nothing to wear,
And it's perfectly plain you not only don't care,

But you do not believe me" (here the nose went still higher), "I suppose if you dared, you would call me a liar.

Our engagement is ended, sir—yes, on the spot;

You're a brute and a monster, and—I don't know what."

I mildly suggested the words - Hottentot,

Pickpocket, and cannibal, Tartar and thief,
As gentle expletives which might give relief;
But this only proved as spark to the powder,

And the storm I had raised came faster and louder;

It blew, and it rained, thundered, lightened, and hailed
Interjections, verbs, pronouns, till language quite failed,
To express the abusive; and then its arrears
Were brought up all at once by a torrent of tears;