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to the person of its object: it even inspires the desire of overcoming him by benefits, and wishes to inflict no other punishment, than the regret of having injured one who deserved his kindness; it is always placable, and ready to be reconciled, as soon as the offender is convinced of his error; nor can any subsequent injury provoke it to recur to past disobligations, which had been once forgiven.

The consciousness of injured innocence naturally produces dignity, and usually prevents excess of anger. Our passion is most unruly, when we are conscious of blame, and when we apprehend that we have laid ourselves open to contempt. Where we know we have been wrong, the least injustice in the degree of blame imputed to us, excites our bitterest resentment; but, where we know ourselves faultless the sharpest accusation excites pity or contempt, rather than rage.

LESSON XXXVI.

Peevishness.-MRS. CHAPONE.

PEEVISHNESS, though not so violent and fatal in its immediate effects, is still more unamiable than passion, and, if possible, more destructive of happiness, inasmuch as it operates more continually. Though the fretful man injures us less, he disgusts us more, than the passionate one; because he betrays a low and little mind, intent on trifles, and engrossed by a paltry self-love, which knows not how to bear the very apprehension of any inconvenience.

It is self-love, then, which we must combat, when we find ourselves assaulted by this infirmity; and, by voluntarily enduring inconveniences, we shall habituate ourselves to bear them with ease and good-humor, when occasioned by others. Perhaps this is the best kind of religious mortification; as the chief end of denying ourselves any innocent indulgences, must be to acquire a habit of command over our passions and inclinations, particularly such as are likely to lead us into evil.

er method of conquering this enemy, is to abstract s from that attention to trifling circumstances, which creates this uneasiness. Those, who are engaged in important pursuits, are very little affected by small iences. I would, therefore, wish your mind to have ome object in pursuit worthy of it, that it may not be d by such as are in themselves scarce worth a monxiety.

hiefly in the decline of life, when amusements fail, n the more importunate passions subside, that this is observed to grow upon us; and perhaps it will ail to do so, unless carefully watched, and counterreason. But though the aged and infirm are most this evil, and they alone are to be pitied for it,-yet times see the young, the healthy, and those who est outward blessings, inexcusably guilty of it. smallest disappointment in pleasure, or difficulty in trifling employment, will put wilful young people out er; and their very amusements frequently become of vexation and peevishness. How often have I seen -eparing for a ball, or for some other public appearable to satisfy her own vanity, fret over every ornaput on, quarrel with her maid, with her clothes, her , growing still more unlovely as she grew more cross, to fight with her looking-glass, for not making her ome as she wished to be! She did not consider, that es of this ill-humor on her countenance, would be a lisadvantage to her appearance, than any defect in 3; or even than the plainest features enlivened by good-humor.

is a degree of resignation necessary even to the nt of pleasure; we must be ready and willing to give part of what we could wish for, before we can enjoy ch is indulged to us. I have no doubt that she, who the while she is dressing for an assembly, will suffer ter uneasiness when she is there. The same craving, vanity will there endure a thousand mortifications, n the midst of seeming pleasure, will secretly corrode t; whilst the meek and humble generally find more tion than they expected, and return home pleased

and enlivened from every scene of amusement, though they could have stayed away from it with perfect ease and con

tentment.

LESSON XXXVII.

Obstinacy.-MRS. CHAPONE.

SULLENNESS, or obstinacy, is, perhaps, a worse fault of temper than either passion or peevishness; and, if indulged, may end in the most fatal extremes of stubborn melancholy, malice and revenge. The resentment which, instead of being expressed, is nursed in secret, and continually aggravated by the imagination, will, in time, become the ruling passion; and then how horrible must be his case, whose kind and pleasurable affections are all swallowed up by the tormenting as well as detestable sentiments of hatred and revenge!

