contempt with which they are every where met in society. The thief who by night takes his neighbor's property, may elude the vigilance of the magistrate and escape undetected. But that person who lays claim to excellencies not his own-who puts on the airs of dignity and importance which do not belong to him, will in vain try to escape the withering scorn of his fellow-beings. He cannot meet their vigilance by the disguises of art, nor their contempt with the shield of conscious rectitude. Mankind are not forward to bestow praise even where merit is most evident; much less where it is not. It is a confession of superiority, which is withheld until its claims have been strictly scrutinized, and then the reluctance of the acknowledgement shows that it is given because it cannot be withheld. How vain then for any one to claim through fictitious qualities, that applause and approbation which is so grudgingly given even to incontestible merit!

Affectation is a vile excrescence upon nature. It deforms and debases what if not lovely, would at least be divested of its power to disgust; for it rarely happens that what is natural excites either our ridicule or contempt. Though ignorance and deformity cannot please, yet they excite our pity rather than ridicule, our compassion rather than contempt. It is when ignorance usurps the place of knowledge-it is when deformity assumes the appearance and prerogatives of beauty that they meet the scorn and contempt of mankind. And it is with feelings of pity that we regard the folly and weakness of those who think themselves able by the assistance of art to supply the supposed deficiencies of nature. Nature is the workmanship of a perfect artist. In her simplicity and beauty she charms and delights us. She is the standard, from which every variation is a descent in the scale of excellence. But in this age of improvement and refinement whither has nature fled? Many of both sexes-many who are called ladies, have exchanged her artlessness for duplicity, her openness for hypocrisy, her sincerity for deception?

H. would set herself up as the model of all that is polite and elegant in manners. While her lip curls with disdain, at what she calls the stiff and awkward movements of E., she regards her own "mincing mien" as the airs of perfect gentility. If she enters any place of public resort it is with a measured toss of the head-a contortion of the whole frame so indescribably polite as to attract the attention of every person present, and she sits down with the conscious delight that every eye is turned upon her in admiration. In the drawing-room, for native grace and ease, she assumes the at. titude of careless indifference-at the table,

One white finger and a thumb conspire

To lift the cup, and make the world admire.

In conversation she has acquired such wonderful skill in the use of the interjections and superlatives, that she without difficulty strings them along in almost every sentence; especially if a new or interesting topic is introduced-for instance,a fine morning or a cloudy day. Such is the turn which affectation takes in H. But in D. it is of another sort. All her movements are with perfect propriety as to time and place. She bows, she smiles, she applauds when she ought. Her remarks are well-timed, well-arranged, and well expressed. But in every thing she over acts. She bows with servility-she smiles with adulation-she applauds with extravagance. If she meets a friend it is with the kindest and warmest expressions of regard.

But the ardency of her language and manner seem if possible to increase in proportion to her want of feeling. Her heart is in her head. All her praise is soon seen to be arrant flattery. It flows not from a heart warmed with generous emotion, but from a head which dictates what ought to be the sentiments of the heart.

It is sometimes said in defence of affectation that it springs from a desire to please, and is a mistake only as to the means of securing an end good in itself. But we are very apt to suspect those attempts to please which do not flow from the warm gushing fountains of the heart. And though vanity might be gratified at the thought of so much importance in the estimation of others, as to induce them to descend to the low arts of flattery in order to gain our friendship, yet the ever wakeful instinct of self-preservation within, bids us beware how we trust to a friendship so precarious and uncertain. The reasons which prompt to those affected expressions of kindness to-day may not exist to-morrow, and then like an unfashionable garment we are laid aside as of no farther use.

Affectation, of whatever kind it may be, is a fault difficult to be remedied, and therefore should be avoided with the greater care. It is difficult, because it is hard to convince the person who has acquired the habit of affectation, that it is really a fault which needs to be corrected. She has been at great pains to secure it, it may be long and fondly cherished it, until it has become the darling of her soul. And now whoever faithfully points out to her her faults she regards as an enemy, who would pluck from her her brightest plumes. While her faults are to her the clearest demonstrations of her worth, she thinks nothing but envy or dull stupidity in others, could fail to look upon them in the same light in which she herself regards them.

Again, it not unfrequently engenders a bad disposition. Those qualities on which we most pride ourselves, we are of course most careful always to exhibit. But affectation, instead of commanding the applause and admiration of others, instead of gaining the heart, meets the just indignation of the community. Thus the disposition of those who meet with disappointment is soured, their envy and jealousy are excited, until they often become dissatisfied with themselves, dissatisfied with their friends and the world about them. Such, if they value the pleasures of self-complacency, or would win the confidence and affection of others, we advise to cultivate a more intimate acquaintance with their own hearts.

A good heart, is the only sure protection against affectation-the only complete remedy for this wide spread evil. B.

The late admiral Colpoys, who rose to the highest rank and honors of his profession from his own merit and exertions alone, used to be fond of stating, that on first leaving a humble lodging to join his ship as midshipman, his landlady presented him with a Bible and guinea, saying: "God bless and prosper you, my lad; and as long as you live never suffer yourself to be laughed out of your money or your prayers"-advice which he sedulously followed through life.

I LOVE to wander through a church-yard. There is something so calm and quiet about it, so removed from the noise and bustle of the world, that it seems like holy ground. It is strange that we always think of a church-yard as connected with gloomy associations. Why is it that the peaceful resting places of the dead, should call forth gloomy thoughts? Why is it, that the generality of mankind avoid entering the courts of the departed, as if they were forbidden places to the living? It ought not so to be. Some of my most pleasantly, yes, and most profitably spent hours, have been passed in the calm and quiet of a country church-yard. I love to wander through its quiet paths, and muse upon the unconscious sleepers around me, on a mild

Extracts from Church-yard Meditations.

