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and regard to character; sometimes from fear, and even from selfishness, which obliges men to show kindness, in order that they may receive returns of it. In such cases, the exterior of fair behavior may be preserved. But all will admit, that when from constraint only, the offices of seeming kindness are performed, little dependance can be placed on them,
and little value allowed to them. 3. By others, these offices are discharged solely from a principle of duty. They are men of cold affections, and perhaps of an interested character. But overawed by a sense of religion, and convinced that they are bound to be beneficent, they fulfill the course of relative duties with regular tenor. Such men act from conscience and principle. So far they do well, and are worthy of praise. They assist their friends; they give to the poor; they do justice to all.
4. But what a different complexion is given to the same actions,-how much higher flavor do they acquire,—when they flow from the sensibility of a feeling heart? if one be not moved by affection, even supposing him influenced by principle, he will go no farther than strict principle appears to require. He will advance slowly and reluctantly. As it os justice, not generosity, which impels him, he will often feel as a task what he is required by conscience to perform. Whereas, to him who is prompted by virtuous sensibility, every office of beneficence and humanity is a pleasure.
5. He gives, assists, and relieves, not merely because he is bound to do so, but because it would be painful for him to refrain. Hence the smallest benefit he confers rises in its value on account of its carrying the affection of the giver impressed upon the gift. It speaks his heart, and the discovery of the heart is very frequently of greater consequence than all that liberality can bestow.
6. How often will the affectionate smile of approbation gladden the humble, and raise the dejected! How often will the look of tender sympathy, or the tear that involuntarily falls, impart consolation to the unhappy! By means of this correspondence of hearts, all the great duties which we owe to one another are both performed to more advantage, and endeared in the performance.
7. From true sensibility flow a thousand good offices, apparently small in themselves, but of high importance to the felicity of others ;-offices which altogether escape the observation of the cold and unfeding, who by the hardness of their manner render themselves unamiable, even when they
6 Fe-liç'-i-ty, blies, happiness
a. Sym-pa-thy, compassion, fellow feel
mean to do good. How happy then would it be for mankind, if this affectionate disposition prevailed more generally in the world! How much would the sum of public virtue and public felicity be increased, if men were always inclined to rejoice with those that rejoice, and to weep with those that weep.
The importance of order in the management of business. 1. WHATEVER. may be your business or occupation in life, let the administration of it proceed with method and economy. From time to time examine your situation; and proportion your expense to your growing, or diminishing revenue. Provide what is necessary before you indulge in what is superfluous. Study to do justice to all with whom you deal, before you affect the praise of liberality. In a word, fix such a plan of living as you find that your circumstances will fairly admit, and adhere to it invariably, against every temptation to improper excess.
2. No admonition respecting morals is more necessary than this, to the age in which we live-an age manifestly distinguished by a propensity to thoughtless profusion; wherein all the different ranks of men are observed to press with forward vanity on those who are above them ; to vie with their superiors in every mode of luxury and ostentation ; and to seek no farther argument for justifying extravagance, than the fashion of the times and the supposed necessity of living like others around them.
3. This turn of mind begets contempt for sober and orderly plans of life. It overthrows all regard to domestic concerns and duties. It pushes men on to hazardous and visionary schemes of gain, and unfortunately unites the two extremes of grasping with rapaciousnesse and of squandering with profusion. In the midst of such disorder, no prosperity can be of long continuance. While confusion grows upon men's affairs, and prodigality at the same time wastes their substance, poverty makes its advances like an armed man.
4. They tremble at the view of the approaching evil, but have lost the force of mind to make provision against it. Accustomed to move in a round of society and pleasures disproportioned to their condition, they are unable to break through the enchantments of habit; and, with their eyes
a Rev'-e-nue, income.
6 Ra-pa'-cious-ness, disposition to plure der.
open, sink into the gulf which is before them. Poverty enforces dependence; and dependence increases corruption. Necessity first betrays them into mean compliances ; next impels them to open crime; and, beginning with ostentation and extravagance, they end in infamy and guilt.
5. Such are the consequences of neglecting order in our worldly circumstances. Such is the circle in which the profuse and the dissolute daily run.—To what cause, so much as to the want of order, can we attribute those scenes of distress which so frequently excite our pity-families that once were flourishing reduced to and the melancholy widow and neglected orphan thrown forth friendless upon the world ? What cause has been more fruitful in engendering those atrocious crimes which fill society with disquiet and terror,-in training the gamester to fraud, the robber to violence, and even the assassina to blood ?
6. Be assured, then, that order, frugality, and economy are the necessary supports of every personal and private virtue. How humble soever these qualities may appear to some, they are nevertheless the basisb on which liberty, independence, and true honor must rise. He who has the steadiness to arrange his affairs with method and regularity, and to conduct his train of life agreeably to his circumstances, can be master of himself in every situation into which he may be thrown.
