saw Andrew come riding back alone.

We have never seen the old gentleman since But last winter I received a
letter from him he wrote in a forgiving tone, to inform me that he had
been appointed chaplain in a prison, and to ask for a loan of money to
buy a suit of clothes. I sent him fifty dollars and my congratulations.
I consider him eminently qualified to fill the new situation. As a
hardship he can't be beat; and what are the rogues sent to prison for,
but to suffer punishment?

Yes, it would be a joke if my little Iron-Clad should end his career of
imposture in that public institution, and sit once more under my
excellent uncle! But I can't wish him any such misfortune. His mission
to us was one of mercy. The place has been Paradise again, ever since
his visit.--_Scribners Magazine_, August, 1873.

OLIVER BELL BUNCE.

(BORN, 1828.)

* * * * *

MR. BLUFF DISCOURSES OF THE COUNTRY AND KINDRED THEMES.

(_In a Country Lane_.)

BACHELOR BLUFF. A LISTENER.

"The country," exclaimed Mr. Bluff, with an air of candor and
impartiality, "is, I admit, a very necessary and sometimes a very
charming place. I thank Heaven for the country when I eat my first green
peas, when the lettuce is crisp, when the potatoes are delicate and
mealy, when the well-fed poultry comes to town, when the ruddy peach and
the purple grape salute me at the fruit-stands. I love the country when
I think of a mountain ramble; when I am disposed to wander with rod and
reel along the forest-shadowed brook; when the apple-orchards are in
blossom; when the hills blaze with autumn foliage. But I protest
against the dogmatism of rural people, who claim all the cardinal and
all the remaining virtues for their rose-beds and cabbage-patches. The
town, sir, bestows felicities higher in character than the country does;
for men and women, and the works of men and women, are always worthier
our love and concern than the rocks and the hills ...

--"Oh, yes! I have heard before of the pleasures of the garden. Poets
have sung, enthusiasts have written, and old men have dreamed of them
since History began her chronicles. But have the _pains_ of the garden
ever been dwelt upon? Have people, now, been entirely honest in what
they have said and written on this theme? When enthusiasts have told us
of their prize pears, their early peas of supernatural tenderness, their
asparagus, and their roses, and their strawberries, have