and eternity; only the comparison falls far short of the truth. They who, devoted to the pleasures of this life, take no care to ensure an entrance into that rest, act infinitely more unwisely than you would have done, if, for the sake of enjoying that one day's recreation, you had left your house to be overrun with robbers, or destroyed by fire; knowing that upon your return at night, you would have no shelter, no home, no father to receive you.

But is it true, that our youthful hopes are so fallacious, that there are so many drawbacks to our pleasure, and that there is so large a mixture of pain? What does this teach us?-first, not to give life a wrong name: after all, it is not a day of pleasure, but a day of business. We came into life not to please ourselves, but to do the will of Him that sent us; and especially, "to work out our salvation with fear and trembling." Again, we should learn hereby "not to set our affections on things below:" it is to teach us this lesson, which we are slow to learn, that so many trials are allotted us. Our Heavenly Father does not willingly afflict and disappoint us. He does it in mercy, to wean us from the world to which we cling. We should also learn by the disappointments attending our schemes, not to desire to order our own lot in life; since we cannot foresee how they will succeed, nor what will most promote our welfare. Let us leave it to Him,

who sees the end from the beginning, and who will then cause "all things to work together for our good." Above all, let us learn to care less for the things of time, and more for those of eternity. Do not our years pass like "a tale that is told?” “Let us therefore fear, lest a promise being given us of entering into His rest, any of us should seem to come short of it."

Thus grand-papa concluded his discourse; which, thinking it might prove instructive to others as well as to ourselves, I have, as I promised, transcribed for the perusal of the reader.

III.

LUCY'S WISHES.

Lucy had been standing one afternoon for nearly an hour at the parlor window, watching the carriages and passengers in the street. Idleness ever begets discontent; but instead of laying the blame upon herself, she felt disposed to complain of her condition. Almost every stranger that passed, she concluded was in happier circumstances than herself. She observed stages and carriages of various kinds, driving up to the great inn on the other side of the way. She watched the passengers as they alighted and set off again;

wondered who they were, whence they came, whither they were going, and envied them because they were not staying at home. A travelling chaise, with ladies in pretty riding dresses, stopped to change horses. Ah, thought she, how happy they are! going some delightful journey— hundreds of miles perhaps, and to see thousands of curiosities: or to live at some elegant country seat: at any rate they are not staying at home like me. How long have I been confined to this dull town, and this one house! She then cast a forlorn glance around the room, every object of which had been familiar to her from her infancy. Then looking over to her opposite neighbors, she saw a blazing fire, and the family seated round it. How comfortable they are! thought she; so cheerful, so sociable: telling some interesting story, perhaps; not all alone in a dull room like

me!

When it grew too dark to see distinctly what was passing in the street, Lucy slowly moved from the window, and seated herself by the fire; where, fixing her eyes upon the red cinders, she fell into a deep revery; and began to consider what situation she would choose for herself, if she might but change her condition. Her imagination still followed the travelling party she had seen stop at the inn; and she first thought she should like to be a companion to those ladies; to read to them, walk with them, and attend them wherever they went.

"But how foolish!" thought she; "while I am wishing, why not wish myself one of the ladies themselves? Yes, yes, a rich heiress, very handsome, fortune at my own disposal; a thousand a.yearno, five;—or suppose ten thousand a year. Should my father and mother be alive? perhaps they would not allow me to travel and do as I pleased;so they should have been dead some years, and I would have a very agreeable young person for a companion. But poor papa and mamma!” thought Lucy, "no no, they should not be dead then; but still I should have the fortune in my own hands, and do just what I pleased with it. And I would be an only child, and not have any brothers or sisters to tease me." She next proceeded to settle the number of her servants, the color of her carriages and liveries; in what counties she would have her country seats, and in what square her town house: till the number of her wants, and the splendor of her establishments, increased so surprisingly, that she began to fear her means would be insufficient, and she found it expedient at once to increase her income from ten to twenty thousand a year.

Just as Lucy had arrived at this conclusion, her mother entered the room, and put a stop to her meditations. She was beginning to converse with her daughter about the book they had been reading together in the morning: but Lucy, finding that subject very dry in comparison with her late brilliant speculations, soon interrupted it, by re

lating as much as she thought proper of what had been just passing in her mind. Her mother, when she had finished, endeavored to prove that she would probably not be at all happier for such a change of circumstances. Lucy knew not what to say to her representations; yet she did not feel convinced, and said, "Well, then, mamma, if wishing were of any use, and if you were exactly in my place, what would you wish for?-What is the happiest situation in all the world that you can think of?"

"If wishing were of any use then," said her mother, "I might, in the first place, wish to be about that age when the dangers of infancy and the follies of childhood are past; but when the opportunities and advantages of youth are yet to come. I would not wish to be grown up, because then the character is fixed; and I should lose the unspeakable advantage of having it yet in my power to form a good one. I might also wish for a sound, vigorous constitution. With regard to personal beauty, as there are some disadvantages connected with it, and as many who do not possess it make greater proficiency in the things most important to happiness than those who do, I would not wish about it; but make up my mind to be contented with whatever external appearance I happened to have. I should certainly wish to have kind parents; not such as would indulge my follies and spoil my temper; but parents able and