hurra, I tho't when we drove in it was gineral training; but they carried on so every day;—and then there is such a stifled-up feeling—I did pity 'em."
Persons capable of more accurate comparison than Uncle Phil, may well pity those who, when summer is in its beauty, are shut up within the walls of a city, deprived of the greatest of all luxuries, which even the poorest country people enjoy—sweet air, ample space, pure water, and quiet only broken by pleasant sounds.
And often, too, have we felt a pity for the citizen similar to Uncle Phil's, when we have compared the tea-table of those we call poor in the country with the uninviting evening meal of the affluent in town. "Ah, father," replied Susan, "you must remember we don't set out such a table very often here. I am sure I never could if we had not such kind neighbours; but, when they are kind, it don't seem to me to make much difference whether you are rich or poor."
Susan's simple remark had an important bearing on that great subject of inequality of condition, which puzzles the philosopher, and sometimes disturbs the Christian. But did not our happy little friend suggest a solution to the riddle? Has not Providence made this inequality the necessary result of the human condition, and is not the true agrarian principle to be found in the voluntary exercise of those virtues that produce an interchange of benevolent offices? If there were a perfect community of goods, where would be the opportunity for the exercise of the virtues, of justice, and mercy, humility, fidelity, and gratitude? If
