table in despair, rushed out of the house, and ran an agony of confusion and disgrace, which the most E sense of guilt could not have excited

LESSON XLIV.

Intemperate Love of Praise.-BLAIR.

intemperate love of praise not only weakens the true es of probity, by substituting inferior motives in their ut frequently also impels men to actions which are criminal. It obliges them to follow the current of opinion, whithersoever it may carry them. They will d to appear in their own form, or to utter their genuiments. Their whole character will become fictious, s will be assumed, speech and behavior modelled, and e countenance formed, as prevailing taste exacts.

one who has submitted to such prostitution, for the praise, you can no longer expect fidelity or attachany trying occasion. In private life, he will be a s and treacherous friend. In public conduct, he will le and versatile; ready to desert the cause which he oused, and to veer with every shifting wind of popur. In fine, all becomes unsound and hollow in that where, instead of regard to the divine approbation, igns the sovereign desire of pleasing men.

passion, when it becomes predominant, most comlefeats its own end, and deprives men of the honor hey are so eager to gain. Without preserving liberty lependence, we can never command respect. That of spirit, which subjects us to the opinion of others, iders us tributaries to the world for the sake of apis what all mankind despise. They look up with ce to one, who, unawed by their censures, acts acto his own sense of things, and follows the free imf an honorable mind.

him, who hangs totally on their judgment, they consideir vassal. They even enjoy a malignant pleasure in

umbling his vanity, and withholding that praise which he is een to court. By artifice and show, he may shine for a me in the public eye; but it is only as long as he can suport the belief of acting from principle. When the inconsisencies, into which he falls, detect his character, his reputation asses away like the pageant of a day. No man ever obtained asting fame, who did not, on several occasions, contradict he prejudices of popular opinion.

There is no course of behavior, which will, at all times, lease all men. That which pleases most generally, and which only commands durable praise, is religion and virtue. Sincere piety towards God, kind affection to men, and fidely in the discharge of all the duties of life; a conscience ure and undefiled; a heart firm to justice and to truth, suerior to all terrors that would shake, and insensible of all leasures that would betray it; unconquerable by the oppoition of the world, and resigned to God alone; these are he qualities which render a man truly respectable and great. Such a character may, in evil times, incur unjust reproach. But the clouds, which envy or prejudice has gathered around , will gradually disperse; and its brightness will come forth, n the end, as the noon day. As soon as it is thoroughly nown, it finds a witness in every breast. It forces approbaon, even from the most degenerate. The human heart is o formed as to be attuned, if we may use the expression, to Es praise. In fact, it is this firm and inflexible virtue, this etermined regard to principle beyond all opinion, which has rowned the characters of such as now stand highest in the olls of lasting fame. The truly illustrious are they, who did ot court the praise of the world, but who performed the ctions which deserve it.

As an immoderate passion for human praise is dangerous o virtue, and unfavorable to true honor; so it is destructive f self-enjoyment and inward peace. Regard to the praise f God, prescribes a simple and consistent tenor of conduct, hich, in all situations, is the same; which engages us in no erplexities, and requires no artful refinement. But he, who urns aside from the straight road of duty, in order to gain pplause, involves himself in an intricate labyrinth. He will e often embarrassed concerning the course which he ought

His mind will be always on the stretch. He will ed to listen with anxious attention to every whise popular voice. The demands of those masters, › has submitted to serve, will prove frequently cony and inconsistent. He has prepared a yoke for his ich he must resolve to bear, how much soever it him.

›ils of virtue are honorable. The mind is supported hem by the consciousness of acting a right and g part. But the labors to which he is doomed, who ed to the desire of praise, are aggravated by reflec1 on the uncertainty of the recompense which he and on the debasement to which he submits. Conwill, from time to time, remind him of the improper 3 which he has made, and of the forfeiture which he urred, of the praise of God for the sake of praise n. Suppose him to receive all the rewards which the opinion of the world can bestow, its loudest apill often be unable to drown the upbraidings of an voice; and if a man is reduced to be ashamed of what avails it him to be caressed by others? n truth, the reward towards which he looks, who proman praise as his ultimate object, will be always ke a shadow, before him. So capricious and uncerfickle and mutable, is the favor of the multitude, that the most unsatisfactory of all pursuits in which men engaged. He, who sets his heart on it, is preparing self perpetual mortifications. If the greatest and seldom retain it long, we may easily believe, that e vain and undeserving it will suddenly escape.

e is no character but what, on some side, is vulnerable are. He who lifts himself up to the observation and f the world, is, of all men, the least likely to avoid it; raws upon himself a thousand eyes, that will narspect him in every part. Every opportunity will be 1 of bringing him down to the common level. His will be more divulged, and his infirmities more magnian those of others. In proportion to his eagerness se, will be his sensibility to reproach. Nor is it realone that will wound him. He will be as much

dejected by silence and neglect. He puts himself under the power of every one to humble him, by withholding expected praise. Even when praise is bestowed, he is mortified by its being either faint or trite. He pines when his reputation stagnates. The degree of applause, to which he has been accustomed, grows insipid; and to be always praised from the same topics, becomes, at last, much the same with not being praised at all.

All these chagrins and disquietudes are happily avoided by him, who keeps so troublesome a passion within its due bounds; who is more desirous of being truly worthy, than of being thought so; who pursues the praise of the world with manly temperance, and in subordination to the praise of God. He is neither made giddy by the intoxicating vapor of applause, nor humbled and cast down by the unmerited attacks of censure. Resting on a higher approbation, he enjoys himself, in peace, whether human praise stays with him, or flies away.

LESSON XLV.

God's First Temples. A Hymn.—Bryant.

THE groves were God's first temples. Ere man learned
To hew the shaft, and lay the architrave,

And spread the roof above them,―ere he framed
The lofty vault, to gather and roll back

The sound of anthems,-in the darkling wood,
Amidst the cool and silence, he knelt down
And offered to the Mightiest solemn thanks
And supplication. For his simple heart
Might not resist the sacred influences,
That, from the stilly twilight of the place,

And from the gray old trunks, that, high in heaven,
Mingled their mossy boughs, and from the sound
Of the invisible breath, that swayed at once
All their green tops, stole over him, and bowed
His spirit with the thought of boundless Power

essible Majesty. Ah! why

, in the world's riper years, neglect ient sanctuaries, and adore.

ng the crowd, and under roofs

frail hands have raised? Let me, at least, he shadow of this aged wood,

hymn; thrice happy, if it find

ce in his ear.

Father, thy hand

ed these venerable columns; thou

ve this verdant roof. Thou didst look down naked earth, and, forthwith, rose

fair ranks of trees. They in thy sun
and shook their green leaves in thy breeze,
towards heaven. The century-living crow,
rth was in their tops, grew old and died
eir branches, till, at last, they stood,
hey stand, massy, and tall, and dark,
e for humble worshipper to hold
ion with his Maker. Here are seen
s of man's pomp or pride; no silks
o jewels shine, nor envious eyes
er; no fantastic carvings show

st of our vain race to change the form
ir works. But thou art here; thou fill'st
ude. Thou art in the soft winds

along the summits of these trees

; thou art in the cooler breath,
m the inmost darkness of the place,
carcely felt; the barky trunks, the ground,
h, moist ground, are all instinct with thee.
_s continual worship; nature, here,
anquillity that thou dost love,

my presence. Noiselessly, around,
rch to perch, the solitary bird

and yon clear spring, that, midst its herbs,
ftly forth, and visits the strong roots
the mighty forest, tells no tale
ne good it does. Thou hast not left
without a witness, in these shades,