very nature of his profession, he is void of. He ought to have invincible courage, to meet the overwhelming obloquy of mankind, which is sure to overtake his detection: the greatest foresight, to provide against the numerous unseen perplexities which the contradictions, incident to falsehood, engender; and perfect confidence and trust in his agents, who otherwise may deceive him, and destroy his schemes in an instant. Now the nature, I say, of falsehood precluding the possibility of obtaining these, ought at once to prove the danger of such a course.

Some vices attach to certain states of life, and falsehood may be said to be a poor vice; the children of the lower orders, servants especially, almost from their birth, "going astray and speaking lies;" whereas in the higher ranks, the fashionable relation to it, admitted into the upper circles, is its half-brother, hypocrisy, for a downright lie is against the world's Bible,-honour, and is therefore expelled from genteel company, less for its irreligion, than for its bad

THE SICK MAN AND THE ANGEL.

"Is there no hope?" the sick man said.
The silent doctor shook his head;

And took his leave with signs of sorrow,
Despairing of his fee to-morrow.

When thus the Man, with gasping breath; "I feel the chilling wound of Death! Since I must bid the world adieu,

Let me my former life review.

I grant my bargains well were made;
But all men over-reach in trade:

"Tis self-defence in each profession;
Sure self-defence is no transgression.
The little portion in my hands,
By good security on lands
Is well increased. If, unawares,
My justice to myself and heirs
Hath let my debtor rot in jail,
For want of good sufficient bail;
If I by writ, or bond, or deed,
Reduced a family to need,

My will hath made the world amends;
My hope on charity depends.1

When I am number'd with the dead,
And all my pious gifts are read,

By heaven and earth 'twill then be known
My charities were amply shown."

An Angel came: "Ah! friend," he cried,
"No more in flattering hope confide.
Can thy good deeds in former times
Outweigh the balance of thy crimes?
What widow or what orphan prays,
To crown thy life with length of days?
A picus action's in thy power,
Embrace with joy the happy hour.
Now while you draw the vital air,
Prove your intention is sincere:
This instant give a hundred pound;

Your neighbours want, and you abound."

(1) The same word in Greek which signifies "grace," also means "charity," but with the usual waywardness and self-deceiving reliance upon their own merits, exhibited by mankind, the poor wretch here depends upon the latter meaning of the word, synonymous with his benevolent acts, instead of its proper meaning, the free unmerited favour of Heaven. The angel's reply is very applicable to detect the hypocrisy of his boasted piety.

"But why such haste," the sick Man whines, "Who knows as yet what Heaven designs? Perhaps I may recover still:

That sum and more are in my will."

"Fool," says the Vision, "now 'tis plain
Your life, your soul, your heaven, was gain.
From every side, with all your might,
You scraped, and scraped beyond your right;
And after death would fain atone,

By giving what is not your own."

"While there is life, there's hope," he cried,

"Then why such haste?"-so groan'd and died.1

(1) Were all physical beauty to be developed in its primary elements, how full of loathsome corruption would the finest face and form appear! disease would peer forth beneath the bloom of health, and the deformity of decay startle us under the aspect of loveliness and splendour! So is it with our moral being; the most exquisite leaf of pure benevolence, when unrolled, discloses the worm of selfishness within, and whilst professing unbounded dedication of ourselves to heaven, we cling to, and grovel in the wealth of earth! To the last we still plead for time, so long as there is a vice to be favoured, or a desire to be excused, the free abandonment of either, being the true test of our sincerity. A false pretender to benevolence once expressed to a Quaker his deep sympathy with a suffering friend in poverty: "Believe me," said he, "I feel for him extremely." "Indeed," was the reply, "prithee didst thou ever feel for him in thy pocket?"

THE PERSIAN, THE SUN, AND THE CLOUD.

Is there a bard whom genius fires, Whose every thought the god inspires? When Envy reads the nervous lines, She frets, she rails, she raves, she pines; Her hissing snakes with venom swell; She calls her venal train from hell: