It is very fair that the busy man should be at ease at last. It is often the object for which he works. Neither can it be allowed that there is any absolute claim upon the wealthy to exert themselves for the good of the community. Wealth must be enjoyed as the possessor pleases, or it is no longer wealth, and one of the objects of industry is taken away. But it would be of vast importance—both to the wealthy idle themselves and to the community—if their tastes could oftener be directed to some beneficial employment within the range of their abilities and influence. It is a shame to those who are entirely at their own disposal, that almost all the general good that is done in the world is done by those who are already overworked. It might rather be expected that the affluent, who have no particular business of their own to attend to, should devote themselves to the general good. This is the more particularly to be expected, when we observe the worse than trifles upon which idle opulence generally employs itself. If actual vice be avoided, the most contemptible frivolities and paltry amusements are sought after, for the purpose of—disgraceful word!—_killing time_. Sometimes we find the universal necessity of doing something, taking a good direction, or one at least rather on goodness’ side. The female part of the affluent world are often found to be actively benevolent; and nothing can be more laudable. But the ells of idle humanity, that every day walk the street in vain, are beyond all mensuration. Now, I am convinced that if these leisurely persons only once fell into the way of employing themselves for some good end, they would find themselves far more comfortable than they are at present. They would suddenly feel the inspiration of a worthy purpose of existence. They would feel the self-importance of active exertion—the majesty of industry; that lofty feeling which even the hard-working housewife feels in increased proportion amidst the sloperies of a washing Saturday, and which gives to the early riser his right to taunt and look down upon all the recumbent part of mankind. The _gentlemen_ must think of it. They must up and be doing. It is, I repeat, a disgrace to them, in this universally busy scene, to let all the laurels of charity and kindness be carried away by those who have enough ado to obtain their own subsistence. MY NATIVE BAY. My native bay is calm and bright, As e’er it was of yore When, in the days of hope and love, I stood upon its shore; The sky is glowing, soft, and blue, As once in youth it smiled, When summer seas and summer skies Where always bright and mild. The sky—how oft hath darkness dwelt, Since then, upon its breast; The sea—how oft have tempests broke Its gentle dream of rest! So oft hath darker woe come o’er Calm self-enjoying thought; And passion’s storms a wilder scene Within my bosom wrought.