When a man admits an ardent passion into his bosom, he opens the door to a restless and active enemy; who, if not watched with the most unceasing care, will throw down all the barriers against evil which virtue has raised; nor rest till he has left no empire there but his own.

Attention to decorum is one of the greatest bulwarks of female virtue.

It is a painful, but well-known fact, that the envy and rivalship of near relations is the most bitter and inveterate.

It would be as kind to plant a dagger in the heart of a young woman, as to endeavour to persuade her that an amiable young man beholds her with partiality, unless there is no possible doubt of his having serious intentions of becoming her lover; as women commonly love because they are beloved, and gratitude in a well-disposed mind is the foundation of passion. Then let not those imagine, to whom is delegated the task of watching over the conduct and propensities of young women, that on the subject of love they may venture to sport with the hopes and vanity of an inexperienced girl. If such an be in the habit of hearing from the weak women, or flattering men, who surround her, (persons more desirous of saying a pleasant than a true thing,) that she appears the object of decided preference to a man, whose attentions are gratifying to the self-love, she learns to view him with more than common complacency, and may be betrayed by even the best feelings of her nature, into the miseries of a hopeless attachment: for true love like the Cretan monster of old, is fond of preying on the CHOICEST VICTIMS ; and the PUREST streams reflect images more DEEPLY and more PERFECTLY than OTHERS.

one

The man who has lost his reason, and the child who has not gained his, are equally objects for reproof and restraint, and must be taught good and proper habits by judicious and firm controul, and occasionally by the operation of fear.

There is nothing more likely to soberise the intoxications of self-love, and teach us of how little value, are the praises of the creature, than the reflection, how soon even the most celebrated

of men and women are forgotten: how soon the waters of oblivion close over the memory of the distinguished few, whose wit or whose beauty has delighted the circles, which their charms attracted round them; and that even they, when they cease to be seen and heard, soon cease to be remembered also.

Temper, like the unseen but busy subterranean fires in the bosom of a volcano, is always at work where it has once gained an existence, and is for ever threatening to explode, and scatter ruin and desolation around it. Parents! beware how you omit to check the first evidences of its empire in your children; and tremble lest the powerless hand, which is only lifted in childish anger against you, should, if its impotent fury remain uncorrected, be aimed in future life with more destructive fury against its own life, or that of a fellow creature.

Some persons err, not so much in over-rating their own ability, as in under-rating that of their associates. They do not imagine themselves to be giants, but they think their companions pigmies.

All persons given to anger are apt to dwell on the provocation they have received, and utterly to forget the provocation which they gave.

The difficult part of good temper consists in forbearance, and accommodation to the ill-humour of others.

Temper is one of the most busy and universal agents in all human actions.

Philosophers have said that the electric fluid, though invisible, is every where at work in the physical world; and I believe that temper is equally at work, though often unseen except in its effects, in the moral world.

Nothing is so rare as a single motive, almost all our motives are compound ones; and, if we examine our own hearts and actions with that accuracy and diffidence, which become us as finite and responsible beings, we shall find that, of our motives to bad actions temper is often a principal ingredient, and that it is not unfrequently one incitement to a good one.

The crimes not only of private individuals but of sovereigns might, I doubt not, be traced up to an uncor rected and uneducated temper as their

source.

How many heart-aches should we spare ourselves, if we were careful to check every unkind word or action towards those we love by this anticipating reflection. The time may soon arrive, when the being, whom I am now about to afflict, may be snatched from me for ever to the cold recesses of the grave, secured from the assaults of my petulance, and deaf to the voice of my remorseful penitence.

How mortified one ought to feel at being told a tale of scandal; because it proves that the relater believes one able of enjoying it, and certainly it is an enjoyment of a very diabolical nature.

The virtues, like the vices, are so fond of one another, that they are seldom or ever found separate; and if a virtue or two be sometimes found crowded in amongst many vices, they are only like sprigs of geranium set without roots in a garden, which, before they have time to take root, are thrown down by the first shower or gust of wind, and wither away directly.

Spite is of no sex and is common to both equally, I believe: nor is it always the result of rivalship: it is as often the result of a mean, malevolent pleasure, taken by a person who indulges in it, in traducing and lowering every one on whom conversation may happen to turn. Nor is gossiping a fault more common to women than to men. Emptiness of mind, and want of proper and wholesome occupations, are common to both sexes, and consequently their result is so-a gossipping spirit, and a traducing tongue; and though some faults, like some diseases, may be for the most part confined to women, yet back-biting and slander, like the attacks of a fever, are common equally to men and women.

The happiness of the married life depends on a power of making small sacrifices with readiness and cheerfulness. Few persons are ever called upon to make great sacrifices, or to confer great favours; but affection is kept alive, and happiness secured, by keeping up a constant warfare against little selfishnesses.

