the summum bonum of existence, will assuredly find out she has made as great a mistake as when in her babyhood she cried, as most of us do, for the moon, which we cannot get for all our crying. And yet it is a very good moon notwithstanding: a real moon too, who will help us to many a poetical dream, light us in many a lover's walk, till she shine over the grass of our graves upon a new generation ready to follow upon the immemorial quest, which, like the quest of the Sangreal, is only possible to pure hearts, and which the very purest can never fully attain, except through the gates of the Holy City-the New Jerusalem.

Happy and unhappy women-the adjectives being applied less with reference to position than to character, which is the only mode of judgment possible-to judge them and discourse of them is a very difficult matter at best. Yet I am afraid it cannot be doubted that there is a great average of unhappiness existent among women: not merely unhappiness of circumstances, but unhappiness of soul-a state of being often as unaccountable as it is irrational, finding vent in those innumerable faults of temper and of character which arise from no inherent vice, but merely because the individual is not happy.

Possibly, women more than men are liable to this dreary mental eclipse-neither daylight nor darkness. A man will go poetically wretched or morbidly misanthropic, or any great misfortune will overthrow him entirely, drive him to insanity, lure him to slip out of life through the terrible by-road of suicide; but he rarely drags on existence from year to year with nerves,' 'low spirits,' and the various maladies of mind and temper that make many women a torment to themselves, and a burden to all connected with them.

Why is this? and is it inevitable? Any one who could in the smallest degree answer this question, would be doing something to the lessening of a great evil-greater than many other evils which, being social and practical, shew more largely on the aggregate census of female woe.

Most assuredly, however unpoetical may be such a view of the matter, the origin of a great deal of unhappiness is physical disease; or rather, the loss of that healthy condition of body, which in the present state of civilisation, so far removed from a state of nature, can only be kept up in any individual by the knowledge and practice of the ordinary laws of hygiene generally the very last knowledge that women seem to have. The daily necessities of water, fresh air, proper clothing, food, and sleep, with the due regulation of each of these, without which no human being can expect to live healthily or happily, are matters in which the only excuse for lamentable neglect, is still more lamentable ignorance.

An ignorance the worse, because it is generally quite unacknowledged. If you tell a young girl that water, the colder the better, is essential to every pore of her delicate skin every morning; that daily outdoor exercise, short of extreme fatigue, regular meals, employment and amusement, are to her a vital necessity; that she should make it a part of her education to acquire a certain amount of current information on sanitary science, and especially on the laws of her own being, physical and mental: tell her this, and the chances are she will stare at you uncomprehendingly, or be shocked, as if you were saying to her something 'improper,' or answer flippantly: 'Oh, yes; I know

all that.'

But what good does it do her?-when she lies in bed till ten o' the clock, and sits up till any hour the next morning; eats all manner of food at all manner of irregular intervals; is horrified at leaving her bedroom window two inches open, or at being caught in a slight shower; yet will cower all day over the fire in

a high woollen dress, and put on a low muslin one in the evening. When she wears all winter thin boots, gossamer stockings, a gown open at the chest and arms, and a loose mantle that every wind blows under, yet wonders that she always has a cold!—and weighs herself down in summer-time with four petticoats heaped one over the other, yet is quite astonished that she gets hot and tired so soon! Truly, any sensible, old-fashioned body, who knows how much the health, happiness, and general wellbeing of this generationand, alas! not this generation alone-depend upon these charming, lovable, fascinating young fools, cannot fail to be aggravated' by them every day.

However humiliating the fact may be to those poetical theorists who, in spite of all the laws of nature, wish to make the soul entirely independent of the body-forgetting that if so, its temporary probation in the body at all would have been quite unnecessary-I repeat there can be no really sanitary state of mind without a sane condition of body; and that one of the first requisites of happiness is good health. But as this is not meant to be an essay on domestic hygiene, I had better here leave the subject.

Its corresponding phase opens a gate of misery so wide that one almost shrinks from entering it. Infinite, past human counting or judging, are the causes of mental unhappiness. Many of them spring from a real foundation, of sorrows varied beyond all measuring or reasoning upon: of these, I do not attempt to speak, for words would be idle and presumptuous; I only speak of that frame of mind-sometimes left behind by a great trouble, sometimes arising from troubles purely imaginary-which is called 'an unhappy disposition.'