7. He is under no necessity to flatter or to lie, to stoop to what is mean, or to commit what is criminal. But he who wants that firmness of mind which the observance of order requires, is held in bondage to the world; he can neither act tais part with courage as a man, nor with fidelity as a Chrisian. From the moment you have allowed yourselves to pass the line of economy, and live beyond your fortune, you have intered on the path of danger. Precipices surround you on null sides. Every step which you take may lead to mischiefs that as yet lie hidden, and to crimes that will end in everasting perdition.
The Funeral of Maria. bi
1. MARIA was in her twentieth year. To the beauty of her orm, and excellence of her natural disposition, a parent, qually indulgent and attentive, had done the fullest justice. To accomplish her person, and to cultivate her mind, every ndeavor had been used, and had been attended with that a As-sas'-sin, one who kills by secret as- 6 Ba'-sis, foundation, support.
success which parental efforts commonly meet with, when not prevented by mistaken fondness or untimely vanity.
2. Few young ladies have attracted more admiration; non ever felt it less : with all the charms of beauty, and the polis of education, the plainest were not less affected, nor the mos ignorant less assuming. She died when every tongue wa eloquent of her virtues, when every hope was ripening to ward them.
3. It is by such private and domestic distresses, that th softer emotions of the heart are most strongly excited. T fall of more important personages is commonly distant fra our observation; but, even where it happens under our in mediate notice, there is a mixture of other feelings, by whic our compassion is weakened.
4. The eminently great, or extensively useful, leave behin them a train of interrupted views, and disappointed expect tions, by which the distress is complicateda beyond the sin plicity of pity. But the death of one, who like Maria was shed the influence of her virtues over the age of a father, an the childhood of her sisters, presents to us a little view of mily affliction, which every eye can perceive, and every hea can feel.
5. On scenes of public sorrow and national regret, we ga as upon those gallery pictures, which strike us with wond and admiration : domestic calamity is like the miniatureb a friend, which we wear in our bosoms, and keep for secm looks and solitary enjoyment.
6. The last time I saw Maria, was in the midst of a crow ed assembly of the fashionable and the gay, where she fix all eyes by the gracefulness of her motions, and the nati dignity of her mien; yet, so tempered was that superiori which they conferred with gentleness and modesty, that a murmur was heard, either from the rivalship of beauty, the envy of homeliness. From that scene the transition so violent to the hearse and the pall, the grave and the se that once or twice my imagination turned rebel to my sense I beheld the objects around me as the painting of a drea and thought of Maria as still living.
7. I was soon, however, recalled to the sad reality:-1 figure of her father bending over the grave of his darli. child.; the silent, suffering composure, in which his coun nance was fixed; the tears of his attendants, whose grief bght and capable of tears; these gave me back the truth, reminded me that I should see her no more. There was
4 Com'-pli-ca-ced, intricate, perplexed. 6 Min'-l-a-ture, a small likeness.
e Trans-i"-tion, a passing from ODCI to another.
low of sorrow, with which I suffered myself to be borne along with a melancholy kind of indulgence; but when her father dropped the cord with which he had helped to lay his Maria in the earth, its sound on the coffin chilled my heart, ind horror for a moment took place of pity!
8. It was but for a moment.—He looked eagerly into the zrave;. made one involuntary motion to stop the assistants, who were throwing the earth into it; then, suddenly recolecting himself, clasped his hands together, threw up his eyes o heaven, and then, first, I saw a few tears drop from them.
gave language to all this. It spoke a lesson of faith, and giety, and resignation.--I went away sorrowful, but my sortow was neither ungentle nor unmanly; I cast on this world i glance rather of pity than of enmity; and on the next, a ook of humbleness and hope !
9. Such, I am persuaded, will commonly be the effect of scenes like that I have described, on minds neither frigid nor unthinking: for, of feelings like these, the gloom of the ascetica is as little susceptible as the levity of the giddy. There needs a certain pliancy of mind which society alone can give;though its vices often destroy it,—to render us capable of that gentle melancholy, which makes sorrow pleasant, and affliction useful.
10. It is not from a melancholy of this sort, that men are prompted to the cold, unfruitful virtues of monkish solitude. These are often the effects, rather of passion secluded than repressed, rather of temptation avoided than overcome. The crucifix and the rosary, the death's head and the bones, if custom has not made them indifferent, will rather chill desire than excite virtue; but, amidst the warmth of social affection, and of social sympathy, the heart will feel the weakness, and enjoy the duties of humanity.
11. Perhaps it will be said, that such situations and such reflections as the foregoing, will only affect minds already too tender, and be disregarded by those who need the lessons they impart. But this, I apprehend, is to allow too much to the force of habit, and the resistance of prejudice.
12. I will not pretend to assert, that rooted principles and long-established conduct are suddenly to be changed by the effects of situation, or the eloquence of sentiment; but, if it be granted that such change ever took place, who shall determine by what imperceptible motive, or accidental impression, it was first begun? And, even if the influence of such a call to thought can only smother in its birth, one allureinent to & As-cet'-ic, a retired and devout person. c Ro'-sa-ry, a string of beads on which Cru'ci-fix, a little cross with the body prayers are numbered.