How many perhaps are the drawbacks on the apparently most brilliant situation, could one but commune with the closely veiled heart. The saying is only too true, that in every house there is a closet with a skeleton in it.

Never, probably, were excessive conceit and excessive vanity unaccompanied by malignity.

The conduct both of the low, and of the high born, when under the dominion of temper, is commonly the same. Temper is the greatest of all levellers, the greatest of all equalizers; and the peer and the peasant, when under the influence of passion, are equally removed from having any right to the name of gentleman. But it is not temper, as exhibited in the shape of violent passion, that has the most pernicious influence on the conduct and happi

ness.

It is temper, under the shape of cool deliberate spite and secret rancour, that is most to be guarded against. It is the taunting word whose meaning kills, the speech intended to mortify one's self love, or wound our tenderest affections. Temper under this garb is most hateful and pernicious; and, when inflicting a series of petty injuries, it is most hideous and disgusting. The violence of passion, when over, often subsides into affectionate repentance, and is easily disarmed of its offensive power. But nothing disarms the other sort of temper. In domestic life it is to one's mind what a horse-hair sheet is to the body; and, like the spokes of Pascal's iron-girdle, whenever one moves, it inflicts pain most difficult to endure with fortitude.

The good-breeding ought highly to be valued, which, typical of benevolence though not benevolence itself, loves to put every one in good humour, and call forth the good feelings only of those with whom we associate; a habit of acting, which, when it does not militate against sincerity, nearly borders on a virtue; and those persons, on the contrary, may be classed amongst the vicious, who, from coarseness of feeling and sometimes perhaps from want of humanity, wound the self-love even of their dearest friends by vulgar jokes on the defects of their persons, their dress, nay, sometimes on their professions, their trades, or even on their poverty.

It is easy for any woman to behave with graceful propriety at the table of another, where she has nothing to do: but the test of an habitual gentlewoman is her behaviour at the head of her own.

(To be continued.)

He was proceeding with his soliloquy "Yet a little while,-and then," "and then what?" continued a plaintive female voice from behind the curtain, that concealed her slender but lovely form. "Is that you, Marianne, my love!" cried the unfortunate invalid, as he stretched forth his thin white hand to welcome her. His eye gleamed with unearthly brightness, his cheek was suddenly flushed with the hectic of joy, and then gradually resumed its wonted paleness. "I had quite given you up; -I was endeavouring to persuade myself it was all for the best-that I should never see you more,-that I must pass into eternity without receiving and imparting the farewell blessing. I know you will forgive me, but I could not help thinking there was something like unkindness in this last neglect, but now" —and his eye sparkled as he spake "but now my fears are vanished-I feel as though a load were removed from my heart-as if happiness was yet in store for us"-the tone of tender melancholy, in which he addressed her, had thrown her into tears, as he pronounced the last sentence her face was for a moment enlivened by a gleam of hope, and she involuntarily exclaimed, "Indeed!" he saw he heard her not; he was wrapt in his subject; and Marianne's soft blue eyes were again suffused with tears as he mournfully concluded-" but not here -not in this world."

He was a young man, apparently about nineteen, he could not be more than twenty; he had been in the army, abroad, had undergone the perils and fatigues of a two years' campaign in the Peninsula; he was advancing in his profession, had attained the rank of lieutenant when his health declined, his strength gave way, and he returned home with the prospect of recovery-he hoped in the caresses of his parents and the smiles of his Marianne, that his health would quickly be restored;-but from the hurry of travelling, ere he reached his home decay had made rapid inroads on his constitution. He arrived, and his parents knew not of it; they thought him on the mountains of Spain, and he was at their threshold-overpowered by a multitude of feelings,

scarce was he able to throw himself into their arms; they bore him to his bed, and he had been there ever since-it was only three days-to him it appeared an age-his sole enquiries were for his Marianne-they told him she was from home-it evidently preyed upon his spirits-it was therefore deemed prudent to deceive him no longer;-she had been nigh him, and he saw her not, she had heard him, and he knew it not; this was their first interview since his return from the Peninsula. Marianne endeavoured to cheer him,-she spoke of the war, of the hardships he had endured, of the laurels he had reaped-of the prospects before him-she faltered as she spoke-every effort to avert his mind from gloomy forebodings was unavailing;-he saw through the affectionate little artifice, smiled his thanks, and she was silent-the tide of feeling was at its height-one word would have told all-she rose to retire the big tear trembled in her eye, and ere she had closed the door a convulsive sob burst on the ears of the wretched William, and thrilled through his frame with indescribable anguish. Oh! but there is something in woman's sorrow that insensibly wins the heart, and engages the best feelings of our nature in its behalf;-the lamb-like resignation-the vain attemps to arrest the ebullition of feeling;-the retiring meekness that seeks to withdraw itself from public gaze;-the calm despair and the wild throb of agony alternate;-all tend to shew nature loveliest in her weaknesses. It was impossible to witness a scene like this and not inwardly curse the fiendish monster war;-my soul took an expansive glance over the unknown myriads this single war has swept to an untimely grave; on the tens of thousands it has beggared; and on the millions of hearts it has widowed. I asked myself;--and will it not be asked in another world? "Why should man raise his hand against his fellow?" His faculties, his feelings, his pleasures, and even his pains, bespeak him formed, not for himself alone, but for society, and yet in this particular, we run counter to nature,---we become lions,--we glory in the reeking blood of thousands, and,