Its root of pain is manifold; but, with women, undoubtedly can be oftenest traced to something connected with the affections: not merely the passion called par excellence love, but the entire range of personal sympathies and attachments, out of which we draw the sweetness and bitterness of the best part of our lives. If otherwise-if, as the phrase goes, an individual happens to have 'more head than heart,' she may be a very clever agreeable personage, but she is not properly a woman-not the creature who, with all her imperfections, is nearer to heaven than man, in one particular-she loves much.' And loving is so frequently identical with suffering, either with or for or from the object beloved, that we need not go further to find the cause of the many anxious, soured faces, and irritable tempers, that we meet with among women.

Charity cannot too deeply or too frequently call to mind how very difficult it is to be good, or amiable, or even commonly agreeable, when one is unhappy. I do not think this fact is enough recognised by those very worthy people who take such a world of pains to make other people virtuous, and so very little to make them happy. They sow good seed, are everlastingly weeding and watering, give it every care and advantage under the sun-except sunshine-and then they wonder that it does not flower!

One may see many a young woman who has, outwardly speaking, 'everything she can possibly want,' absolutely withering in the atmosphere of a loveless home, exposed to those small ill-humours by which people mean no harm-only do it; chilled by reserve, wounded by neglect, or worried by anxiety over some thoughtless one who might so easily have spared her it all; safe from either misfortune or ill-treatment, yet harassed daily by petty pains and unconscious cruelties, which a stranger might laugh at; and she laughs herself when she counts them up, they are so very small-yet they are there.

I can bear anything,' said to me a woman, no longer very young or very fascinating, or particularly clever, who had gone through seas of sorrow, yet whose blue

Among the many secondary influences which can be employed either by or upon a naturally anxious or morbid temperament, there is none so ready to hand, or so wholesome, as one often referred to in the course of these pages, constant employment. A very large number of women, particularly young women, are by nature constituted so exceedingly restless of mind, or with such a strong tendency to nervous depression, that they can by no possibility keep themselves in a state of even tolerable cheerfulness, except by being continually occupied. At what, matters little: even apparently useless work is far better for them than no work at all. To such I cannot too strongly recommend the case of

Honest John Tomkins the hedger and ditcher, Who, though he was poor, didn't want to be richer, but always managed to keep in a state of sublime content and superabundant gaiety; and how?

He always had something or other to do,
If not for himself-for his neighbour.

And that work for our neighbour is perhaps the most useful and satisfactory of the two, because it takes us out of ourselves; which, to a person who has not a happy self to rest in, is one good thing achieved; this, quite apart from the abstract question of benevolence, or the notion of keeping a balance-sheet with heaven for work done to our fellow-creaturescertainly a very fruitless recipe for happiness.

The sufferer, on waking in the morning-that cruel moment when any incurable pain wakes up too sharply, so sharply! and the burden of a monotonous life falls down upon us, or rises like a dead blank wall before us, making us turn round on the pillow longing for another night, instead of an insupportable day— should rouse herself with the thought: 'Now, what have I got to do to-day?' (Mark, not to enjoy or to suffer, only to do.) She should never lie down at night without counting up, with a resolute, uncompromising, unexcusing veracity, 'How much have I done to-day?' 'I can't be happy,' she may ponder wearily; "tis useless trying-so we'll not think about it; but how much have I done-how much can I do to-morrow?' And if she has strength steadily to fulfil this manner of life, it will be strange if, some day, the faint, involuntary thrill that we call feeling happy-something like that with which we stop to see a daisy at our feet in January-does not come and startle into hope the poor wondering heart.

Another element of happiness, incalculable in its influence over those of sensitive and delicate physical organisation, is Order. Any one who has just quitted a disorderly household, where the rooms are untidy and littery,' where meals take place at any hour and in any fashion, where there is a general atmosphere of noise, confusion, and irregularity of doing things at all times and seasons, or not doing anything in particular all day over; who, emerging from this, drops into a quiet, busy, regular family, where each has an appointed work, and does it; where the day moves on smoothly, subdivided by proper seasons of labour, leisure, food, and sleep-oh, what a Paradise it seems! How the restless or anxious spirit nestles down in it, and almost without volition, falls into its cheerful round, recovering tone, and calm, and strength.

