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But lovelier still was the moonlight that fell

So soft on the gray mossy wall; When we tried not to hear the loud nursery bell,

Nor anwerd my grandmother's call.

For, oh! it was pleasant to wander along

That terrace all shaded by yew,
To listen the nightingale's happiest song,

And see the bright moonbeams shine through.

A splash in the water, a rush of the wind

As it swept through the high sycamore; How it startled the one that was loitering behind,

Though laughing the moment before.

Then half in our terror, and half in our fun,

We ran to the window, and tried
To see if the servants their supper had done,

By the light of the kitchen fireside.

And pleasant it was at the close of the day,

When the moon shone alone in the heaven, To lie down to slumber, and think as we lay

That our mischievous pranks were forgiven.

Yes, those were the days when we dream'd not of care,

When pleasure still came at our call; For warm was the greeting that welcomed us there,

In my grandmother's old-fashion'd Hall.


It is a common observation, and a very true one, that “one half of the world knows not how the other half is living.” To some very poor people, it would be a wonderful sight, could they obtain access to the interior of a princely mansion, and not only behold the size and the furniture of the rooms, but the services of the table, and the gay and elegant company who seat themselves there with so much familiarity and ease, having never been accustomed to any. thing else. Still more astonished would they be, could they listen to the conversation, and understand it all; for they would discover that scarcely anything in life was esteemed as they esteem it, or calculated by the rule to which they had been accustomed.

It might happen, for instance, that a young lady, throwing herself listlessly upon a couch, would exclaim—"I should like to be poor, and live in an old thatched cottage, it is so delightfully picturesque !” or, “I wonder why poor people can't be satisfied without shoes. When I can do as I like, I shall have all my working-people wear a costume, with sandals, or wooden shoes, pointed and turned up at the toe. And then they eat such shocking things, and keep pigs, and make everything look so horrible around their cottages! My people shall live in the open air, and eat chestnuts, like the peasants in the south of France."

What would a poor cottager think to hear this, or a similar speech, from so benevolent a being, especially if the poor woman was one of those whose greatest glory was the possession of a pig, and the privilege of wearing a slouched bonnet, and a pair of leathern shoes?

On the other hand, how exceedingly ignorant are most of the children of affluence of what is going on within the habitations of the poor! Even if they look in occasionally, it is but for a passing moment, during which the poor people, embarrassed by the presence of their distinguished visitors, seldom talk or act like themselves. At all events, the actual means of their humble existence are not brought forward, nor is the wealthy stranger capable, from such limited intercourse, of forming any distinct idea of their actual mode either of living or thinking. The fact is, they could not understand it. The language of poverty is an unintelligible language to them, because they have no feel. ings in common with those who lie down at night not knowing from whence to-morrow's food is to come.

One thing is very remarkable in their character. It is the extraordinary generosity of the poor in comparison with that of the rich—not of the poor who want bread, for it would ill deserve the name of generosity to give one day, knowing that they should have to beg the next; but

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