LUCY. Dear me, I think it must make a great deal of difference.

MOTHER. Did not you say just now, that Miss G. was a vain girl, and that she thought a great deal of her beauty?

LUCY. Yes, and so she does, I am certain.

MOTHER. Pray, my dear, who told you so?
LUCY. Nobody: I found it out myself.

MOTHER. But how did you find it out, Lucy? LUCY. Why, mamma, I could see it, as plain as could be.

MOTHER. So then, if you could have looked into her heart, and had seen her think to herself“What a beauty I am !—I hope they admire me”it would have made no alteration in your opinion of her.

Lucy. (Laughing) No, mamma; only have confirmed me in what I thought before.

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MOTHER. Then what advantage was it to her that you could not see her thoughts?

LUCY. (Hesitating) Not much, to her, certainly. -just then at least ;-not to such a vain-looking girl as she is.

MOTHER. What do you suppose gives her that vain look?

Lucy. Being so pretty, I suppose.

MOTHER. Nay, think again; I have seen many faces as pretty as hers, that did not look at all vain. Lucy. True, so have I; then it must be from her thinking so much about her beauty.

MOTHER. Right. If Miss G. has a vain expression in her countenance (which, for argument's

sake, we suppose) or whoever has such an expression, this must be the cause. Now we are come to the conclusion I expected, and I have proved my point.

LUCY. What point, mamma?

MOTHER. That you greatly overrate the advantage, or mistake the nature of it, of our thoughts being concealed from our fellow-creatures. Since it appears, that the thoughts-at least our habits of thought, so greatly influence the conduct, manners, and appearance, that our secret weaknesses are as effectually betrayed to all discerning eyes, as if our inmost feelings were actually visible.

LUCY. But surely there are some people so deep and artful, that nobody can possibly guess what passes in their minds? Not that I should wish to be such an one.

MOTHER. They may, and do, indeed, often succeed in deceiving others in particular instances; but they cannot conceal their true characters; every one knows that they are deep and artful, and therefore their grand purpose is defeated; they are neither esteemed nor trusted.

LUCY. Well, but still, mamma, to-day, for instance, do you really suppose that Mrs. and Miss G. had any idea of the opinion I formed of them?

MOTHER. Indeed, my dear, I dare say Mrs. and Miss G. did not take the trouble to think about you or your opinions; but supposing they had chanced to observe you, I think, most likely, they would have formed an unfavourable idea.

Lucy. Why so, mamma ?

MOTHER. Let us suppose that any other young girl of your own age had been present, and that while you were making your ill-natured observations on these ladies, your companion had been listening with sympathy and kindness to the account Mrs G. was giving of her troubles and 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

S

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

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. If, 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 fellowcreatures, while ensuring that which is of infinitely greater consequence, the approbation of our own conscience, and of Him "whose favour 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.