Brood not over a resentment, which, perhaps, was at first ill-grounded, and which is undoubtedly heightened by a heated imagination. But, when you have first subdued your own temper, so as to be able to speak calmly, reasonably and kindly, then expostulate with the person you suppose to be in fault; hear what she has to say; and either reconcile yourself to her, or quiet your mind under the injury by the principle of Christian charity..

But if it should appear, that you yourself have been most to blame, or if you have been in an error, acknowledge it fairly and handsomely; if you feel any reluctance to do so, be certain that it arises from pride, to conquer which is an absolute duty. "A soft answer turneth away wrath," and a generous confession oftentimes more than atones for the fault which requires it. Truth and justice demand, that we should acknowledge conviction as soon as we feel it, and not maintain an erroneous opinion, or justify a wrong conduct, merely from the false shame of confessing our past ignorance. A false shame it undoubtedly is, and as impolitic as unjust, since your error is already seen by those who endeavor to set you right; but your conviction, and the candor and generosi

ing it freely, may still be an honor to you, and would ecommend you to the person with whom you disputed. ng is more endearing than such a confession; and find such a satisfaction in your own consciousness, ne renewed tenderness and esteem you will gain from on concerned, that your task, for the future, will be ore easy, and your reluctance to be convinced will, occasion, grow less and less.

ove of truth, and a real desire of improvement, ought e only motives of argumentation; and, where these ere, no difficulty can be made of embracing the truth, as it is perceived. But, in fact, people oftener disom vanity and pride, which make it a grievous tion to allow that we are the wiser for what we have om another. To receive advice, reproof and in-, properly, is the surest sign of a sincere and heart, and shows a greatness of mind, which ds our respect and reverence, while it appears so to yield to us the superiority. * w not whether that strange caprice, that inequality and behavior, so commonly attributed to our sex, properly called a fault of temper; as it seems not to ected with, or arising from, our animal frame, but to the fruit of our own self-indulgence, degenerating, es, into such a wantonness of will as knows not how itself.

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instead of regulating our actions by reason and , we suffer ourselves to be guided by every slight mentary impulse of inclination, we shall, doubtless, o variable and inconstant, that nobody can guess, behavior to-day, what may be expected from us w; nor can we ourselves tell whether what we den a week ago, will now afford us the least degree of

It is in vain for others to attempt to please us; ot please ourselves, though all we could wish for r choice. Thus does a capricious woman become f herself, through very selfishness" and, when this se, it is easy to judge how sick others must be of her, - contemptible and disgusting she must appear. This state is the usual consequence of power and flattery

LESSON XXXVIII.

Evening Prayer at a Girl's School.-MRS. HEMANS.

HUSH! 'tis a holy hour; the quiet room

Seems like a temple, while yon soft lamp sheds A faint and starry radiance, through the gloom

And the sweet stillness, down on bright young heads, With all their clustering locks, untouched by care, And bowed, as flowers are bowed with night, in prayer.

Gaze on,-'tis lovely! childhood's lip and cheek
Mantling beneath its earnest brow of thought;
Gaze-yet what seest thou in those fair, and meek,
And fragile things, as but for sunshine wrought?
Thou seest what grief must nurture for the sky,
What death must fashion for eternity.

Oh! joyous creatures, that will sink to rest,
Lightly, when those pure orisons are done,
As birds, with slumber's honey-dew oppressed,
Midst the dim folded leaves, at set of sun,—
Lift up your hearts! though yet no sorrow lies
Dark in the summer-heaven of those clear eyes;-

Though fresh within your breasts the untroubled springs
Of hope make melody where'er ye tread;
And o'er your sleep bright shadows, from the wings
Of spirits visiting but youth, be spread;
Yet in those flute-like voices, mingling low,
Is woman's tenderness-how soon her wo!

Her lot is on you-silent tears to weep,

And patient smiles to wear through suffering's hour, And sumless riches, from Affection's deep, To pour on broken reeds-a wasted shower! And to make idols, and to find them clay, And to bewail that worship-therefore pray.

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