I will not
say which, I met the Rev. Mr----, and the way he talked to me about the
earth being the "Lord's and the fullness thereof;" about our having the
poor always with us; about the duties of charity, and the laying up of
treasure in heaven, made me ashamed to go to church for a month to come.
I really began to fear that I was a doomed man and that the reputation
of being a "wealthy citizen" was going to sink me into everlasting
perdition. But I am getting over that feeling now. My cash-book, ledger,
and bill-book set me right again; and I can button up my coat and
draw my purse-strings, when guided by the dictates of my own judgment,
without a fear of the threatened final consequences before my eyes.
Still, I am the subject of perpetual annoyance from all sorts of people,
who will persist in believing that I am made of money; and many of these
approach me in, such a way as to put it almost entirely out of my
power to say "no." They come with appeals for small amounts, as loans,
donations to particular charities, or as the price of articles that I do
not want, but which I cannot well refuse to take. I am sure that, since
I have obtained my present unenviable reputation, it hasn't cost me a
cent less than two thousand, in money given away, loaned never to be
returned, and in the purchase of things that I never would have thought
of buying.

And, with all this, I have made more enemies than I ever before had in
my life, and estranged half of my friends and acquaintances.

Seriously, I have it in contemplation to "break" one of these days,
in order to satisfy the world that I am not a rich man. I see no other
effectual remedy for present grievances.

"WE'VE ALL OUR ANGEL SIDE."

DESPAIR not of the better part
That lies in human kind--
A gleam of light still flickereth
In e'en the darkest mind;
The savage with his club of war,
The sage so mild and good,
Are linked in firm, eternal bonds
Of common brotherhood.
Despair not! Oh despair not, then,
For through this world so wide,
No nature is so demon-like,
But there's an angel side.

The huge rough stones from out the mine,
Unsightly and unfair,
Have veins of purest metal hid
Beneath the surface there;
Few rocks so bare but to their heights
Some tiny moss-plant clings,
And round the peaks, so desolate,
The sea-bird sits and sings.