Mr. Harley was not alone on this morning. There was then and there present a young man, rather tall, and quite handsome, modestly, yet elegantly dressed—(our friend, the doctor, to let you into the secret, dear reader)—who, with a very red face, and in a manner half proud, half fearful, was just making a confidant of the old gentleman—telling him a love-story of his own, in short. The good man seemed greatly interested in this history, badly told as it was; and at its close, he rose, quite hastily for one of his aldermanic proportions, and going up to his visiter, and laying his hand kindly on his shoulder, said, “With all my heart—with all my heart! I will give you my Juliet, and place her fortune in your hands—for I honor and like you, young man.” Ashley, quite overcome, could only stammer out, “Oh, Mr. Harley, my dear sir, how can I ever repay you for this goodness—this great kindness!” “_By never mentioning this little circumstance again!_” replied Mr. Harley, with a roguish twinkle of the eye. “I saw, my dear boy, what a sad condition you were in, and this is A Mere Act of Humanity, I assure you.’” * * * * * KING WITLAF’S DRINKING HORN. BY HENRY W. LONGFELLOW. Witlaf, a king of the Saxons, Ere yet his last he breathed, To the merry monks of Croyland His drinking-horn bequeathed; That whenever they sat at their revels And drank from the golden bowl They might remember the donor, And breathe a prayer for his soul. So sat they once at Christmas, And bade the goblet pass; In their beards the red wine glistened Like dew-drops in the grass. They drank to the soul of Witlaf, They drank to Christ the Lord, And to each of the Twelve Apostles, Who had preached his holy word. They drank to the Saints and Martyrs Of the dismal days of yore, And as soon as the horn was empty, They remembered one Saint more. And the Reader droned from the pulpit, Like the murmur of many bees, The legend of good Saint Guthlac, And Saint Basil’s homilies; Till the great bells of the convent, From their prison in the tower, Guthlac and Bartholomæus, Proclaimed the midnight hour. And the Yule-log cracked in the chimney, And the Abbot bowed his head, And the flamelets flapped and flickered, But the Abbot was stark and dead! Yet still in his pallid fingers He clutched the golden bowl, In which, like a pearl dissolving, Had sunk and dissolved his soul. But not for this their revels The jovial monks forbore, For they cried, “Fill high the goblet! We must drink to one Saint more!” * * * * * STANZAS: TO A FRIEND, WHO COMPLAINED OF WINTER AS A SEASON OF ENDURANCE.