go without me, and Mrs. Harris will have the things; and my going will make no difference you know.

Mother. Make no difference! did you not say you promised to go? and do you make thus light of your promises?

Eliza. No, mamma, I should not, if it was of any consequence; but I do not see what good I shall do by going.

Mother. A promise is a promise, and as such is of the first consequence, and to be kept, because you have made it; this is the first and best reason for keeping a promise. You say it will make no difference; it will make a difference; and perhaps a great one. In the first place, Sarah may, and probably will, wait for you, perhaps, until it is too late to go; and her mother may not like to have her go alone at all. Then poor Mrs. Harris may suffer for the want of the comforting things, which Mrs. Lee is so kind as to provide for her. Then your kind friend Sarah will lose confidence in you, and not know what to expect or depend upon another time. But the most important thing of all, my dear, is, that you will get, and by repeated indulgence strengthen the habit of not keeping your promises; and you will certainly allow that this would be a very bad habit, and would be attended with many unpleasant consequences.

Eliza. Yes, mamma; but I would keep my promises when they are of consequence and break them only when it is of no consequence.

Mother. You cannot always tell when it is of no consequence; you may sometimes think it of no consequence to keep your promise, when the person, to whom you have made it, thinks differently. The only right way, and therefore the only safe and happy way, is to make only such promises, as you intend fully to keep.

Eliza. Sometimes I have made promises which I could not keep, and at others, promises, which, I think, even you would have thought proper to break. Suppose I had engaged the same thing to two persons, for the same time; how could I keep both my promises? Or suppose I had engaged to walk with some one, and it should rain violently, at the time appointed to go, would you not think it proper for me to stay at home?

Mother. Certainly I should; but in this case, the rain is an unexpected circumstance, and one, which would have prevented your making the engagement, if you had known beforehand that it would happen; it is not like your disposition, something over which you have control, but is entirely out of your power, and is the very circumstance which renders it equally desirable both for you and your companion, that you should stay at home. It is your disposition, that which is in your power, that I would have you control and not allow yourself, from any weariness, caprice of feeling, or fear of the cold, to suppose a promise may be broken with impunity; for in this case, you offend against truth, you deceive your friend, and injure yourself, by the indulgence of a bad habit. With regard to your first supposition, you must yourself undoubtedly see the fallacy.

Eliza. You will say, I suppose, that I should not make two such inconsistent promises: but sometimes I cannot well help it without giving offence.

Mother. And do you think to lessen your offence, by promising what you cannot, and in fact, do not mean to perform? I know this is a common fault in young ladies, and I hope never to be so unhappy, as to see it taking root and gaining strength in your character; for I consider it not only mean and disgusting, but sinful. There is a diseased desire of pleasing, which very often leads young people astray from the path of truth and plain dealing; and this desire is very different from the laudable and salutary desire of approbation on account of good actions and

virtuous exertions.

I have known people, who had this contemptible fear of giving offence, to such a degree, that they were hardly ever heard to say no, and seldom known to perform yes; consequently, no one trusted them,-every one knew that they were in the habit of promising more than they could perform. They gained nothing but constant uneasiness, and apprehension, lest they should be unpopular, and in the end, the distrust and contempt of all who knew them. Far different from this may be the character of my daughter. Never make any promises, which you do not intend to keep, or which you do not think it proba ble you shall be able to keep.

Depend for your popularity, or, I would rather say, for the approbation of the good and sensible, on the character which you will form by a steady and dignified course of conduct. Be guided by a firm adherence to truth in all you say and do, and let your whole conduct be moulded by Christian principle. You are never too young to act from principle; and the earlier you begin, the happier you will be, and the stronger will be your character in mature life. There are many people who would start, if you were to tell them that they were destitute of principle, who yet, in their daily conversation and conduct exhibit the most unprincipled selfishness. They promise all kinds of things, knowing at the same time they shall never execute them; they flatter that they may be flattered in their turn; and you might, without exaggeration, say that their whole life was a system of cheating.

On such we can have no dependance; we cannot love them, nor can we take any pleasure in their company.They are nuisances rather than ornaments to society; they live for themselves alone, while they are pretending to live for others; and if they have any influence in the world, it is a bad one. Preserve, my dear, singleness and purity of heart. Be simple in your intentions. Avoid stratagems; in your promises particularly, adhere to the right line of intending and keeping them in the sense in which you know they are understood by others. Be what you are capable of being in heart and character. You will then gratify the dearest wish, and receive the most ardent blessing, of an affectionate mother.

LESSON CXVII.

The Graves of a Household.-MRS. HEMANS.

THEY grew in beauty, side by side,
They fill'd one home with glee-
Their graves are sever'd far and wide,
By mount, and stream, and sea.

The same fond mother bent at night
O'er each fair sleeping brow;

She had each folded flower in sight-
Where are those dreamers now?

One, 'midst the forests of the West,
By a dark stream is laid—
The Indian knows his place of rest,
Far in the cedar shade.

The sea, the blue lone sea, hath one,
He lies where pearls lie deep-
He was the loved of all, yet none
O'er his low bed may weep.

One sleeps where southern vines are drest,
Above the noble slain;

He wrapt his colours round his breast,
On a blood-red field of Spain.

And one-o'er her the myrtle showers
Its leaves, by soft winds fann'd;
She faded 'midst Italian flowers,
The last of that bright band.

And parted thus they rest, who play'd
Beneath the same green tree;
Whose voices mingled as they pray'd
Around one parent knee!

They that with smiles lit up the hall,
And cheer'd with song the hearth-

Alas! for love, if thou wert all,
And naught beyond, Oh earth!

LESSON CXVIII.

Select Paragraphs.

Learn to Stoop.-THE last time I saw your father was in 1724. On taking my leave, he shewed me a shorter way out of the house, through a narrow passage, which was crossed by a beam over head. We were still talking as I withdrew, he accompanying me behind, and I turning

toward him, when he said hastily, STOOP! STOOP! I did not understand him till I felt my head hit against the beam. He was a man who never missed an occasion of giving instruction; and upon this he said to me, You are young, and have the world before you; STOOP as you go through it, and you will miss many hard thumps. This advice, thus beat into my head, has frequently been of use to me; and I often think of it when I see pride mortified, and misfortunes brought upon people, by their carrying their heads too high. Dr. Franklin.

Six cents and a quarter, a day, with the interest and compound interest, in forty years amounts to Three Thousand, Five Hundred and Twenty-nine Dollars. A young mechanic, or farmer, therefore, who begins at the age of twenty to spend six cents and a quarter a day, for spirituous liquors, will, at the age of sixty, have spent a very considerable estate.

Alas! how little do we appreciate a mother's tenderness while living! How heedless are we, in youth, of all her anxieties and kindness. But when she is dead and gone; when the cares and coldness of the world come withering to our hearts; when we find how hard it is to find true sympathy, how few love us for ourselves, how few will befriend us in our misfortunes; then it is that we think of the mother we have lost.

It is true I had always loved my mother, even in my most heedless days; but I felt how inconsiderate and ineffectual had been my love. My heart melted as I retraced the days of infancy, when I was led by a mother's hand, and rocked to sleep in a mother's arms, and was without care "Oh, my mother," exclaimed I, burying my face again in the grass of the grave "Oh, that I were once more by your side; sleeping, never to awake again on the cares and troubles of this world!" W. Irving.

or sorrow.

In

Good manners do not consist in low bows and flourishing airs, so much as in avoiding all such behaviour as will be likely to disturb and trouble those around us. terrupting the business or discourse of others, opening and shutting doors with violence, walking heavily, loud