complaints; and wishing she could relieve or assist her. Do you not imagine that in this case, the tone of her voice, the expression of her countenance would have been more gentle and kind and agreeable than yours? And do not you think that these ladies, if they had taken the trouble, could have discerned the difference?

LUCY. I dare say they would have liked her the best.

MOTHER. Doubtless. But suppose instead of this being a single instance, as I would hope it is, suppose you were in the habit of making such impertinent observations, and of forming these uncharitable opinions of every body that came in your way?

Lucy. Then I should get a sharp satirical look, and every body would dislike me.

MOTHER. Yes, as certainly as if you thought aloud.

LUCY. Only that would be rather worse.

MOTHER. In some respects it would be rather better; there would, at least, be something honest in it; instead of that hateful and unsuccessful duplicity, which, while all uncharitableness is indulged within, renders the exterior all friendship and cordiality. And that is but a poor, mean, ungenerous kind of satisfaction at best, Lucy, which arises from the hope that others do not know how vain, how selfish, how censorious

we are.

LUCY. Yes, I know that; but yet

MOTHER. But yet, you mean to say, I suppose, that you cannot exactly think as I do about it: and the reason is, that you have not thought sufficiently upon the subject, nor observed enough of yourself and of others, to enter fully into my ideas. But when you are capable of making more accurate observations on what passes in your own mind, you will find, that our estimation of those around us is not so much formed upon their outward actions, nor their common conversation, as upon those slight, involuntary turns of countenance or of expression, which escape them unawares, which betray their inmost thoughts, and lay their hearts open to our view; and by which, in fact, we decide upon their characters, and regulate the measure of our esteem.

LUCY. Then what is one to do, mother?

MOTHER. Nothing can be plainer: there is but one way for us, Lucy, if we desire the esteem of others. Let our thoughts be always fit to be seen: let them be such as to impart to our countenance, our manners, our conduct, that which is generous, candid, honest, and amiable.

LUCY. But that would be very difficult.

MOTHER. Not if it be attempted in the right way. It would be difficult, and indeed quite impossible, to restrain all foolish and evil thoughts with a direct view to be admired or approved by

If,

our fellow creatures: but if we resolve to do so in the fear of God, from a recollection that He "searches and knows us, and understands our thoughts afar off," we shall find assistance and motive; and success will certainly follow. like David, we hate "vain thoughts," because God hates them, we shall not suffer them to "lodge within us;" but shall desire as the apostle did, "to bring every thought into subjection to the obedience of Christ." Thus, you see, the argument terminates where most of our discussions do; for whatever is amiss in us, there is but one remedy.

Let us entreat God to change our evil hearts; to make them pure and holy; to cleanse them from vanity, selfishness, and uncharitableness; and then all subordinate good consequences will follow. We shall enjoy the esteem and good-will of our fellow creatures, while ensuring that which is of infinitely greater consequence, the approbation of our own conscience, and of Him "whose favor is better than life."

VIII.

COMPLAINT OF THE DYING YEAR.

RECLINING on a couch of fallen leaves, wrapped in a fleecy mantle, with withered limbs, hoarse voice, and snowy beard, behold a venerable man. His pulses beat feebly; his breath becomes shorter; he exhibits every mark of approaching dissolution. This is old Eighteen Hundred and Seventeen; and as our readers must all remember him a young man, as rosy and blithesome as themselves, they will, perhaps, feel interested in hearing some of his dying expressions, together with a few particulars of his past life. His existence is still likely to be prolonged a few weeks by the presence of his daughter December, the last and sole survivor of his twelve fair children: and it is thought the father and daughter will expire together. The following are some of the expressions which have been taken down just as they fell from his dying lips: any want of order or accuracy will, therefore, be excused.

"I am," said he, "the son of old father Time, and the last of a numerous progeny; for he has had no less than five thousand eight hundred and seventeen of us; but it has ever been his fate to see one child expire before another was born. It is the opinion of some, that his own constitution

is beginning to break up; and that when he has given birth to a hundred or two more of us, his family being complete, he himself will be no

more.

"Alas! how have I been deceived! like other youngsters I was sanguine and credulous in early life; and no wonder: for in my youthful days I received nothing but flattery and adulation, with the fairest promises of respect and good treatment. I heard that my poor brother and predecessor had been very ill used: this they confessed, while they declared their intentions to behave better to me. I have been told, that on the morning of my birth, nothing was heard but the language of joy and congratulation. It was a season of general festivity: every face beamed with pleasure; all was hope and expectation. In some places the event was announced by the ringing of bells in others, it was recognised by solemn thanksgivings and hymns of praise. My name was sounded in every social circle, and my appearance was acknowledged in many a retired chamber. It was not, indeed, on those outward and noisy demonstrations of joy that my highest hopes were founded; but rather from the many private assurances, and even solemn vows and promises I received, from one and another, of being well treated, duly appreciated, and properly employed. It was at this time that I heard so much of their ill conduct towards my late brother;