Order is Heaven's first law,

and a mind without order can by no possibility be either a healthy or a happy mind. Therefore, beyond all sentimental sympathy, or contemptuous blame, should be impressed upon all women inclined to melancholy, or weighed down with any irremediable grief, this simple advice-to make their daily round of life as harmoniously methodical as they possibly can; leaving no odd hours, scarcely an odd ten minutes, to

be idle and dreary in; and by means of orderly arranged, light, airy rooms, neat dress, and every pleasant external influence that is attainable, to leave untried none of these secondary means which are in the power of every one of us, for our own benefit or that of others, and the importance of which we never know until we have proved them.

There is another maxim-easy to give, and hard to practise-Accustom yourself always to look at the bright side of things, and never make a fuss about trifles. It is pitiful to see what mere nothings some women will worry and fret over-lamenting as much over an ill-made gown as others do over a lost fortune; how some people we can always depend upon for making the best, instead of the worst, of whatever happens, thus lessening our anxieties for themselves in their troubles; and oh! how infinitely comforting when we bring to them any of our own, assured that if any one can help us, they can and will; while others we never think of burdening with our cares at all, any more than we would think of putting a butterfly in harness.

The disposition which can bear trouble; which, while passing over the lesser annoyances of life, as unworthy to be measured in life's whole sum, can yet meet real affliction steadily, struggle with it while resistance is possible; conquered, sit down patiently, and let the storms sweep over; and on their passing, if they pass, rise up, and go on its way, looking up to that region of blue calm which is never long invisible to the pure of heart-this is the blessedest possession that any woman can have. Better than a house full of silver and gold, better than beauty, or high fortunes, or prosperous and satisfied love.

While, on the other hand, of all characters not radically bad, there is none more useless to herself and everybody else, who inflicts more pain, anxiety, and gloom on those around her, than the one who is deprecatingly described as being 'of an unhappy temperament.' You may know her at once by her dull or vinegar aspect, her fidgety ways, her proneness to take the hard or ill-natured view of things and people. Possibly she is unmarried, and her mocking acquaintance insult womanhood by setting down that as the cause of her disagreeableness. Most wicked libel! There never was an unhappy old maid yet who would not have been equally unhappy as a wife-and more guilty, for she would have made two people miserable instead of one. It needs only to count up all the unhappy women one knows-women whom one would not change lots with for the riches of the Queen of Sheba-to see that most of them are those whom fate has apparently loaded with benefits, love, home, ease, luxury, leisure, and denied only the vague fine something, as indescribable as it is unattainable, the capacity to enjoy them all.

Unfortunate ones! You see by their countenances that they never know what it is to enjoy. That thrill of thankful gladness, oftenest caused by little things -a lovely bit of nature, a holiday after long toil, a sudden piece of good news, an unexpected face, or a letter that warms one's inmost heart-to them is altogether incomprehensible. To hear one of them, in her rampant phase, you would suppose the whole machinery of the universe, down even to the weather, was in league against her small individuality; that everything everybody did, or said, or thought was with one sole purpose-her personal injury. And when she sinks to the melancholy mood, though your heart may bleed for her, aware how horribly real are her selfcreated sufferings, still your tenderness sits uneasily, more as a duty than a pleasure, and you often feel, and are shocked at feeling, that her presence acts upon you like the proverbial wet-blanket, and her absence gives you an involuntary sense of relief.

For, let us pity the unhappy ever so lovingly and

sincerely, and strive with all our power to lift them out of their grief, when they hug it, and refuse to be lifted out of it, patience sometimes fails. Human life is so full of pain, that once past the youthful delusion that a sad countenance is interesting, and an incurable woe the most delightful thing possible, the mind instinctively turns where it can get rest, and cheer, and sunshine. And the friend who can bring to it the largest portion of these, is, of a natural necessity, the most useful, the most welcome, and the most dear.

