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THE MEADOW.

his part so well as effectually to blind the eyes of his neighbor, though he has too much penetration to be imposed upon himself. In this respect, however, notwithstanding all the selfcomplacency and vanity of the human heart, a man could scarcely fail to be, sooner or later, convinced of his mistake, if it were not that the affectation of being duped, by his masked performances, constitutes one of the principal ingredients in the politeness of his acquaintances."

Humiliating as this picture is, it needs no great familiarity with the so-called polite world to convince any one of its truth. The circles of the great and fashionable abound, in every city of

the civilized world, with living specimens of this systematic hollow-heartedness. We have seen it and observed it, until we have been almost disgusted at the very name of politeness. And one object that we have in these remarks, is, if possible, to introduce a higher style of manners into the refined world, by ingrafting upon the rules of good-breeding a principle of noble, disinterested, and self-denying kindness. It is to show that all politeness that does not flow from the heart is mere grimace; and that the purer the heart, the more perfect, in like circumstances, will be the expression of good-will, the exhibition of true politeness.

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"And I was contriving what kind of a Lie I

should tell him."

This expression it was my fortune, or misfortune to overhear, while passing along one of the public promenades of a neighboring city. It was uttered by one of two fashionably dressed young women who were passing me at the moment, and whose appearance would, in the estimation of the world, be esteemed beautiful, interesting and intelligent. The thoughtless abandon with which the expression seemed to be uttered, gave a painful impression of the character and heart of the speaker.

These words were, of course, all that I knew, or wished to know, of the connection of the discourse. But they were, at once, the history of a heart perverted by education or corrupted by evil associations, or, inherently, unprincipled and base. Surely, thought I, that young woman could not have been the subject of a pious mother's prayers and affections; and, if she have brothers, are they not vicious and degraded? Her father may be rich, and she may be an heiress, and occupy a high rank in society, and be esteemed for her position and influence: but she is, in the strictest sense, a woman without integrity! Not only does her example justify the unfavorable inferences suggested, respecting her friends and teachers; but the ministers of vice point triumphantly to such an one to justify their slanders against the sex. "False and fair and deceiving," as applied to woman, is their cant and their song; and here is one who seems to answer their description. It is the exception, doubtless, but would that it were the only one!

But I cannot follow the painful developments of this species of education; for the very history of vice may be contagious in propagating the evil. I would rather content myself with incul

cating a purer example, while the incident mentioned is made a sufficient illustration of the baseness of falsehood.

And who was to be made the victim of this deception, so deliberately planned? Was it a father whose commands had been violated? a brother whose confidence had been betrayed? a friend who had wasted attentions on a heartless prude or was it to respond to the purest and best affections of a devoted lover?

I could not suppose that one standing in the position of the conjugal relation was to be the victim, without presuming its author to be depraved beyond the reach of hope! And were it a teacher, I should exclaim, How little does the thoughtless girl reflect on the price she is paying for a momentary success-in the formation of habits that, soon or late, will leave her without respect and without character! For, however the world may practice and laugh at deception, it seeks only for integrity, as the jewel of its confidence.

We like to contemplate the graces of female beauty, where life, and hope, and smiles, and all the witcheries of loveliness, are the drapery of a mind at peace, and a heart endowed with goodBut let falsehood be suspected, and the angel-form seems vile. We loathe the wreath and tresses that deck the brow of shame.

ness.

If falsehood seems thus vile to those who practice it, and in the eye of man, how doth it appear when God beholds it? This is the question. Truth is the light around His throne; and naught but truth can enter heaven. Falsehood may have its triumph for a day, but all its gains are wasted in an hour, and with them fade its authors. Those who love and make a lie are classed with all the vile who sit and weep and howl without the gates of paradise.

