full half of what they publish is nonsense, or worse; and I have blushed to see a young lady turning over what she very properly called her "loose music." Those persons, therefore, deserve our thanks, who from time to time are publishing in a cheap form such secular music as is proper for families. I here refer chiefly to such works as Kingsley's Social Choir, Mason's Odeon, and the Boston Glee Book. But, after all, and without any reference to religion, the best music is sacred music. It is on this that the greatest masters have laid out their strength; it is this which most suits the chorus of many voices. Secular pieces, as commonly published, are intended to be sung by few, or by a single voice; but sacred compositions admit of the strength of a whole company. And it is truly delightful to drop into one of those families where the evenings are sometimes spent in this way. There is the eldest daughter at the piano-forte, accompanied by the eldest son upon the violin. Another son and two daughters lead off vocally, with the principal melody, while a neighbouring youth plays the tenor, and sings the same part. The old gentleman in spectacles labours at his violoncello, and two or three flutes come in modestly to complete the orchestra; while nieces, nephews, cousins, friends, and, perhaps, suitors, fill up the sounding chorus with right good will. This is, indeed, something more than a mere family meeting, but it is what grows out of it; and when the evening ends, and some little refreshments have gone around, the transition is not abrupt from this to the social worship, when all voices join once more in a happy evening hymn. XXXVII. THE WORKING-MAN'S EVENINGS AT HOME. "O, evenings worthy of the gods! exclaimed COWPER. THERE are no portions of the working-man's life in which a more constant series of innocent satisfactions is offered to him, than his evenings. This is true of those at least whose trades do not encroach upon the night. When labour is over, there is an opening for domestic pleasures which no wise man will ever neglect. My neighbour BOSWELL has a high sense of these enjoyments, and makes the most of them. Except when some public meeting calls him abroad, you are as sure to find him at home in the evening, as at work in the day. Sometimes, indeed, he accompanies his wife or eldest daughter in a visit, but he never appears at clubs or taverns. "I work hard," he is accustomed to say, "for my little comforts, and I like to enjoy them unbroken." The picture would not be unworthy of the at rest. pencil of a Wilkie: I have it clearly in my mind's eye. The snug and well-closed room is all gay with the blaze of a high wood-fire; which casts upon the smiling circle a ruddy glow. There is Boswell, in his arm-chair, one hand between the leaves of a book which he has just closed, the other among the auburn locks of a little prattling girl. He gazes into the coals with that pir of happy revery, which is so sure a token of a mind The wife, nearer to the light, is plying the ceaseless needle, and distributing kind words, and kinder glances among the little group. Mary, the eldest daughter, is leaning over a sheet of paper, upon which she has just executed a drawing. George, the eldest son, is most laboriously engaged in the construction of a powder-horn. Two little ones are playing the royal game of Goose; while one, the least of all, is asleep before the fire, by the dog and the cat, who never fail to occupy the same spot every evening. Such humble scenes, I am happy to believe, are still presented to view, in thousands of families among the working classes. Need it be added, that they are immeasurably above the sickly heats. of those who make pleasure the great object of their pursuit in life? It is among such influences that religion spreads its balm, and that knowledge sheds its fruits. Rest after toil is always agreeable; but it is doubly so when enjoyed in such circumstances, in the bosom of a loving family, healthful, instructed, and harmonious. Such uni formity is never tedious, nor such quiet ever dull. Every such evening may be remembered in after life with pleasing regrets. My friend tells me, that it is a refreshment to his mind, during the greatest labours or chagrin of the day, to look forward to his tranquil evening. When work is done, he hastens to wash away the traces of his ruder business, and to make himself as smart as is consistent with frugal plainness. "He who hammers all day," he says, "has a right to be clean at night." This is the rule of his house; and when his sons grow large enough to be out at trades, they will, no doubt, come in every evening as trim and as tidy as they went out. It is no interruption of such a group for a neighbour to drop in. The circle opens, a seat is drawn up, the sleepers are merrily pushed aside from the rug, the conversation grows lively, news circulates, and joy sparkles in every face. The salver of cakes, or the fruit-basket, or some healthful beverage prepared by "neat-handed" Mary, adds to the substantials of the entertainment. The newspaper, or some pleasant book is read aloud; and when the hour for separation comes, they part with a vastly better state of feeling than that of the greasy creature who has nodded in his moping corner, or the peevish tavern-haunter who comes home late to scold his solitary wife. It might be interesting to inquire what would be the effect upon the state of society in any village |