The happy woman'-in this our world, which is apparently meant to be the road to perfection, never its goal-you will find too few specimens to be ever likely to mistake her. But you will recognise her presence the moment she crosses your path. Not by her extreme liveliness-lively people are rarely either happy or able to diffuse happiness; but by a sense of brightness and cheerfulness that enters with her as an evening sunbeam across your parlour wall. Like the fairy Order in the nursery-tale, she takes up the tangled threads of your mind, and reduces them to regularity, till you distinguish a clear pattern through the ugly maze. She may be neither handsome, nor clever, nor entertaining, yet somehow she makes you feel comfortable,' because she is so comfortable herself. She shames you out of your complainings, for she makes none. Yet mayhap, since it is the divine law that we should all, like our Master, be made perfect through suffering,' you are fully aware that she has had far more sorrow than ever you had; that her daily path, had you trodden it, would be to you as gloomy and full of pitfalls as to her it is safe and bright. She may have even less than the medium lot of earthly blessings, yet all she has she enjoys to the full, and it is so pleasant to see any one enjoy! Her sorrows she neither denies nor escapes; they come to her naturally and wholesomely, and passing over, leave her full of compassion for all who may have to endure the

same.

Thus, whatever her fate may be-married or single, rich or poor, in health or sickness-though a cheerful spirit has twice as much chance of health as a melancholy one-she will be all her days a living justification of the ways of Providence, who makes the light as well as the darkness, nay, makes the light out of the darkness-a help and a peacemaker to her fellow-creatures, because she is at peace in herself; undoubtedly, as is plain to all, a Happy Woman.

ETYMOLOGY OF NAMES OF PLACES.

It might give us a more intelligent idea of many places in our native country, if we knew the meaning of certain syllables, mostly Celtic, which form part of their names. Thus, Aber, as in Aberconway, Aberdeen, means the mouth of a river. [Berwick and Perth are believed to be Aberwick and Abertay.] Auch, as in Auchinleck, is a field. Ard, as in Ardagh, is a height. Bal, as in Balgowan and Ballymena, is a village. Ben is a hill. By or bye (Danish), as in Tenby, Rugby, is a small town or settlement. Car and Caer, as in Carstairs, Caernarvon, mean a fort [connected with cathedra, a seat or chair]. Combe, as in Nettlecombe, Cwmneath, is a lengthy hollow. Craig, as in Craigphadrig and Carrickfergus, is a rock. Drum, as in Drumcondra, Drummore, is a ridge. Dun, a fortified hill. Ey (Danish), as in Anglesey, Chelsea, is an island. Glass, as in Glasgow, is green. Ham, a dwelling or small town. Hurst, a wood. Hope, as in Wallop [Wellhope]. Trollop [Troll-hope], is a hollow in the side of a hill. Innis and Inch, an island. Inver, the mouth of a small stream joining a larger. Ken, the head, usually applied to a place at the head of a lake, as in Kenmore, or the top of a height, as in Kinnaird. Kil, a cell or burial-place. Places bearing names with this syllable were mostly the hermitages of early Christian saints. Knock and Law both mean a hill. Lin, a pool [Roslin, the promontory at the pool]. More, great [Drummore, the great ridge]. Ness,

a headland [same word as nose]. Rath, a fort [Rathdrum, Logierait, Cape Wrath, are examples]. Ross, a promontory. Stade (Anglo-Saxon), a town or dwelling. Stowe and Stock (Danish), a dwelling-place. street or road. Strat, a (Danish), a bay or a bend in a river; secondarily, a Thorpe (Anglo-Saxon), a village. Wick harbour. Worth (Anglo-Saxon), a village.-Chiefly from Sullivan's Dictionary of Derivations, Dublin, 1855-a remarkably accurate and intelligent little book.

And they are bare,

Chestnut and sycamore, gaunt and gray,
Overhead, o'er the dead motionless clay

Bend down silently, thinking her sleeping.
Through the long avenue echoes the tread
Of the crowd, thronging
After the dead,

Living, they knew not as I did know,
Yet, alas! as they pass, I may not go

To mingle my woe with their sadness.
Loveliest, proudest, and gayest of all
Those haughty rich ones

That swarmed in the hall.

Yet for me, lowly, unheeded, unknown,
She, apart bent her heart down from its throne,
To fill me with joy-and with madness.

Like some grand meteor that startles the night
With its great glory

Transcendently bright,

So on my soul-night a moment she shone,
Sudden light, darker night for she was gone,

Gone! Be still, heart, and cease this wild beating. Yet, I shall follow where They dare not go,

Ha! those same mourners

Solemn and slow.

For it is creeping up, up to my heart,

Rampant pain, through each vein leaps like a dart.
Ah! new pain adds new joy to our meeting.

