ry pettishness into a fit of obstinacy--I
have felt as if I wanted to whisper in her ear, "Do not seem to notice
them; let well enough alone." When I see an envious mother depreciating and
finding fault with a judicious and conscientious teacher till she has
discouraged or provoked her, I think it likely that the day will come when
both mother and children will wish that she had "let well enough alone."
So, too, when I observe a mother forcing upon her daughters an
accomplishment for which they have no taste: a father compelling his son to
study law or physic, while the bent of his genius leads to machinery or
farming: or a widow with a little property placing her children under the
doubtful protection of a young stepfather. Vanitia is intelligent and well
read, and appears to advantage in general society; but her love of
admiration, her wish to be thought _superior_, is so inordinate, that she
cannot bear to appear ignorant of any subject; hence she often tries to
seem conversant with matters of which she knows nothing, and perceives not
that she thereby sinks in the estimation of those whose homage she covets.
Affectua is pretty and accomplished, and, two years ago, awakened goodwill
in all who saw her. Latterly, however, she has exchanged her simple and
natural manners for those which are plainly artificial and affected. What a
pity these ladies cannot "let well enough alone!"

But I must stop, or my reader may exclaim: Enough--practice thy own
precept--and let well enough alone.

* * * * *

SUSAN CLIFTON; OR, THE CITY AND THE COUNTRY.

BY PROFESSOR ALDEN.

CHAPTER I.

On a pleasant afternoon in August, two gentlemen were sitting in the shade
of a large walnut tree which stood in front of an ancient, yet neat and
comfortable farmhouse. Perhaps it would be more in accordance with modern
usage to say that a gentleman and a man were sitting there; for the one was
clothed in the finest broadcloth, the other in ordinary homespun. They had
just returned from a walk over the farm, which had been the scene of their
early amusements and labors.

"I don't know," said he of the broadcloth coat, "but that you made the
better choice, after all. You have time to be happy; you have a quiet that
I know nothing about--in truth, I should not know how to enjoy it if I had
it."

"The lack of it, then," replied his brother, "can be no hardship. I have
often regretted that I did not secure the advan