kind; thus paying an obliging deference to their judgment, so far as it is not inconsistent with the higher obligations of virtue and religion. This must be accompanied with an elegance of taste, and a delicacy observant of the least trifles, which tend to please or to oblige; and, though its foundation must be rooted in the heart, it can scarce be perfect without a complete knowledge of the world. In society, it is the medium that blends all different tempers into the most pleasing harmony; while it imposes silence on the loquacious, and inclines the most reserved to furnish their share of the conversation. It represses the desire of shining alone, and increases the desire of being mutually agreeable. It takes off the edge of raillery, and gives delicacy to wit. To superiors, it appears in a respectful freedom. No greatness can awe it into servility, and no intimacy can sink it into a regardless familiarity. To inferiors, it shows itself in an unassuming good nature. Its aim is to raise them to you, not to let you down to them. It at once maintains the dignity of your station, and expresses the goodness of your heart. To equals, it is every thing that is charming; it studies their inclinations, prevents their desires, attends to every little exactness of behavior, and all the time appears perfectly disengaged and careless. Such and so amiable is true politeness; by people of wrong heads and unworthy hearts, disgraced in its two extremes; and, by the generality of mankind, confined within the narrow bounds of mere good breeding, which, in truth, is only one instance of it. There is a kind of character, which does not, in the least, deserve to be reckoned polite, though it is exact in every punctilio of behavior; such as would not, for the world, omit paying you the civility of a bow, or fail in the least circumstance of decorum. But then these people do this merely for their own sake: whether you are pleased or embarrassed with it, is little of their care. They have performed their own parts, and are satisfied. MISS TALBOT. THOUGH Nature weigh our talents, and dispense May be esteemed a gift, and not an art, Ye powers, who rule the tongue,-if such there are,And make colloquial happiness your care, Preserve me from the thing I dread and hate, Vociferated logic kills me quite; A noisy man is always in the right; Dubius is such a scrupulous, good man; He humbly hopes, presumes, it may be so. A story, in which native humor reigns, But sedentary weavers of long tales 66 And, in the saddest part, cry, Droll indeed!" I pity bashful men, who feel the pain The fear of being silent makes us mute. And only blushes in the proper place; But counterfeit is blind, and skulks, through fear, Humility the parent of the first, The last by vanity produced and nursed. The circle formed, we sit in silent state, Like figures drawn upon a dial-plate; "Yes, ma'am," and "No, ma'am," uttered softly, show, Each individual, suffering a constraint And coughs, and rheums, and phthisics, and catarrh. Filled up, at last, with interesting news. And now, let no man charge me that I mean CowPER. LESSON LVII. ELEGY ON MADAM BLA1ZE. GOOD people all, with one accord, The needy seldom passed her door, She strove the neighborhood to please At church, in silks and satins new, Her love was sought, I do aver, GILBERT AINSLIE was a poor man; and he had been a poor man all the days of his life, which were not few, for his thin hair was now waxing gray. He had been born and bred on the small moorland farm which he now occupied; and he hoped to die there, as his father and grandfather had done before him, leaving a family just above the more bitter wants of this world. Labor, hard and unremitting, had been his lot in life; but although sometimes severely tried, he had never repined; and through all the mist, and gloom, and even the storms, that had assailed him, he had lived on, from year to year, in that calm and resigned contentment, which unconsciously cheers the hearth-stone of the blameless poor. With his own hand he had plowed, sowed, and reaped his often scanty harvest; assisted, as they grew up, by three sons, who, even in boyhood, were happy to work along with their father in the fields. Out of doors, or in, Gilbert Ainslie was never idle. The spade, the shears, the plow-shaft, the sickle, and the flail, all came readily to hands that grasped them well; and not a morsel of food was eaten under his roof, or a garment worn there, that was not honestly, severely, and nobly earned. Gilbert Ainslie was a slave, but it was for them he loved with a sober and deep affection. The thralldom under which he lived, God had imposed, and it only served to give his character a shade of silent gravity, but not austerity; to make his smiles fewer, but more heartfelt; to calm his soul at grace, before and after meals; and to kindle it in morning and evening prayer. man. There is no need to tell the character of the wife of such a Meek and thoughtful, yet gladsome and gay withal, her heaven was in her house; and her gentler and weaker hands helped to bar the door against want. Of ten children that had been born to them, they had lost three; and, as they had fed, clothed, and educated them respectably, so did they give those who died a respectable funeral. The living did not grudge to give up, for a while, some of their daily comforts, for the sake of the dead; and bought with the little sums, which their industry had saved, decent mournings, worn on Sabbath, and then carefully laid by. Of the seven that survived, two sons were farm-servants in the neighborhood, while three daughters and two sons remained at home, growing, or grown up, a small, happy, hard-working household. Many cottages are there in Scotland like Moss-side, and |