Now is that wintry sky shut from my sight,
All, all is darkness
Deeper than night.

Here I no longer stay, mourning alone;
Earth, farewell. Hush that bell; make no sad moan:
Two souls are united in paradise.

THE LAUGHING HYENA.

J. H. B.

OF POPULAR

LITERATURE

No. 204.

HAPPINESS AND HEALTH.

A HALE gentleman of ninety-four had one evening contributed largely to the entertainment of a social party by his performances on the violin. After his departure, the remainder of the company set themselves to speculating on the causes of the good health and soundness of condition which he continued to enjoy at so advanced an age. After many theories had been discussed, one gentleman, who happened to be a near relative of the venerable violinist, told his companions that he believed they were all wrong-upon good grounds of observation, it was his conviction that Mr owed his singular length of days and good health to nothing else than his playing on the violin! He had been a player on that instrument for the last seventy-eight years, had during that time played more or less every day, enjoyed it keenly, made others happy by his strains, and derived happiness from seeing them happy: lively music had been the very salt of life to him-he scarcely ever knew what it was to be dull or in low spirits. As there was no other special circumstance in his condition, it became apparent that Mr had reached an unusual age, in unbroken health and strength, solely by his playing on the fiddle!' The company was startled at first, but, after a little reflection, they fully admitted that, in all probability, the right explanation had been given.

And it undoubtedly was So. It is now quite settled amongst physiologists, that cheerfulness sustains, and care depresses health, and that a certain amount of happy sensations is necessary to the prolongation of life. The doctrine works out its verity in a striking manner wherever there are large bodies of men concerned, as in military or naval expeditions. That officer, it is acknowledged, is sure to have the healthiest regiment or ship's crew who best can sustain their cheerfulness or keep them in merriment; and for this reason it becomes a matter of serious concern to encourage the men in the getting up of plays and sports among themselves. This was done with the best effects by Captain Parry during his compulsory wintering in the Arctic regions. We will, on the same grounds, pledge any reputation we may have for wisdom to the conclusion that, in two families of young children, brought up in circumstances other wise identical, and starting with equal advantages in point of constitution, that will be the healthiest, and come to be the most satisfactory set of men and women, which has been in the hands of parents of cheerful and kindly dispositions; which has been most encouraged under decent bounds, to laugh, to

PRICE 1d.

play, to dance, to sing; has been least frowned at, awed down, and frightened; which, in short, has been made the happiest.

Health all admit to be necessary to happiness. It is a commonplace of little direct value to mankind. Happiness is one of the pre-requisites of health-there is an apothegm comparatively new, and of great value. Yes, it is so in this world, that without a fair measure of happiness-that is, a tolerably continuous flow of easy, cheerful, and agreeable sensations—there can be no consistent good health, and, consequently, no such thing as long life. When a friend, therefore, wishes one 'long life, health, and happiness,' he uses a needlessly long formula. If he were to wish us happiness only, he would be doing all that could be desired in the case.

As the world now is, we certainly see in it a vast amount of unhappiness-the unhappiness which arises from want of physical necessaries-the unhappiness arising from the cares connected with social responsibilities-the unhappiness arising from moral aberrations, from misapplied and mistreated affections, from the infinite variety of tyrannies and cruelties we exercise towards each other. Most sad is the scene consequently presented even in the most advanced communities. Yet this comfort is seen through all— knowledge has a manifest control over the matter, by the improved conditions, the better regulations, the more equable distribution of means, which it introduces, as well as by the control which it gives us severally over our various emotions; and knowledge we know to be a power altogether unlimited. We may therefore fairly expect that happiness will be extended even till it overspreads all. Such appears to have been the constitution of humanity. While the humbler animals were as well at the beginning as they could be, man was made to start with only great potentialities; the perfection of his state in the world was only to be reached through the use of his reasonable mind working out the best conditions for itself.

There is little immediate good in contemplating the matter in this general point of view. Enough for practical purposes that we see the direct bearing of happiness upon health, and consequently, it may be said, on the highest secular interests of society. This brings us at once to the duty we are under towards our fellow-creatures with regard to what we can do for their happiness.

If it be true-and there seems no reason to doubt it that every one of us, however humble or insignificant, has some influence over the sensations and experiences of some one else-it may be as a member of a household, or as one of many in a workshop, or