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in comparison with our soul's welfare. And this would inevitably bring us to make that inquiry with earnestness, which at present perhaps is only made with carelessness, "What shall we do to be saved?” “What shall we do to inherit eternal life?"-It is to bring us to this that those grand representations are made in the Scriptures; that by such terrors men may be persuaded -persuaded to fly for refuge " to lay hold on the hope set before them." What that hope is, we all know :— "Behold the Lamb of God that taketh away the sin of the world!" That terrible expression, "the wrath of the Lamb" belongs to Him only as the judge of those who finally refuse to behold Him in this gracious cha

racter.

As for those who have a good hope of going "forth with joy to meet their Lord, with their loins girt, and their lamps burning," what an interesting subject of contemplation is this! Let not the trifles of the world, ever obscure it. Let not present pleasures, or present sorrows, greatly affect them, seeing they "endure but for a moment.' When we look around on this beautiful world, with all its interests and enchantments, let us recollect, that "all these things shall be dissolved,”not forgetting the inference of the apostle, "What manner of persons ought we to be, in all holy conversation and godliness!"

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XVII.

DIALOGUE BETWEEN LUCY AND HER MOTHER.

ONE day a lady and her daughter called upon Lucy's mother, and sat with her an hour or more, conversing on various subjects. Lucy's age was not such as to make it proper for her to take part in the conversation;

she sat sometimes listening to what passed, and sometimes making silent observations on the dress or manners of her mother's visiters. When they took leave, she be

gan the following conversation.

Lucy. What a good thing it is that people cannot see one's thoughts!

Mother. It would be inconvenient, sometimes, if they could.

Lucy. Oh, worse than inconvenient! to-day, for instance, I would not have had Mrs. and Miss G. know what I was thinking of for all the world.

Mother. Indeed! Pray may I know what it might be ? Lucy. O yes, mamma, you may; it was no real harm. I was only thinking what an odd, fat, disagreeable kind of looking woman Mrs. G. was;—and what a tiresome way she had of telling long stories; and that Miss G. was the vainest girl I ever saw; I could see all the time she was thinking of nothing but her beauty, and her

Mother. Come, come, no more of this. I have heard quite enough.

Lucy. Well mamma, but only do suppose they could have known what I was thinking of!

Mother. Well, and what then do you suppose.

Lucy. Why, in the first place, I dare say they would have thought be an impertinent, disagreeable little thing. Mother. I dare say they would.

Lucy. So what a good thing it is that people cannot see one's thoughts! is it not?

Mother. I rather think it does not make so much difference as you imagine.

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?

be.

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

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.

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 over-rate 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 dis

cerning 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 observa

108 DIALOGUE BETWEEN LUCY AND HER MOTHER.

tions, 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.

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