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science have placed within human reach. One thing religion certainly does, it claims a right to prescribe the motive by which we shall be actuated, and the object at which we shall aim; but surely, the glory of "Him who filleth all things," is no mean motive, and the everlasting welfare of our fellow creatures, no unworthy object. Besides, with this apparent subjection it entwines our happiness; and in exchange for the wild liberty of living to ourselves, it offers a joy which the world cannot give, a peace which it cannot take away.

One material point in the argument I have overlooked. Distinction is not of ourselves: as David says, "It cometh neither from the east, nor from the west, nor from the south, but God is the judge: He putteth down one and setteth up another." Anxiety therefore, on this point, is vain even on the ground of probabilities, which in regard to woman, are as one to ten thousand against her attaining it. Again, if an early desire of distinction has often been the pledge and concomitant of genius, it has yet

oftener been associated with presumptuous mediocrity. I am, however, tired of argument; so, I doubt not, are you; let us therefore forget this present world, and realize that coming day when God shall manifest that all which has been "highly esteemed among men," has, in his sight, been “abomination." Would you then be some sparkling wit, or admired poet, or erudite scholar, who, having wholly sought his own glory, and wholly received his reward in this life, has nothing further to expect; or the Christian, who, with one talent or with five, has "occupied for his Lord?" What you would wish to be then, resolve to be now. Fame's trumpet will be silent in that day, and the approbation of God seen to be what it is even now-all that confers distinction. Read the first four chapters of the first of Corinthians as often as you are tempted to covet the pride of life, or the "honour that cometh from men." I do not expect that your heart will agree with my present statements; but I hope for the future; I hope for a blessing on the pri

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vileges which you are now enjoying; I hope too, that you are not indisposed to ask, 'What is truth," at a higher tribunal than that of human reason, and with a more teachable spirit than that of him who first asked the question. One thing you can do; you can, by an effort painful to make, but well worthy of being made, resolve to read neither poetry nor fiction till your mind is steadied. Dr. Johnson says, "It is easier to be abstemious than to be temperate ;" I think you would find it easier to abstain altogether, than to taste moderately. If, however, you cannot make this resolution, at least read neither poetry nor fiction that will kindle and increase the fancies and desires of which your heart is already too full; at least let it be the most sober-minded fiction, and the most reflective poetry you can bring yourself to like. I now bid you farewell, assuring you of my affectionate interest in your welfare.

LETTER XVII.

MY DEAREST

WHAT you state obscurely, was well expressed to me the other day by a young friend, whose feelings correspond in many points with your own. "I am convinced," was her language, "that my ambitious motives are wrong, but I feel that without them I should be miserable, and lose all power of exertion." Now, in spite of the beguiling subtleties with which pride invests this longing after pre-eminence, and dependence upon opinion, they are, as principles of action, founded in meanness and weakness. I will not now examine them in a reli

gious point of view, I will merely analyse them in their birth, and in their tendency, as opposed to every thing noble and honourable, lovely and of good report. With all your affection and good nature, you are now, my dear, as often as opportunity admits, (and a school-life admits of many,) enacting the successful rival; the desire to know exceeds in your mind the desire of knowledge; the love of excelling greatly overbalances the love of excellence; to pass your companions, to be acknowledged clever, to win prizes, no matter for what so it do but include competition, and procure triumph; this is the little Babylon you are now building, careless, perhaps I should rather say, ignorant of consequences. But what, while you are thus adding fancy to fancy, and aim to aim, is the first evil that ensues? Inability to be disinterested in any point that involves the renunciation of superiority.

Self, in any

other form, you could sacrifice, but praise, credit, estimation, these are as the apple of your eye, and whoso touches them, irritates and offends. The power of sympa

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