inevitably, "that bitterness of joy which the heart alone. knoweth."

It is painful to us all, we know, to lie down at night, and think that the duties of the day have not been done. It is more painful to close the year, and to think that it has been wasted in idleness and folly. But what, alas! must be the feelings of those, who lie down at last upon the bed of death, and look back upon their past lives with no remembrances of goodness! who can recall only riches wasted, and power abused, and talents misemployed,-and see that grave opening to receive them, upon which no tear will be shed, and no memorial of virtue raised!

Let it then be remembered, even in the midst of youth and of prosperity, that life hath its duties as well as its pleasures; and that no situation can exempt the Christian from the obligations of labor and of exertion. Let it be remembered, that weakness is ever the parent of vice; and that it is in the genial hours of youth, that all those habits of thought and of conduct are acquired, which determine the happiness or the misery of future days. Let it, lastly, be remembered, that all the honors of time and of eternity belong only to wisdom and perseverance.

LESSON XXI.

Stability of Character.-ALISON.

STABILITY of character is, in all pursuits, the surest foundation of success. It is a common error of the indolent and the imprudent, to attribute the success of others to some peculiar talents, or original superiority of mind, which is not to be found in the generality of men. Of the falseness of this opinion, the slightest observation of human life may satisfy us. The difference of talents, indeed, and the varieties of original character, may produce a difference in the aims and in the designs of men; and superior minds will naturally form to themselves superior objects of ambition. But the attainment of these ends, the accomplishment of these de

signs, is, in all cases, the consequence of one means alone,— that of steadfastness and perseverance in pursuit.

"that

"It is the hand of the diligent," saith the wise man, maketh rich." It is the same diligence, when directed to other ends, that maketh great. Every thing which we see with admiration in the world around us, or of which we read with delight in the annals of history,-the acquisitions of knowledge, the discoveries of science, the powers of art, the glories of arms, the dignities of private, or the splendors of public virtue,—all have sprung from the same fountain of mind, from that steady but unseen perseverance, which has been exerted in their pursuit. The possession of genius alone, is, alas! no certain herald of success; and how many melancholy instances has the world afforded to us all, of how little avail mere natural talents are to the prosperity of their possessors, and of the frequency with which they have led to ruin and disgrace, when unaccompanied with firmness and energy of mind!

This stability of character is the surest promise of honor. It supposes, indeed, all the qualities of mind that are regarded by the world with respect; and which constitute the honorable and dignified in human character. It supposes that profound sense of duty, which we every where look for as the foundation of virtue, and for the want of which no other attainments can ever compensate. It supposes a chastened and regulated imagination, which looks ever to "the things that are excellent," and which is incapable of being diverted from their pursuit, either by the intoxications of prosperous, or the depressions of adverse fortune. It supposes, still more, a firm and intrepid heart, which neither pleasure has been able to seduce, nor indolence to enervate, nor danger to intimidate; and which, in many a scene of trial, and under many severities of discipline, has hardened itself at last into the firmness and consistency of virtue.

A character of this kind can never be looked upon without admiration; and, wherever we meet it, whether amid the solendors of prosperity, or the severities of adversity, we feel ourselves disposed to pay it a pure and an unbidden homage. The display of wild and unregulated talents may sometimes, indeed, excite a temporary admiration; but it is the admira

tion we pay to the useless glare of the meteor, which is extinguished while it is beheld; while the sentiment we feel for the steady course of principled virtue, is the admiration with which we regard the majestic path of the sun, as he slowly pursues his way, to give light and life to nature.

This stability of character is, in another view, the surest foundation of happiness. There are, doubtless, many ways in which our happiness is dependent upon the conduct and the sentiments of others; but the great and perennial source of every man's happiness is in his own bosom,-in that secret fountain of the heart, from which the "waters of joy or of bitterness" perpetually flow.

It is from this source, the man of steadfast and persevering virtue derives his peculiar happiness; and the slightest recurrence to our own experience can tell us both its nature and its degree. It is pleasing, we all know, to review the day that is past, and to think that its duties have been done; to think that the purpose, with which we rose, has been accomplished; that, in the busy scene which surrounds us, we have done our part, and that no temptation has been able to subdue our firmness and our resolution. Such are the sentiments with which, in every year of life, and still more in that solemn moment when life is drawing to its close, the man of persevering virtue is able to review the time that is past. It lies before him, as it were, in order and regularity; and, while he travels over again the various stages of his progress, memory restores to him many images to soothe and to animate his heart. The days of trial are past; the hardships he has suffered, the labors he has undergone, are remembered no more; but his good deeds remain, and from the grave of time seem to rise up again to bless him, and to speak to him of peace and hope.

Such are, then, the consequences of firmness and stability of character; and such the rewards which he may look for, who, solemnly devoting himself to the discharge of the duties of that station or condition which Providence has assigned him, pursues them with steady and undeviating labor. It is the character which unites all that is valuable or noble in human life, the tranquillity of conscience, the honors of wisdom, and the dignity of virtue.

LESSON XXII.

The first Wanderer.-MARIA J. JEWSBURY.

CREATION'S HEIR!-the first, the last,

That knew the world his own;— Yet stood he, mid his kingdom vast, A fugitive-o'erthrown! Faded and frail his glorious form, And changed his soul within, Whilst Fear and Sorrow, Strife and Storm, Told the dark secret-Sin!

Then, reckless, turned he to his own,—
The world before him spread ;—

But Nature's was an altered tone,

And breathed rebuke and dread: Fierce thunder-peal, and rocking gale, Answered the storm-swept sea, Whilst crashing forests joined the wail; And all said "Cursed for thee."

This, spoke the lion's prowling roar,
And this, the victim's cry;
This, written in defenceless gore,
Forever met his eye:

And not alone each sterner power

Proclaimed just Heaven's decree,—

The faded leaf, the dying flower,

Alike said "Cursed for thee."

Though mortal, doomed to many a length
Of life's now narrow span,

Sons rose around in pride and strength;-
They, too, proclaimed the ban.
'Twas heard, amid their hostile spears,
Seen, in the murderer's doom,
Breathed, from the widow's silent tears,
Felt, in the infant's tomb.

Ask not the wanderer's after-fate,
His being, birth, or name,—
Enough that all have shared his state,
That man is still the same.

Still brier and thorn his life o'ergrow,
Still strives his soul within ;

Whilst Care, and Pain, and Sorrow show
The same dark secret-Sin.

LESSON XXIII.

The Village Grave-Yard.-GREENWOOD.

In the beginning of the fine month of October, I was travelling, with a friend, in one of our Northern States, on a tour of recreation and pleasure. We were tired of the city, its noise, its smoke, and its unmeaning dissipation; and, with the feelings of emancipated prisoners, we had been breathing, for a few weeks, the perfume of the vales, and the elastic atmosphere of the uplands. Some minutes before the sunset of a most lovely day, we entered a neat little village, whose tapering spire we had caught sight of, at intervals, an hour before, as our road made an unexpected turn, or led us to the top of a hill. Having no motive to urge a farther progress, and being unwilling to ride in an unknown country after night-fall, we stopped at the inn, and determined to lodge there.

Leaving my companion to arrange our accommodations with the landlord, I strolled on towards the meeting-house.