leaning on them so long; and as she went to fetch the reel she thought she had rather have stood there still, looking at the muddy street, than do this job for her mamma. However, when she

had found it, and had placed the cotton upon it, and when she had began to wind the cotton she found herself rather agreeably disappointed.— There seemed that desirable medium between work and play in this employment, that exactly suited a person who was rather lazy and yet tired of doing nothing. The reel moved round nimbly; candles came in ; Marianne's spirits revived, the invariable consequence of which was, that she began to talk.

"Ah! that is right," said she, "I am glad the candles are come; now one can see what one is about. I wonder how large this ball of cotton will be when it's all wound: pretty large I fancy. No, no, miss Puss, this is not for you, I can promise you; s cat! s cat! One, two, three, four, five, six ;-I do think this reel must go round twenty times in a minute. There now, here's a knot! how tiresome! that's the worst of winding cotton; so you won't come, won't you? then you must break, that's all. There, now we shall go on again. One, two, three, four: O, I shall have done this job in a minute."

Mother. So, you have found your tongue again, Marianne.

Marianne. O yes, mamma, no fear of that. Mother. Now then, perhaps you can tell me what was the matter just now when you were groaning so dismally.

Marianne. O really, mamma, there was nothing the matter; only one is miserable some

times, you know; I often am but then I soon grow cheerful again; that is one comfort.

Mother. Stay; I think you have used the wrong word d; you mean that you soon get merry again. Marianne.

Well it's all the same.

Mother. All the same! O no, very different indeed. The most wicked and miserable persons in the world may sometimes be merry; but it is impossible they should ever be cheerful: cheerfulness you know implies an easy, contented, serene mind. Mirth is only excited by some temporary amusement; and this may happen when the heart is aching, and the conscience stinging all the time. A cheerful mind and a guilty conscience can never exist together. Now, although there is no objection to a little girl like you, being merry now and then, yet, it is very requisite that you should not only learn to distinguish between words of such different meanings, but that now, while you are young, you should cultivate those habits and tempers with which cheerfulness will grow; that you may feel the difference as well as know it. If this had been done already, Marianne, you would have escaped that fit of melancholy this afternoon, and many a one before it.

Marianne. As to that, I fancy every body is in a mopish mood now and then, when they are dull, and when it rains.

Mother. Really, Marianne, we should be badly off in this climate, if we must always be dull when it rains. To be sure, if every body was obliged to stand still at their windows, and watch

the drops as they fall, it would be no wonder if

it were so.

Marianne. Well, mamma, it was only because just then I had nothing else to do.

Mother. That, I grant you, is a reason;-the best reason, Marianne, that you have yet given me for being miserable. But this was your own fault; there is no one, young or old, but may something to do if they please.

find

Marianne. No, really; just then there was nothing in the world that I could think of to do, that I liked.

Mother. That you liked ? O, that was it. Now then, I believe we shall arrive at the true cause of this fit of melancholy; you were idle. Now I perfectly understand what it was that made you say "O dear, O dear," and gape and groan; yes, indeed, it is a miserable thing to be idle. Indolent people may often have a fit of mirth, or a good game of play, but their mirth is sure to subside into dulness, they can never know what it is to be cheerful.

Marianne. But indeed, mamma, I don't think it was being idle that made me miserable then ; it was because I felt so miserable that I did not like to do any thiug

Mother. I think you mistake there; suppose now, when you first came in from play you had thought of winding this cotton for me; and suppose by a little effort you had overcome the inclination you felt to sit still, and had actually done it; do you think you would then have felt so dull and dismal as you did standing still for three quarters of an hour at the window?

Marianne. No, because then I should not

have had time to see the bad weather, and to know how dull it was.

Mother. So I thought; it is thus that regular employment keeps off those capricious fits of melancholy to which the indolent are always liable. When useful and industrious people are unhappy, they can always tell you the reason; but the idle are very often so, when as you said, nothing at all is the matter.

Marianne. Well, I should very much like to be cheerful always.

:

While

Mother. It is a desirable thing, indeed, my dear! but then you must see that you lay a good foundation for cheerfulness: and this can only be formed by habits of industry; by good tempers; in one word, by a peaceful conscience. you are a child, the difference between high spirits and good spirits-between mirth and cheerfulness is not so apparent but by and by, when you will no longer feel inclined to be merry, you must either be habitually cheerful or habitually dull. Cheerfulness differs essentially from mirth, in its being a lasting companion, one that does not forsake us even in old age. It endures through life; bears persons up under its calamities and crosses; and when genuine, shines brightest as we descend into the vale of years. "In laughter there is sorrow; and the end of mirth is often heaviness;" but Christian cheerfulness has no such alloy.

XXXV.

PSALM CXIX. 67.

"Before I was afflicted I went astray."

THERE are few objects less likely to interest the minds of the young than that of affliction. It is a thing which, generally speaking, they know only by description. They are therefore ill qualified to sympathize in the trials of others; nor are they prone to anticipate trouble for themselves. Very young persons, with but few exceptions, have beheld the world only as a scene of enjoyment; to them the past appears all sunshine, and the future seems glittering with hope and joy. The word affliction is scarcely understood: they are aware that some persons meet with misfortunes; but these, by their sagacity and forethought, they hope to avoid. They see that others are afflicted with painful diseases; but the vigour and bloom of their youth leads them to imagine that they have no such calamities to dread. And when they hear it asserted, from authority they cannot contradict, that " man is born to trouble," and that, "in this world we must have tribulation," they flatter themselves that their portion of it will not arrive until a time when the chief enjoyments of life must necessarily cease; a time when they fancy they shall have no great objection to being afflicted; especially, according to the general and unrealizing ideas they attach to the word. It is not needful to use arguments in order to dispel these illusions. The