WHAT IS IT TO BE CONSCIENTIOUS?

89

not dwell on cousin Catherine's faults, for cousins should not try to find out each other's faults, and talk about them; but, if they know each other to be in fault, kindly speak of it, and remember to avoid doing the same thing themselves.

One who is conscientious, does every thing that she thinks and believes to be right; as, for instance, when she relates a story, or states any thing that she has seen or known, she is very particular to relate it as nearly as possible as she heard it, or as it appeared to her: not because it will please any body, but because she knows that she ought to do it, to be just,—and that to do otherwise would be wrong, and an injury to the person to whom it is related.

If you will listen to me a few moments, I will relate to you an anecdote of a little girl I once knew, by which you will understand what conscientiousness means, better than I can explain it in any other way.

Caroline Stanton had the misfortune to lose her mother, when quite a little infant; but this severe loss was in some measure made up to her, by a kind and affectionate grandmother, who, after her mother died, took her home with her, that she might bring her up. Caroline was kind and amiable in her disposition, and her grandmother was very much attached to her, and reposed a great deal of confidence in her.

Now, her grandmother had a closet, in which she used to keep locked up-cake, preserves, and many little nice things. Whenever Caroline wished to go into this closet,

her grandmother would give her the keys, for she thought she was a very honest girl, and would touch nothing that she ought not to do: but on one occasion, she asked for the keys, with an intention to get some jelly; which, had she asked for, her grandmother would have given her, for she was very indulgent: she however went and helped herself, thinking she should not be found out.

But under the influence of conscientiousness, she soon began to reflect upon the injustice she had been guilty of; she said to herself, 'that jelly was not mine, and I had no right to take it without permission, and therefore I have done very wrong.' Her thoughts troubled her so much, that when she retired to bed, she could get no sleep now, this feeling-which kept her awakewas remorse of conscience. Conscientiousness, as I said before, is that feeling, which makes us wish to do right. Now, when Caroline went to get the jelly, it is most likely she knew she was doing wrong; and, if that feeling had prevented her from taking it, then she would have acted conscientiously, and have felt happy: but, because she did not do what she thought and knew was right, she afterwards felt guilty, and unhappy.

Fanny. What did Caroline do did she tell her grandmother?

Aunt Mary. Yes, my dear, she told her all about it, and asked her to forgive her; but this would have done no good, if it had not been the means of making her try to do better, ever afterwards. However, in asking forgiveness, she did right, and acted conscientiously; and

whenever little girls or boys do anything they know to be wrong, they should never feel ashamed to confess it; but, on the contrary, should ask those, to whom they have done wrong, to forgive them-and resolve not to do the same thing again—and then every one will be willing to trust them, and believe whatever they say.

Fanny. Aunt Mary, was not cousin Catherine conscientious, when she told me the other day that she would not tell a wrong story, because it would be so mean her father and mother would not love her-and no one would think well of her?

Aunt Mary. No, dear Fanny: not to do that which is wrong, only because we think it mean, comes, at least in part, from a feeling of pride; and, to refrain from doing it, because her father and mother would not love her, was from the fear of loosing their affection,-not simply because it was right; and to do that which is right and just-and say that which is true-to gain the good will of others, is preferring the praise of others to the love of being really just and honest.

Children should love their parents-and obey them not merely because by so doing, their parents will love them better, but because it is a conscientious duty to

do so.

P.

Letters from Sister Jane.

NO. III.

CADIZ.

MY DEAR CHILD.

I have no doubt my last letter from Lisbon afforded you some pleasure, and I therefore gladly avail myself of the present opportunity of again writing to you. You will see, from these letters, that sister Jane has not forgotten her loved relatives in England; indeed, every day that I continue away from you, makes me prize more dearly, the love and affection of those who are so dear to me at home, and I look forward with delight to the day when I shall again be with you, and participate in all your enjoyments.

Cadiz is a much cleaner and prettier town than Lisbon. The Spaniards are a much finer race of men, and dress much better than the Portuguese. The houses are very lofty, but the streets are very narrow: you will perhaps say, 'I do not like narrow streets!' but here it is an advantage, as it prevents the sun from scorching the passengers, it being very hot here. The houses are built chiefly of stone, with iron bars in the front, like a prison; the town is strongly fortified, and the gates are closed every day at sunset, after which time a carriage

cannot go out into the country, without a passport from the authorities: the streets being so narrow, carriages cannot be driven through them for pleasure, as in England.

The costume of the Spaniards is very picturesque : the women wear no bonnets, but a black silk mantilla, trimmed with black lace, fastened to the back part of the head, this answers the purpose both of a bonnet and shawl, and, at the same time, is very ornamental; they are also very fond of a fan, which is a protection from the sun, and is used instead of a parasol.

The men wear jackets, braided and trimmed with bright buttons—a hat, of a conical or sugar-loaf shape, with two or three coloured ribbons tied round the crown.

I have visited the Cathedral, which is a most beautiful building. I have also been over to St. Mary's, with a party of pleasure: it is a very pretty village across the water, where the grapes grow from which wine is made, for which Cadiz is so famous. We passed through the orange groves, which smelt very delicious, and I saw blossoms, green and ripe fruit, all growing at once, on the same tree. Along the road-side the aloe was growing luxuriently, forming a sort of hedge.

Adieu, my dear child, until next month, when you shall have another letter, from your affectionate sister,

JANE.