truth that all must yield somewhat to suffering, instead of lying down, and rolling over in the dust, and howling and wailing, in all the vileness of cowardice, like a wretched, puling craven, rises up and says: "Why, then, if matters be so, let us e'en make the best of it!" Fortunately for the little whiners, destiny grants them no glimpse of the dread truth; more fortunately still for the world, those who do see into its terror are strengthened and nerved by the view, and they rise and go forth bravely into life, and are true-hearted and merry and glad. He who in olden times passed through the terrors of Orphic and Ionaic and Cabiric mysteries, where he was taught the whole fearful secret of worldly agony, came not forth into weeping, but into wild delight and genial pleasure and glad, golden Truth; but it was not the weak tyros and puling obstinates who passed this mighty ordeal.

It is not unlikely that by this time some are beginning to ask impatiently, "What in the name of common sense is this Joyousness, this Hilariter philosophy which you preach so obscurely?" To this I can only answer: Friends, it is a thing which will be first fully appreciated in the age to come. It is now in its beginning, as it will be in its fulness, a social development, and one which will require a thorough physical and moral training for the young, as well as mere intellectual cramming; and this latter must not be done at the rate of eight hours per diem, in unventilated, feverish schoolrooms. Out of such education comes readily, at the age of puberty, a love

for morbid melancholy and unhealthy romance. Ay! it will require many another physical and metaphysical reform, now only in the bud. Therefore, you may see that the first principle of Joyousness is Health. Rely on it, that the first step toward purity of mind, toward all that is absolutely right, is a sound body. He who is perfectly well, with the ruddy glow of health in his cheek, firmly braced by vigorous exercise, his frame suffering from no early excesses, his blood tainted by no stimulants, is in the best condition to perceive the Beautiful. I know that the whole world has been diseased for thousands of years. I know that, during its disease, it has had beautiful, delicate dreams; pictures by Fra Angelico, Orphic Hymns, beatific visions, Gothic sentiment, Edgar A. Poetry, and whole mythologies of saints and angels, Bhagvat Gheetas and Fénélon fancies. Yet the tender and delicate dreams all came from an unsound state of mind. There will yet come a Northern breeze, which will blow their spirit far away, leaving their mere forms to be regarded as curiosities; not respected as pure and healthy results of Nature.

CHAPTER FOURTH.

66 Strength there must be, either of love or war."-HOLYDAY.

DEAR reader—and especially dear lady-reader-during all the last chapter I have seen a slight shade of doubt, a delicate suspicion of dissent, gathering over your features, gliding over your glances, and quivering in those negative nods of your head, as the rising breeze which goes before the hurricane shakes the queenly palm tree. And now comes the remonstrance: “All very well, sir, very well, indeed; but when we come to facts, is it not true-can you deny it ?-that pathos is tender, and that tenderness. is exquisite, and that tears from the heart are the test of feeling and of love? When I am grieved I weep, and I certainly do not believe that my griefs are without emotion, or- -I suppose that I may say so―without poetry."

Dear reader, this is a terrible dilemma, and one all the more painful because you of all the world-you, the representative of that sex in which all the best hopes of the future, its intellectual hopes, centre-you really at heart agree with me more closely than you dream. We are both of the future-reflect.

Yes, reflect, that beneath this wild froth, this whirling, broken spray of life, lies a quiet depth of the same element which is not foam, not folly. O reader! if you be a woman, an earnest, truthful one, one with a deep and loving woman's heart, which knows itself, though the world knows it not; if you are one whose inmost soul is daily moved and grieved at the thought that you, crushed in by circumstance, are not what GOD gave you the secret power to be; if you are conscious that there is in your heart, under many a film, a priceless gem, which some would prize with worship could they see its light, then you, of all others, should read with woman's tact the struggles of one who is speaking out the earnest faith of a life, and who, to make that faith known and to do what good he can to strengthen others, springs -wildly at times it may be, here and there to call as many as he can in the crowd of this great noisy Vanity Fair to his wares. And I speak to women, because I believe in women-in some as they are, in all as they will be. I believe, because I have seen it, that when honest women are truthfully and intellectually educated, they grow up truthful, intellectual beings. I believe that were they in girlhood brought up less for show, less according to empty rules or forms, and more according to that selfreliance so much inculcated on boys, they would be selfreliant as are those of the other sex, and as gifted in the works of genius, without losing a single real charm or grace. I believe that women might be so educated that

they would be earnest, natural creatures, no longer comediennes in society; and that if this were effected, many men would follow their example. I believe that if a girl of average intelligence and healthy constitution were, like "Mademoiselle de Choisy" in the droll French comedy, brought up as a boy, and by extraordinary fortune kept in ignorance-I do not say of her sex, but of the thousand coquetries and minauderies which now characterize the relations of the sexes, she would develop in more graceful form the intellectual energy of the boy, master the same studies, and be nearly as "self-reliant." And finally, since I believe all this, and because I know that many women, despite the present "accomplishment" system of forming girls' minds, are earnest and reflecting persons, not rejecting everything because it is new, I have spoken so pointedly to you, lady reader; that pleasant reality and cheering presence to a writer of the present day; you, fair Woman, who have for two or three centuries taken the place of the "O Muse!" of early days.

You told me, reader, in the earlier lines of this chapter, that to you pathos is tender, and tenderness exquisite. And in like manner I can remember to have once heard from one whose beautiful and peculiar soul always awakened in me a most earnest and loving curiosity, that beauty was never so beautiful as when melancholy, for that then it seemed most refined.

In that last word we have the secret mystery of the attraction. It is truly the refinement, the dignity-the