117

summer's day, when all is still save the gentle murmuring of the breeze, which itself seems to invite us to calm meditation. There is no place better fitted for reflection than this. To stand among the silent tombs and look around upon the mounds which cover the remains of the young, the gay, the beautiful; the infant of days, the youth, the man of middle age, and he whose head was white with the frosts of time ;-all this is well calculated to call forth feelings, profitable and even pleasant, though there is sadness in them.

Go with me for a few moments into yonder church-yard, and let us walk among the peaceful dwellings of the dead. It is a large enclosure and contains many of those grassy mounds which tell us where the remains of the departed are laid. Here, beneath "the clods of the valley," a vast multitude repose who once were moving in the busy scenes of life, but who have forever bid adieu to the world and its concerns and now rest from their labors.

Here, a plain white stone, (fit emblem of virgin innocence) tells us of a young female suddenly called from home and friends, and all that could make life desirable. Life seemed to her a bright and cloudless day. No storms had as yet risen over the horizon of her fair sky; but all was peace, and joy, and happiness. Here we are tempted to exclaim against the fell destroyer, Death, for thus selecting his victim from among the young and fair, and passing by the aged who seem to be standing upon the verge of the grave, and almost ready to sink into its bosom. But pause a moment. The inscription further informs us, that "she died in peace, rejoicing in the hope of a glorious immortality." Then chide not the messenger who came to call her home. She had as yet known little of the sorrows and troubles of life, was it not merciful to send her "summons home" so soon? Yea, God seeth not as man seeth, "the righteous are taken away from the evil to come."

But what says that little stone, peeping out from the long grass which almost covers it? It points out to us the resting place of an infant, the first born of its mother's love, called away to heaven before it had become tainted with the pollution of earth. It was not permitted to stay with its fond parents even one year, but as it were "having begun to sip the cup of life, and tasting its bitterness, it turned away its head and refused the draught."

Alas, for its fond mother! She who had fondly hoped that it would live to be her pride and joy, the stay of her declining years. Alas for her, who had watched over it with unspeakable tenderness, for it was her only child, her first-born son. But that mourning, broken-hearted mother said, "Thy will, O God, be done!" She looked beyond this world, and saw her blessed babe safely clasped in the arms of Jesus, and though her own heart was. desolate and bleeding, she would not call the loved one back.

But the day is fast passing away, and night has begun to spread her sable pall over the earth. Let us retire from this place, feeling that it is good for us to have been here, and amid the toil and bustle of the world let us not forget the lesson we have learned among the narrow houses appointed unto all living."

New York, April 19th, 1836.

F.

THE WIFE OF SIR JAMES MACKINTOSH.

Sir James Mackintosh thus beautifully describes, in a letter to a friend, the character of his deceased wife. It contains one of the most interesting exhibitions of female excellence, and the power of female influence, we have ever met with. If there were more such wives there would be less domestic sorrow.

"Allow me in justice to her memory, to tell you what she was, and what I owed her. I was guided in my choice only by the blind affection of my youth. I found an intelligent companion, and a tender friend, a prudent monitress, the most faithful of wives, and a mother as tender as children ever had the misfortune to lose. I met a woman who by the tender management of my weaknesses gradually corrected the most pernicious of them. She became prudent from affection; and though of the most generous nature, she was taught frugality and economy by her love for me. During the most critical period of my life, she preserved order in my affairs, from the care of which she relieved me. She gently reclaimed me from dissipation; she propped my weak and irresolute nature; she urged my indolence to all the exertions that have been useful or creditable to me, and she was perpetually at hand to admonish my heedlessness and improvidence. To her I owe whatever I am; to her whatever I shall be. In her solicitude for my interest, she never for a moment forgot my feelings or my character. Even in her occasional resentment, for which I but too often gave her cause, (would to God I could recall those moments) she had no sullenness or acrimony. Her feelings were warm and impetuous, but she was placable, tender and constant. Such was she whom I have lost; and I have lost her when her excellent natural sense was rapidly improving, after eight years of struggle and distress had bound us fast to each other-when a knowledge of her worth had refined my youthful love into friendship, before age had deprived it of much of its original ardor,-I lost her, alas! (the choice of my youth and the partner of my misfortunes) at a moment when I had a prospect of her sharing my better days.

The philosophy which I have learnt, only teaches me that virtue and friendship are the greatest of human blessings, and that their loss is irreparable. It aggravates my calamity, instead of consoling me under it. My wounded heart seeks another consolation. Governed by these feelings, which have in every age and region of the world actuated the human mind, I seek relief, and I find it, in the soothing hope and consolatory opinion, that a benevolent wisdom inflicts the chastisement, as well as bestows the enjoyment of human life; that superintending goodness will one day enlighten the darkness which surrounds our nature, and hangs over our prospects; that this dreary and wretched life is not the whole of man; that an animal so sagacious and provident, and capable of such proficiency in science and virtue, is not like the beasts that perish, that there is a dwelling place prepared for the spirits of the just, and that the ways of God will yet be vindicated to man. The sentiments of religion, which were implanted in my mind in my early youth, and which were revived by the awful scenes which I have seen passing before my eyes in the world, are I trust deeply rooted in my heart by this calamity."