lent temper. If "the kingdom of heaven must suffer violence, and if even the violent can only take it by force," how shall the feeble and languid efforts of indolence prevail? Alas, religion was one of the things that poor Eliza was contented to do without. In spite of a pious education, and occasional impressions, she too often excused her neglect of prayer, and other means of grace, by the secret application of her favorite

sentence.

At length a time arrived, long anticipated by her parents, when their circumstances rendered it necessary that Eliza should do something for her own maintenance; and now, notwithstanding all the pains that had been bestowed upon her education, the utmost that could be said of her, in an advertisement drawn up by her disappointed father, was to this effect.

"Wants a situation as governess to the younger children in a private family, or as under teacher in a school, a young person of respectable connexions who is qualified to teach the rudiments of English grammar; to superintend plain work, or to make herself useful in any way that may be required."

How different an account would have been given of Eliza's qualifications, and in how different a sphere might she have moved, if she had not so often thought and said of this attainment, and of that pursuit, I can do without it!

In these humbling circumstances, she amused herself with fruitless wishes for a fortune, in order that she might not be obliged to exert herself; not considering that the same inactive temper which makes a poor person helpless and dependent, renders the rich discontented and miserable.

We cannot stay to detail the subsequent misfortunes of Eliza. It is sufficient to say that a time arrived when she had some practical experience of the virtues of her motto, in a way little desired. Instead of saying, as formerly, I can do without it, she was compelled very often to say-I must do without; and that, not in reference to the luxuries of life, but to some of its most essential wants. How much better it is to say-I can do without it, of a superfluity, than to say-I must do without it, of a comfort! Let those who would avoid all danger of the latter, early enter into the spirit of the former; and let them learn nicely to distinguish between those things which, without any real privation may be done without, and those which cannot be neglected but by the sacrifice of respectability, usefulness, and happiness.

XX.

THE SORE TONGUE.

THERE was a little girl called Fanny, who had the misfortune one day to bite her tongue as she was eating her breakfast. It hurt her so much that she could scarcely help crying; and even when the first smart was over it continued so sore that whenever she spoke it pained her considerably. Finding this to be the case, she said very pitifully to her mother, "Mamma, you can't think how it hurts me when I speak!" "Does it?" replied her mother, "then I'll tell you what I would advise you to do;-resolve all this day to say nothing but what is either necessary or useful; this will give your tongue a fine holyday, and may answer more purposes than one.

Fanny, knowing that she had the character of being somewhat loquacious, could not help laughing at this; and said, "Well, I will try for once; so, mum; I am going to begin now, mamma."

MOTHER. Do so; and whenever you are beginning to speak, be sure you ask yourself whether what you were going to say was likely to be of any use, or whether it was necessary.

FANNY. Yes, yes, I will: but don't talk to me, mamma, for fear:-so saying, she screwed up her lips, and taking her work, sat for about five minutes as still as a mouse. She then looked up,

smiled, and nodded at her mother, as much as to say see how well I can hold my tongue," still screwing her lips very tight for fear she should speak. Soon however she began to feel a great inclination to say something; and was glad to recollect that if she could but think of any thing either useful or necessary, she might speak. Whereupon she endeavored to find something to say that would come within the act. To aid her invention, she looked all round the room:

FANNY. Mamma, don't you think the fire wants stirring? (This question, she thought, savored of both qualifications.)

MOTHER. Not at present, my dear.

Then followed another long silence: for Fanny found it vastly more difficult than she had any previous idea of, to think of any thing useful to talk about; and she knew her mamma would laugh at her if she said what was obviously idle or silly, just now. She was beginning to repent having made such an agreement, when her three elder sisters entered the room. She now thought it quite reasonable, if not absolutely necessary, to tell them of her misfortune, which she did at considerable length, and with many needless digressions; (the usual custom with great talkers) upon which they all laughed; prophesying that her resolution would not last half an hour; and rallying her for telling such a long story with a sore tongue.

Soon after, some ladies called to pay their mother a morning visit. This gave Fanny's tongue such a long rest, that the moment they were gone it seemed irresistibly to resume its wonted functions.

FANNY. What a while old Mrs. W. has had that brown satin pelisse! Really, poor old lady, I am quite tired of seeing her in it!

MOTHER. How is your tongue, Fanny.

FANNY. O, better, mamma, thank you, almost well.

MOTHER. I am sorry for it: I was in hopes it would have been sore enough at least to prevent your making impertinent remarks upon any body all this day.

FANNY. No but really, mamma, is it not an old rubbishing thing?

MOTHER. I don't know, indeed: it is no business of mine; therefore I took no notice of it.

A silence ensued after this: but conversation revived when Caroline, who had stood for some time with her eyes fixed on their opposite neighbor's window, suddenly exclaimed, "I do believe the Jones's are going to have company again to day! the servant has just been lighting the fire in the drawing-room; and there is Miss Jones now gone up to dress: I saw her draw down the blinds in her room this instant." "So she is," said Lucy, looking up: "I never knew such people in my life! they are always having company."