the nerves in repose, and the blood,
equalized, courses freely through the system, giving strength, vigour,
and equilibrium to the whole complicated machinery. Thus we can think
clearer, love better, enjoy life, and be thankful for it.

What a beautiful arrangement it is that we can, by doing good to others,
do so much good to ourselves! The wealthy classes, who "rise above
society like clouds above the earth, to diffuse an abundant dew," should
not forget this fact. The season has now about arrived, when the good
people of all classes will be most busily engaged in these delightful
duties. The experiment is certainly worth trying by all. If all
those desponding individuals, whose chief comfort is to growl at this
"troublesome world," will but take the hint, look trouble full in the
face, and relieve it, they will, like friend K----, feel much better.

It may be set down as a generally correct axiom, (with some few
exceptions, perhaps, such as accidents, and the deceptions and cruelties
of those whom we injudiciously select for friends and confidants, from
our want of discernment), that life is much what we make it, and so is
the world.

THE SORROWS OF A WEALTHY CITIZEN.

AH me! Am I really a rich man, or am I not? That is the question. I
am sure I don't feel rich; and yet, here I am written down among the
"wealthy citizens" as being worth seventy thousand dollars! How the
estimate was made, or who furnished the data, is all a mystery to me. I
am sure I wasn't aware of the fact before. "Seventy thousand dollars!"
That sounds comfortable, doesn't it? Seventy thousand dollars!--But
where is it? Ah! There is the rub! How true it is that people always
know more about you than you do yourself.

Before this unfortunate book came out ("The Wealthy Citizens of
Philadelphia"), I was jogging on very quietly. Nobody seemed to be aware
of the fact that I was a rich man, and I had no suspicion of the thing
myself. But, strange to tell, I awoke one morning and found myself worth
seventy thousand dollars! I shall never forget that day. Men who had
passed me in the street with a quiet, familiar nod, now bowed with a low
salaam, or lifted their hats deferentially, as I encountered them on the
_pave_.

"What's the meaning of all this?" thought I. "I haven't stood up to
be shot at, nor sinned against innocence and virtue. I haven't been to
Paris. I don't wear moustaches. What has given me this importance?"

And, musing