are of great consequence in every house: but she never thinks of any thing of that kind. Her thoughts, her time, her cleverness, her industry, all, all, are made to serve one person only, and that person is herself. If you see her ever so busily at work, you may be sure she is making something that she thinks will look well on herself. If you meet her running up stairs, or down stairs, or going of an errand, you may depend upon it, it is to get something for herself. And as she thinks so much of herself, all this is no wonder, because any one of so much importance must needs require as much waiting on. But surely people may be pronounced to be of no consequence when no other human being is the better for them. If little Betsey Bond were to die, her poor mother would almost break her heart: her brothers and sisters would miss her every day of their lives: there is not a neighbour all round but would lament her: indeed there is not one person in twenty but could be better spared. But as for this young lady, although if she were to die, her parents, from the force of natural affection, would doubtless feel afflicted, yet even they would never be reminded of her by any little affectionate attentions which they would then miss. Her brothers and her young friends might he sorry for her; but they would lose nothing and miss nothing themselves. And alas! there are no poor neighbours of hers who would be any of the worse off if this young lady were never to be heard of more. Now then, we again appeal to our readers, (begging them to be guided by their good sense, and not to be biased by external appearances, or common modes of judging,) and inquire, which of these girls is the person of consequence. Self-importance is a feeling very common to young people; ridiculous as it is in every body, and especially so in them. Even where it has not been fostered by the weak partiality of parents, and by the flattery of foolish friends, it is but too apt to insinuate itself into the heart of a child; in which, as Solomon says, "folly is bound up.' There are, indeed, many circumstances connected with youth which tend to cherish it. The pains that are bestowed upon their education,--the kind attentions which benevolent people frequently pay to the young,-the notice they attract merely because they are young, may be easily, misinterpreted by juvenile vanity, as though there was something particular in them, in distinction from other young people, to excite all this, and to render so much pains and cost desirable. Now, although this proceeds chiefly from ignorance and inexperience, yet it is always a disgusting fault; and those young persons who are possessed of natural good sense, will soon detect and discard it. They, on the contrary, who are weak and vain, and who have not the advantage of a judicious education, will most probably be so unfortunate as to remain in their mistake all their lives. such individuals are to be found in every neighbourhood: self-important, consequential, officious persons: who are smiled at by the wise, and laughed at by the witty. This is no uncommon fault in these busy times. But the officiousness of such persons generally gives more trouble than their services compensate. It is those who act quietly, who make little noise, and no pretence, who do most good,--perhaps all the real good that is done in the world. Now, as it is a far pleasanter thing to correct this fault for ourselves than to wait till other people do it for us, it would be well for every one who may be conscious of such an infirmity, to recollect, as before hinted, that it is a feeling which persons of real consequence never indulge. Some Let young persons, then, put some such questions as these to themselves. Do I think myself a person of consequence? if so, on what grounds?--who is the better for me? if I were away, who would miss my services? would my parents lose many dutiful and affec tionate attentions? would my brothers and sisters lose a kind, and accommodating, and self-denying companion? would my friends or poor neighbours be any the worse off for my removal? would one and another have to say, "ah! if she were but here, she would have done this or that for us?" But if conscience assures us that in no such ways as these we should be missed or regretted, then, whatever our station, whatever our external advantages, whatever our opinion of ourselves may hitherto have been, we may be assured that we have not, at present, any just grounds of self-complacency : and if we are discontented with this conclusion, let us go and learn of Betsey Bond how to make ourselves persons of consequence. XXXIV. MIRTH AND CHEERFULNESS. LITTLE Marianne returned from school one afternoon in high spirits one of her favourite companions accompanied her; and hastening into the garden they had a fine game of play on the grass-plot. When they were both in such a heat and so much tired that they knew not how to keep it up any longer, they left off, by mutual consent. Her friend then left her, while Marianne went into the parlour, threw herself into a chair, took off her hat and fanned herself with it. Now and then she smiled, and once laughed out, at the recollection of some droll occurrences in their play; after sitting thus nearly half an hour, she began to grow sleepy, and at length actually nodded. She would now probably have had a long nap, if it had not been that with one nod her head dropped so far as to wake her thoroughly: she then rose up and walked languidly to the window. It was very fine when Marianne left the garden, but it had suddenly clouded over, and by this time had begun to rain. "What a dismal evening!" exclaimed she, in a drowsy voice," how dull it is!" then placing both her elbows on the window, and leaning her head on her hands, she stood for another half hour in that position; watching the rain, as it splashed on the flag stones in the street, or tracing the drops that slowly chased each other down the long panes of glass. At length she heaved a deep sigh, and, after a short interval, another, which terminated in a dismal yawn, and "O dear! O dear!" "My dear Marianne, what is the matter with you?" said her mamma. Marianne. Nothing, mamma, nothing particular. Mother. Nothing particular, I often find, means something particular. Marianne. No, but I assure you, mamma, nothing at all. it was Mother. Then pray, my love, do not gape and groan, and say "O dear," for nothing at all. Here followed a long silence, which was at length broken by another deep sigh. Mother. What is the matter now Marianne ? Marianne. Nothing particular, mamma. Mother. Nay, do not give me that foolish answer again: come now, I must know what makes you so uncomfortable this afternoon. Marianne. Nothing, mamma, only that it is so dull and dismal, and I'm tired, and I've got nothing to play with, and nothing to do, and I'm so dull! Mother. Nothing to play with, and nothing to do! that is sad indeed: are you sure, my dear, that you have nothing to do? Marianne. Nothing particular, that I know of. 198 MIRTH AND CHEERFULNESS. Mother. Then I am sure it will be a kindness to find you a job see here is some cotton that I want to have wound; and as I have a great deal to do, I think it will be a mutual accommodation. Go and fetch the reel, this will be a nice job for you. Marianne slowly and reluctantly moved her elbows from their station, though they ached with 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 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, Mari anne. Marianne. O yes, mamma, no fear of that. Mother. Now then, perhaps you can tell me what |