queror many

like Indians o'er their sacrifices, turn midnight into day, with lighted windows, bonfires, loud huzzas:-and thus deluded thousands, whilst they mourn a husband, father, brother, shout for the general weal. When falls the connations mourn; bards swell the song, and statuaries join to tell posterity his deathless fame; but sons of mercy die and none regards— they pass untrophied to the quiet grave, but not forgotten.-Oh, no! their tribute is the bounding of the grateful heart, not shouts of multitudes mingled with dying groans-not widows' tears, but widows' blessings-not the bereaved orphan's anguished cry, but songs of gratitude-not dying soldiers' curses, but their prayers,-not the world's fear, but the world's veneration."

I know not how much longer my reverie might have continued, had not the return of Marianne called my attention to what was passing around me: there was a calmness in her aspect that might easily be accounted for; the full heart had overflowed-the tide of her feeling had subsided, and she was now sunk into a deep and settled melancholy. During her absence, her lover had fallen into a gentle slumber; fearful of disturbing his repose, she approached his bed-side on tiptoe, and, having seated herself beside him, watched his pale and haggard looks with the most fixed and solicitous regard. He appeared to be dreaming, his lips muttered inarticulate sounds-his face became flushed, his brow bedewed with perspiration his whole frame seemed agitated-she was alarmed; she took his hand, and gently pressing it, exclaimed, "William, my love!" he raised himself from his couch, and wildly casting his eyes around cried, as he earnestly seized her arm, "What, Marianne! here still? methought we were separated for ever -death was the divider-and I was just casting a last glance on this transitory world; 'twas all a dream—but shadows of truth-for I feel my strength rapidly wasting, and ere long shall be as though I ne'er had been. Yes-yes -I am verging towards eternity-each moment bears me like the boiling billow-farther from the shores of timemy eye is dim-my hand is feeble-my frame is relaxed, but my soul, my immortal soul, is still the same ;-it lives through all, and flourishes in the midst of ruin,-to feel all the agony of part

ing, and to experience with more poignant anguish the sad and solemn reflection, that when I am reposing beneath the grass-green turf, there will be one kind and gentle spirit left, lonely and deserted, who must weep unnoticed,sigh uncomforted,-in the hour of gaiety joyless, in the silence of solitude drear and desolate-these are the thoughts that rack-these the reflections that harrass me,-she who loved me living must mourn unconsoled o'er my memory when dead. Then, Marianne," continued he," then, when you shall call for me unanswered, save by the hollow echo from the graves-then, if parted souls may visit those they love, mine shall hover round you,-watch over your destiny, reverberate your sighs, weep over your sorrows, if disembodied spirits weep-and be the first to hail your trembling spirit when it crosses the threshold of eternity."---Those, and those only, who have stood beside the couch, where all that is lovely and valued lies struggling with the last enemy, can imagine the devotional fervour the something more than mortal interest with which Marianne beheld him.

---

This," said she, taking a little miniature from her bosom ;-"this is all that will remain to remind me of a hapless lover---but my heart needs no remembrancer--none, none, 'tis withering at the core, and ere long". The door slowly opened and an aged lady, whose face bespoke a heart ill at ease, gently approached to his bed-side, enquiring with much anxiety how he felt himself. He smiled, and would have reached forth his hand, but the effort was too much, and the willing arm fell heavy and languid by his side. "I am better now," said he, "much better," although his voice and features evidently bespoke him much weaker. Marianne was in tears, and her deep and repeated sobs at length attracted his attention-suddenly raising himself in his bed, he stretched forth his arms as if to clasp her, and then sunk exhausted, with his head upon her lap-she raised him tenderly, and having carefully smoothed his pillow, gently placed his head upon it.

"This is the boon, which, through many a wearisome night I have earnestly prayed; to have my pillow smoothed by the fostering hand of early affection---and now I die in peace; let them lay me," continued he with pathetic softness, "let them lay me beside