of something more substantial and efficacious, which ■ qualify you for a more perfect knowledge of things and es; enable you to judge of truth and falsehood; and, in t, make you acquainted with the history of history itthat is, that you may know what writers have treated meubjects of history, and of what credit and authority e writers are.

. Your remarks are very just; and I beg of you to furme with some little book, from which I can learn all in a short time.

My young friend, I see you think that all these things be learned from a little book, like that which you used to te to your governess. Now, I do not mean to say that ought to be sorry for your own labor, or that of your erness; because what you have thus acquired and fixed our memory, though a puerile exercise, will not be withuse; but henceforward you must exercise your judgment, pursue a liberal and exact course of study. This, how, is not to be acquired at once, or by the use of any e book, but by understanding the various books relating he subject, and by diligently attending on the instruction hose, who teach history according to these principles.

LESSON LXXIX.

Conversation.-Extract from CowPER.

THOUGH Nature weigh our talents, and dispense
'o every man his modicum of sense,
nd conversation, in its better part,
Hay be esteemed a gift, and not an art,
Yet much depends, as in the tiller's toil,
On culture and the sowing of the soil.
Vords learned by rote a parrot may rehearse,
But talking is not always to converse;
Not more distinct from harmony divine,
The constant creaking of a country sign.

Ye powers, who rule the tongue,—if such there are,— And make colloquial happiness your care,

ve me from the thing I dread and hate

I in the form of a debate.

rated logic kills me quite;

y man is always in the right:

my thumbs, fall back into my chair,
the wainscot a distressful stare,
vhen I hope his blunders are all out,
discreetly" To be sure-no doubt!"
ius is such a scrupulous, good man—
you may catch him tripping, if you can.
uld not, with a peremptory tone,
the nose upon his face his own;
esitation admirably slow,

nbly hopes-presumes-it may be so.
dence, if he were called by law
ear to some enormity he saw,
nt of prominence and just relief,

hang an honest man, and save a thief.
gh constant dread of giving truth offence,
up all his hearers in suspense;

what he knows as if he knew it not; ne remembers seems to have forgot; e opinion, whatsoe'er befall, g, at last, in having none at all. ory, in which native humor reigns, useful, always entertains:

er fact, enlisted on your side, nish illustration, well applied; entary weavers of long tales

e the fidgets, and my patience fails. e most asinine employ on earth, them tell of parentage and birth, ho conversations, dull and dry,

shed with," He said," and "So said I." y interview their route the same,

petition makes attention lame :

tle up, with unsuccessful speed, the saddest part, cry, "Droll indeed !" bashful men, who feel the pain ied scorn and undeserved disdain.

And bear the marks, upon a blushing face,
Of needless shame, and self-imposed disgrace.
Our sensibilities are so acute,

The fear of being silent makes us mute.
True modesty is a discerning grace,

And only blushes in the proper place;

But counterfeit is blind, and skulks, through fear,
Where 'tis a shame to be ashamed t' appear;

Humility the parent of the first,

The last by vanity produced and nursed.

The circle formed, we sit in silent state,

Like figures drawn upon a dial-plate;

'Yes, ma'am," and "No, ma'am," uttered softly, show,
Ev'ry five minutes, how the minutes go;
Each individual, suffering a constraint
Poetry may, but colors cannot paint,
As if in close committee on the sky,
Reports it hot or cold, or wet or dry!
And finds a changing clime a happy source
Of wise reflection and well-timed discourse!
We next inquire, but softly, and by stealth,
Like conservators of the public health,
Of epidemic throats, if such there are,
And coughs, and rheums, and phthisics, and catarrh

LESSON LXXX.

On Discretion.—ADDISON.

HAVE often thought, if the minds of men were laid open, should see but little difference between that of the wise and that of the fool. There are infinite reveries, numless extravagances, and a perpetual train of vanities, ch pass through both. The great difference is, that the knows how to pick and cull his thoughts for conversation, suppressing some and communicating others; whereas other lets them all indifferently fly out in words. This of discretion, however, has no place in private conversabetween intimate friends On such occasions, the

ʼn very often talk like the weakest; for, indeed, the th a friend is nothing else but thinking aloud. as, therefore, very justly exposed a precept delivere ancient writers, that a man should live with his such a manner, as might leave him room to become ; and with his friend in such a manner, that if he Es enemy, it should not be in his power to hurt him. part of this rule, which regards our behavior _n enemy, is, indeed, very reasonable, as well as ential; but the latter part of it, which regards our owards a friend, savors more of cunning than of , and would cut a man off from the greatest of life, which are the freedoms of conversation som friend. Besides that, when a friend is turned ■emy, and, as the son of Sirach calls him, a besecrets," the world is just enough to accuse the mess of the friend, rather than the indiscretion of who confided in him.

on does not only show itself in words, but in all nstances of action, and is like an under-agent of e, to guide and direct us in the ordinary concerns

are many more shining qualities in the mind of there are none more useful than discretion; it is this, hich gives a value to all the rest, which sets them 1 their proper times and places, and turns them to tage of the person who is possessed of them. t, learning is pedantry, and wit, impertinence; virlooks like weakness; the best parts only qualify a e more sprightly in errors, and active to his own

es discretion only make a man the master of his , but of other men's. The discreet man finds out s of those he converses with, and knows how to m to proper uses. Accordingly, if we look into communities and divisions of men, we may observe the discreet man, not the witty, nor the learned, nor who guides the conversation, and gives measures iety. A man with great talents, but void of discreke Polyphemus in the fable, strong and blind; endued

an irresistible force, which, for want of sight, is of no to him.

hough a man has all other perfections, and wants discrehe will be of no great consequence in the world; but e has this single talent in perfection, and but a common e of others, he may do what he pleases in his particular on of life. At the same time that I think discretion the useful talent a man can be master of, I look upon cunto be the accomplishment of little, mean, ungenerous

ds.

iscretion points out the noblest ends to us, and pursues most proper and laudable methods of attaining them. ning has only private, selfish aims, and sticks at nothing ch may make them succeed. Discretion has large and nded views, and, like a well-formed eye, commands a le horizon. Cunning is a kind of short-sightedness, that overs the minutest objects which are near at hand, is not able to discern things at a distance. Discretion, more it is discovered, gives a greater authority to the on who possesses it. Cunning, when it is once detected, s its force, and makes a man incapable of bringing about those events which he might have done, had he passed - for a plain man.

iscretion is the perfection of reason, and a guide to us in he duties of life: cunning is a kind of instinct, that only is out after our immediate interest and welfare. Discretion nly found in men of strong sense and good understand: cunning is often to be met with in brutes themselves, in persons who are but the fewest removes from them. hort, cunning is only the mimic of discretion, and may = upon weak men, in the same manner as vivacity is often taken for wit, and gravity for wisdom.

'he cast of mind, which is natural to a discreet man, makes look forward into futurity, and consider what will be his dition millions of ages hence, as well as what it is at ent. He knows that the misery or happiness, which is rved for him in another world, loses nothing of its reality eing placed at so great a distance from him. The objects not appear little to him because they are remote. He siders that those pleasures and pains which lie hid in