ENFORCING THE SANITARY LAWS.-This expressive engraving is from a subject by Robert McInnes, a distinguished British artist, and is one of those happy ideas which, however well or ill painted, are pretty sure of general favor. The struggling of the boy in the hands of his deter

mined nurse, vainly attempting to resist the application of clean water and rough towel, is an incident familiar enough to all to secure an instant appreciation, independently of the pictorial pun in which its humor consists.

CONSCIENCE THE TRUE NEMESIS.

BY GEORGE

B.

CHEEVER, D.D.

SEE

A WHEEL, composed of a great many spokes, may go round with such rapidity, that, to the eye, it shall appear to be a solid mass, like a millstone; nay, it may go round with such incredible swiftness, that the possibility of detecting the motion by the eye shall be lost; it shall seem to be perfectly still. And yet, every one of its revolutions is distinctly made, in a distinct interval of time, and may be numbered. So it may be with the Conscience. It may seem asleep, but this may be only because its acts are so rapid, so brief, so innumerable, that they are not noticed. It may seem asleep, and yet there may be traced a judgment of the Conscience, even upon every idle word.

The more a man's Conscience is unheeded now, the more a man puts in reserve to be heeded hereafter. The greater the number of the revolutions of this wheel unnoticed now, the greater the number to be counted hereafter. A man of insensibility is so far from being secured against the operations of Conscience, that he is accumulating work for himself to do by and by. He is like a man falling in debt, who strives to keep off the sense of his liabilities, by keeping no account current, but going on in his business just as if he were every day starting fresh and fair, with an unincumbered capital. Every unrecorded debt is a step to his ruin. It is a weight upon his fortunes, that, so far from being lighter because it is not now felt, is growing heavier every day that it is unnoticed. By and by the crash will be inevitable, irremediable.

Thus, Conscience is not merely introspective, but retrospective, in its operations. It is not only a knowing with, but a knowing back; not merely a witness at the moment, but long after. A man may dream, because Conscience does not trouble him now, that there shall be no retrospective action hereafter; or may dream that every step he travels from the date and the scene of his sins, Conscience will be weaker, and he more secure from its power. But it is never so, and sometimes the very contrary seems to be the case. Sometimes, the longer a man's insensibility as to his course of sin continues, and the more effectual its concealment, the more terrible is the power of Conscience at the last.

PLATE.

Sometimes the faculty of Conscience does this work of retrospection and conviction now, with an appalling power. The whole being is arrested, petrified, as it were, in a single attitude of crime; projected beyond itself, and brought to gaze upon itself, to judge and condemn itself, with a power of self-anguish, self-retribution, selfmisery, that, if it were exercised upon others, would be deemed a stern and awful vengeance. But no man accuses it of cruelty, no man accuses himself, or God, of injustice, when writhing under the agony of a wrathful Conscience.

The reason why this retrospective work of Conscience in some great things, some great crimes, is wrought with a power so immeasurably greater than in the ordinary instances of its exercise, so that it seems as a new creation of the mind, a new faculty before unheard of, is not merely because of the so much greater heinousness and glare of guilt in some crimes than in others, though that is a great thing, but also because of the deliberation with which such crimes are almost always committed. A man comes to the act fighting against Conscience all the way. A man revolves it in his thoughts, plans its execution, prepares for it, forecasts the result, provides for after action, advances to it circumspectly, with full time to deliberate, and Conscience keeps pace with him all the way. So, when it is done, the whole power of Conscience falls back upon him in the weight and avengement of all previous outrage and resistance, all stifling and searing, all disregard of inward and external voices, all perseverance and obstinacy against light, love, mercy, providence, and grace. Conscience falls back to her work of retrospection, armed at all these points, with her power increased tenfold by all previous neglect and opposition.

A man tracks a traveller over a wild moor. He knew that he had purse of gold about him. He planned the outrage, the theft, the murder, deliberately. He saw him at the last inn. He forecasted the attack, and the avoidance of pursuit. He waited on his movements, and followed him till he came to the place most suited to his dreadful purpose. He struggled with him, stabbed him, and, with the coveted gold in his hand, fled

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