become so, from the lowest beginnings, by toil, and patient diligence, and attention to the minutest articles of expense and profit. But you must give up the pleasures of leisure, of mental ease, of a free, unsuspicious temper. If you preserve your integrity, it must be a coarse-spun and vulgar honesty. Those high and lofty notions of morals which you brought with you from the schools, must be considerably lowered, and mixed with the baser alloy of a jealous and worldly-minded prudence.

You must learn to do hard, if not unjust things; and as for the nice embarrassments of a delicate and ingenuous spirit, it is necessary for you to get rid of them as fast as possible. You must shut your heart against the Muses, and be content to feed your understanding with plain household truths. In short, you must not attempt to enlarge your ideas, or polish your taste, or refine your sentiments; but must keep on in one beaten track, without turning aside either to the right or to the left. "But I cannot submit to drudgery like this. I feel a spirit above it." "Tis well; be above it then; only do not repine that you are not rich.

Is knowledge the pearl of price? That too may be purchased by steady application and long solitary hours of study and reflection. Bestow these, and you shall be wise. "But," says the man of letters, "what a hardship is it, that many an illiterate fellow, who cannot construe the motto of the arms on his coach, shall raise a fortune and make a figure, while I have little more than the common conveniences of life!" Was it in order to raise a fortune, that you consumed the sprightly hours of youth in study and retirement? Was it to be rich that you grew pale over the midnight lamp, and distilled the sweetness from the Greek and Roman spring? You have then mistaken your path, and ill employed your industry.

"What reward have I, then, for all my labors?" What reward? A large, comprehensive soul, well purged from vulgar fears, and perturbations, and prejudices, able to comprehend and interpret the works of man, of God; a rich,

flourishing, cultivated mind, pregnant with inexhaustible stores of entertainment and reflection; a perpetual spring of fresh ideas, and the conscious dignity of superior intelligence. Good Heaven! and what reward can you ask besides ?

"But is it not some reproach upon the economy of Providence, that such a one, who is a mean, dirty fellow, should have amassed wealth enough to buy half a nation?" Not in the least. He made himself a mean, dirty fellow for that very end. He has paid his health, his conscience, his liberty for it; and will you envy him his bargain? Will you hang your head and blush in his presence, because he outshines you in equipage and show? Lift up your brow with a noble confidence, and say to yourself, "I have not these things, it is true; but it is because I have not sought, because I have not desired them; it is because I possess something better. I have chosen my lot; I am content and satisfied."

You are a modest man. You love quiet and independence, and have a delicacy and reserve in your temper which renders it impossible for you to elbow your way in the world, and be the herald of your own merits. Be content then with a modest retirement, with the esteem of your intimate friends, with the praises of a blameless heart, and a delicate, ingenuous spirit; but resign the splendid distinctions of the world to those who can better scramble for them.

The man whose tender sensibility of conscience, and strict regard to the rules of morality, makes him scrupulous and fearful of offending, is often heard to complain of the disadvantages he lies under in every path of honor and profit. "Could I but get over some nice points, and conform to the practice and opinion of those about me, I might stand as fair a chance as others for dignities and preferment." And why can you not? What hinders you from discarding this troublesome scrupulosity of yours, which stands so grievously in your way? If it be a small thing to enjoy a healthful mind, sound at the very core, that does not shrink from the keenest inspection; inward freedom from remorse and per

turbation; unsullied whiteness and simplicity of manners; a genuine integrity,

"Pure in the last recesses of the mind;"

if you think these advantages an inadequate recompense for what you resign, dismiss your scruples this instant, and be a slave merchant, or what you please.

-

MRS. BARBAuld.

104. The Three Warnings.

THE tree of deepest root is found
Least willing still to quit the ground.
'Twas therefore said, by ancient sages,

That love of life increased with years
So much, that, in our later stages,
When pains grow sharp, and sickness rages,
The greatest love of life appears.

This great affection to believe,
Which all confess, but few perceive,
If old assertions can't prevail,
Be pleased to hear a modern tale.

When sports went round, and all were gay,
On neighbor Dobson's wedding-day,
Death called aside the jocund groom

With him into another room;

And looking grave, "You must," says he,
"Quit your sweet bride, and come with me."
"With you, and quit my Susan's side!
With you!" the hapless husband cried;
"Young as I am! 'tis monstrous hard!
Besides, in truth, I'm not prepared."
What more he urged I have not heard;
But Death the poor delinquent spared.

Yet, calling up a serious look,

His hour-glass trembled while he spoke :
"Neighbor," he said, "farewell. No more
Shall Death disturb your mirthful hour.
And further, to avoid all blame
Of cruelty upon my name,

To give you time for preparation,

And fit you for your future station,
Three several warnings you shall have,
Before you're summoned to the grave:
Willing for once I'll quit my prey,
And grant a kind reprieve;
In hopes you'll have no more to say,
But, when I call again this way,

Well pleased the world will leave."
To these conditions both consented,
And parted perfectly contented.

What next the hero of our tale befell,
How long he lived, how wise, how well,
How calmly he pursued his way,
And what he did from day to day,

The willing muse shall tell :

He chaffered then, he bought, he sold,
Nor once perceived his growing old,

Nor thought of Death as near;

His friends not false, his wife no shrew,
Many his gains, his children few,

He passed his hours in peace;

But while he viewed his wealth increase,

While thus along life's dusty road

The beaten track content he trod,

Old Time, whose haste no mortal spares,
Uncalled, unheeded, unawares,

Brought on his eightieth year.

And now, one night, in musing mood,

As all alone he sat,

The unwelcome messenger of Fate

Once more before him stood.

Half killed with anger and surprise,
"So soon returned!" old Dobson cries.
"Soon, do you call it?" Death replies:
"Surely my friend, you're but in jest,
Since I was here before,
'Tis six-and-thirty years at least,
And you are now fourscore."

"So much the worse," the clown rejoined,
"To spare the aged would be kind;

Besides, you promised me three warnings, Which I have looked for nights and mornings; But for that loss of time and ease,

I can recover damages."

"I know," cries Death, "that at the best,
I seldom am a welcome guest;
But don't be captious, friend, at least;
I little thought you'd still be able
To stump about your farm and stable ·
Your years have run to a great length;
I wish you joy, though, of your strength."
"Hold," says the farmer, "not so fast;
I have been lame these four years past."
"And no great wonder," Death replies ;
However, you still keep your eyes;

And, sure, to see one's loves and friends,
For legs and arms would make amends."
"Perhaps," says Dobson, "so it might;
But, latterly, I've lost my sight."
"This is a shocking story, faith!

Yet there's some comfort still," says Death;
"Each strives your sadness to amuse;

I warrant you hear all the news."

"There's none," cries he, " and if there were

I'm grown so deaf I could not hear."

"Nay, then," the spectre stern rejoined,

These are unjustifiable yearnings: