seventy times seventh offence.  There is, however, no little want of reason in the ordinary acceptation of the term, ‘loving forgiveness.’  He must be a very morose man who does not forgive a personal injury, especially when there has been an expression of repentance for it; but there are offences which, quite independently of their personal sting, manifest in the offender a cruel or bad heart, and ‘loving forgiveness’ is in that case no more to be expected than that we should take a serpent who has already stung us to our bosom.  ‘It is his nature to,’ as the poet expresses it, and if that serpent is my relative it is my misfortune, and by no means impresses me with a sense of obligation.  Indeed, in the case of an offensive relation, so far from his having any claim to my consideration, it seems to me I have a very substantial grievance in the fact of his existence, and that he owes me reparation for it.

It is perhaps from a natural reaction, and is a sort of unconscious protest against the preposterous claims of kinship, that our connections by marriage are so freely criticised, and, to say truth, held in contempt.  No one enjoins us to love our wife’s relations, indeed, our own kindred are generally dead against them, and especially against her mother, to whom the poor woman very naturally clings.  This is as unreasonable in the way of prejudice, as the other line of conduct is in the way of favouritism.  It is, in short, my humble opinion that, if everyone stood upon his or her own merits, and was treated accordingly, this world of ours would be the better for it; and of this I am quite sure—­it would have fewer disagreeable people in it.  I am neither so patriotic nor so thorough-going as the American citizen, who, during the late Civil War, came to President Lincoln, and nobly offered to sacrifice on the altar of freedom ’all his able-bodied relations;’ but I think that most of us would be benefited if they were weeded out a bit.

INVALID LITERATURE.

It has always struck me as a breach of faith in Charles Lamb to have published the fact that dear, ‘rigorous’ Mrs. Battle’s favourite suit was Hearts:  and is in my eyes, notwithstanding Mr. Carlyle’s posthumous outburst, the only blot on his character.  His own confession, though tendered with a blush, that there is such a thing as sick whist stands on totally different grounds; it is not a relaxation of principle, but an acknowledgment of a weakness common to human nature.  One of the most advanced thinkers and men of science of our time has frankly admitted that his theological views are considerably modified by the state of his health; and if one’s ideas on futurity are thus affected, it is no wonder that things of this world wear a different appearance when viewed from a sick bed.  It is not difficult to imagine that whist, for example, played on the counterpane by three good Samaritans, to while away the hours for an afflicted friend, differs from the game when played on a club card-table.  Common humanity prevents our saying what we think of the play of an invalid who may be enjoying his last rubber; and if the ace of trumps is found under his pillow, we only smile and hope it will not occur again.