he had certainly no taste for wretchedness; though he was destitute of pleasure, pleasure was the thing he most desired. From his early childhood, his love of gratification was so great, that whenever an opportunity offered he never failed to avail himself of it, whether to do so were right or wrong, in season or out of season, he would deny himself no enjoyment then; by which means he is denied every enjoyment now. So improvident are the indulgent, even in scorning the very things that are most valued by them!

Smith was apprenticed to an honest trade, and he wanted not ability to become more than ordinarily expert in it. But whenever his master's back was turned, he thought it more agreeable to gossip over the fire with his fellow apprentices, to crack a pocket full of nuts, to play a game of whist, to read a dirty novel, or even to sit resting his head on his hands, over the bench, than to go on with his work. Thus, at the end of seven years, he left his master with an imperfect knowledge of his business, an indifferent character, and, worse than all, desultory and idle habits.

Now, if he had but so far denied himself while he was an apprentice, as to have applied diligently to his business, he might have earned money enough as a journeyman to procure him all those comforts and enjoyments of which he was so fond. But instead of this, he was obliged to get work at low wages, when and where he could; so that

he was poor, though he hated poverty, and he that was so fond of dainty fare had many a scanty meal.

Smith was fond of company, and had amongst his other partialities, a strong love of praise. He would not deny himself, when any opportunity offered, the pitiful pleasure of fishing for a compliment, and of saying those little things to his own advantage, which always proved in fact to be to his own disadvantage. Thus, amongst the most severe denials to which his want of self-denial exposed him, were the perpetual mortifications which vanity is sure to encounter. Instead of being admired, Smith was ridiculed and pitied by his most discerning acquaintance; and as he was poor, they took no pains to conceal their contempt.

Having, as before hinted, read a great many worthless novels during his apprenticeship, his indolent mind was often occupied in the injurious habit of castle building. There was no handsome and gallant chevalier in old romance, no elegant and accomplished hero of modern tale, with whom this meagre, thread bare, and dirty journeyman, would not at times identify himself; "Who knows," he would often think, "but I may one day happen of good luck: some do, and why should not I?" Those persons have always the highest expectations from luck who are least disposed to make use of their cunning. The

many hours in every week that poor Smith sat dreaming over his hopes and his wishes for prosperity, would have done a great deal well employed, to help him out of adversity. But it was much easier, he thought, to sit still and wish for wealth and honor, than to work hard for competence and credit. At any rate, he would not, or, as he thought, he could not deny himself this unprofitable amusement. Besides, he knew very well that the utmost diligence in his business would do no more than enable him to live with credit and comfort in his present rank of life; and that did not at all meet the ideas of one who was so familiar with great names, and high life, as are all readers of fiction; so he preferred to wait for the incalculably small chances of fortune, rather than to accept the certain rewards of industry. He thought the outside of a palace better than the inside of a cottage.

Every one who loves pleasure, knows how indispensable health is to the enjoyment of it; yet those who most value their ease, are generally the least careful in preserving it. Little acts of indulgence commonly introduce strong habits of intemperance. Thus Smith quickly lost one of the great advantages of honest poverty, health. Surely it must have been a great denial to one who was so fond of pleasure, to be always in pain! He had better have denied

himself.

It would not have been an easy thing to have persuaded Smith in his youth, to commence a life of austerity, and submit to the rigors of a monastic rule. Yet, it may well be questioned whether the hardships, denials, and mortifications to which his want of self-denial exposed him, were not less tolerable than those he would in that case have endured. For is not abstinence to be preferred to hunger? penance to pain ? retirement to obscurity? concealment to contempt? Is there then, much to choose between the wretched Smith in his ruinous tenement, and a monk in the cloisters of La Trappe ?

But how many people live in comfort and credit, who are yet little practised in the art of self-denial. If indulgence always reduced one to wretchedness and contempt, there would be nothing to be said for it. Nor is there any thing to be said for it, although the degrees of outward misery to which it subjects individuals are various. It is truly remarked by Dr. Johnson, that "in proportion as we consult our ease, we part from happiness;" yes, in exact proportion. It is not necessary to be dirty, ragged, hungry, solitary and despised, in order to be uncomfortable. A man, reclining on the softest couch, in the most splendid apartments in the kingdom, surrounded with obsequious attendants, and pampered with every delicacy, may be pretty nearly as devoid of comfort as poor Smith in his

miserable house. Few persons are more uneasy than they who are quite at ease.

If then, the indulgent and pleasure loving had but a little more forethought and consideration, they would become self-denying, out of mere selfishness; from a conviction that round about is the nearest way to happiness.

How happy are they who, from better motives than their own immediate gratification, have learned to take up daily, the light cross; to bring every thought, word, and action, into captivity and holy obedience; and who thus reap the large benefit of present comfort, and satisfaction, with the good hope of an eternal reward!

XXXII.

THE MOTH.

A MILD September evening-twilight already stealing over the landscape, shades yonder sloping cornfield, whence the merry reapers have this day borne away the last sheaf. A party of gleaners have since gathered up the precious fragments. Now all are gone; the harvest moon is up; a low mist rising from the river floats in the valley. There is a gentle stirring amongst the leaves of the tall elm that shades our roof