with this idea of a good aunt. We sometimes
hear of children who never knew father nor
mother; but where is the child who never
knew an aunt? When the father and mother
disappear and leave the poor infant to the mercy
of the world, who is it that takes the little waif
in, and feeds and clothes it, and sends it to
school? "Who? The aunt. The good kind
tender-hearted soul, who, perhaps, has been
passed over in life, who has toiled hard, who has
suffered much, who, at any rate, has never
tasted the joys of maternity, who has certainly
never incurred its vexations. It is really
wonderful, under such circumstances, that these
women should retain so much humanity, that
the fire of love should not have been quenched
in their lonely hearts, that the milk of human
kindness should not have dried up in their
breasts long ago. We should be thankful to
Heaven for these maiden aunts of ours: they
are a legion of angels upon earth, for ever
hovering about us, to pity and to succour.

If the natural history of aunts were faithfully
and accurately followed out, I am inclined to
think that the aunts of whom I speak would be
found to be a distinct species of the genus.
There are points of resemblance in all aunts of
this class, which are not to be observed in
persons who stand to society in other relations.
There are many varieties of mothers; some
good, some bad, some indifferent; there are also
many varieties of fathers, brothers, sisters, and
uncles. There is the kind and indulgent father;
but quite as often there is the harsh and
tyrannical father. There is the affectionate brother
and the jealous brother; the loving sister and
the spiteful sister. Then, as to the uncle (who
should be a counterpart of the aunt in everything,
being the masculine of the species), is it
not proverbial that while some of them poke
their nephews in the ribs, call them sly dogs,
and give them no end of bank-notes because
they wouldn't sell their uncles' pictures, there
are others, cruel, bloodthirsty—rapacious uncles,
who take their nephews into dark woods and
leave them to die of hunger. But our aunts!—
our aunts are always good. Who ever heard of
a wicked aunt?

Be it understood, however, that I do not
reckon among my bright particular aunts the
sister of your father or mother, who marries
and has children of her own; nor the lady
whom your uncle may take to himself with the
same common-place result. We don't think of
her, be she the one or the other, in the true
aunt sense. Do you ever call her " aunty,"
and go and sit in her lap, and put your arms
round her neck? Answer me that. No, no.
She is Aunt—mark how cold the word is without
the endearing diminutive!—Aunt Charles
or Aunt James, with lots of little buckets of
her own dipping into the well of her affections;
and she has not a drop for you. Dare to sit in
her lap, and she will push you rudely and coldly
away. Venture to put your arm round her
neck, and she will probably stand upon her
propriety.

The person whom you call "aunty dear" is
quite another order of being. She is your
father's sister, or your mother's sister—
occasionally the wife of your uncle; but, in this
last case, she is only "aunty dear" when she
has no children of her own. As to her natural
disposition: she is born to love and to be loved
—born to deny herself, to suffer patiently, to toil
and spin, not for herself, but for others—born,
above all, to rear the weakly sheep, and to
rescue the black ones who go astray.

These dear, good aunts of ours, so lovable
in their brown fronts (with that single band
of black velvet across their foreheads), in
their plain prim caps and clock-cases of black
silk, are not of that order of Samaritans who
wait until their Christian duties are forced
upon them. They meet the troubles of their
nephews and nieces more than half way.
They are interested in us before we come into
the world, and, when we do make our début,
they are the first to applaud us. They are
also the first to be troubled with us. Our
mothers have all the honour and glory of
presenting us to the world. We are the finest
children that ever were seen, and our parents
have all the credit; but we are, mayhap, the
most fractious brats that ever were born, and
aunty dear has all the trouble of hushing us to
sleep and sitting up half the night to pat us on
the back and give us corrective waters. It is
aunty dear who stands godmother, and presents
us with the silver mug or the silver spoon. It;
is aunty dear who, when we are one too many,
pays for our schooling; it is aunty dear who
invites us to pass the holidays with her, when
our loving parents are glad to be rid of us, and
takes that opportunity of rigging us out with a
new suit of clothes. It is aunty dear who stands
between us and many a well-deserved whipping,
and it is the same good soul who takes the
trouble to sing old ballads to us, and tell us
old-world legends, which often have a great share
in refining our tastes and forming our characters.
If it had not been for a dear old aunty, the name
of Walter Scott might not now be a household
word throughout the world.

Why should aunty take all this interest in us?
and put herself to all this trouble on our behalf?
We are not hers; we shall not be mentioned as
being the very image of her, or as doing her
credit. It is more than likely, too, that our
mother, by getting a husband, while aunty has
been condemned to lonely celibacy, has given
her cause for jealousy; that, on the wedding-day,
while the bride was being arrayed in orange-
blossom and white lace, the destined auuty was
down in the kitchen tying up fowls with white
ribbon for the déjeûner à la fourchette. Why
does she forgive and forget all this and love us
so tenderly and so unselfishly? I have a theory
about this, and I believe I am right in the main.
I believe that women are never naturally vain,
heartless, and unloving. They are made so.
Let a woman alone with her own heart, and in
most cases it will grow greener and warmer
with age. There is no top round to the ladder