whimsical, as grown-up men and women, and the varnish of politeness and mask of hypocrisy the likeness.

description of children, deservedly unpopular, is ucated and super-excellent, who despise dolls and ready only for instruction, have no wish for a holicy for a fairy tale. They appear to have a natural dantry and precision; their wisdom never indulges at least before company; they have learned the system, and weary you with questions; they reprove every thing you assert, and are always on o detect you in a verbal inaccuracy, or a slight a date.

withstanding the infinite pains taken to spoil naw works, there is a principle of resistance, which ly partial success; and numbers of sweet children light, and soothe, and divert us, when we are fretted by grown-up people, and to justify all that id or written of the charms of childhood. Perwomen, their natural nurses and faithful protecthoroughly appreciate the attractions of the first

of human existence. The recumbent position, limbs, the lethargic tastes, and ungrateful indifotice, of a very young infant, render it uninterestgentlemen, except its father; and he is generally ich it, for fear of breaking its neck. But even , mothers, grandmothers, aunts and nurses assure rong indications of sense and genius may be dishe little animal; and I have known a clatter of I joy excited through a whole family, and matter twenty long letters and innumerable animated is, by some marvellous demonstration of intellect e in long clothes, who could not hold its head

on as the baby has acquired firmness and liveliness; t smiles at a familiar face, and stares at a strange n as it employs its hands and eyes in constant exdiscovery, and crows, and leaps, from the excess ontentment,-it becomes an object of indefinable il interest, to which all the sympathies of our na

ture attach us,—an object at once of curiosity and tenderness, interesting as it is in its helplessness and innocence, doubly interesting from its prospects and destiny; interesting to a philosopher, doubly interesting to a Christian.

Who has not occasionally, when fondling an infant, felt oppressed by the weight of mystery which hangs over its fate? Perhaps we hold in our arms an angel, kept but for a few months from the heaven in which it is to spend the rest of an immortal existence; perhaps we see the germ of all that is hideous and hateful in our nature. Thus looked and thus sported, thus calmly slumbered and sweetly smiled, the monsters of our race in their days of infancy. Where are the marks to distinguish a Nero from a Trajan, an Abel from a Cain? But it is not in this spirit that it is either vise or happy to contemplate any thing. Better is it—when we behold the energy and animation of young children, heir warm affections, their ready, unsuspicious confidence, heir wild, unwearied glee, their mirth so easily excited, their ove so easily won-to enjoy, unrestrained, the pleasantness of life's morning; that morning so bright and joyous, which seems to "justify the ways of God to men," and to teach us hat Nature intended us to be happy, and usually gains her end till we are old enough to discover how we may defeat it.

LESSON CVI.

The same, concluded.

LITTLE girls are my favorites. Boys, though sufficiently ineresting and amusing, are apt to be infected, as soon as they ssume the manly garb, with a little of that masculine vioence and obstinacy, which, when they grow up, they will call pirit and firmness; and they lose, earlier in life, that docility, enderness, and ignorance of evil, which are their sisters' peuliar charms. In all the range of visible creation, there is o object to me so attractive and delightful, as a lovely, inelligent, gentle little girl of eight or nine years old. This s the point at which may be witnessed the greatest improve

ntellect compatible with that lily-like purity of which taint is incomprehensible, danger unsus1 which wants not only the vocabulary, but the f sin.

› best and purest of women would shrink from her heart to our gaze, while lovely childhood alread its very thought and fancy. Its sincerity, ccasionally very inconvenient; and let that person ire that he has nothing remarkably odd, ugly or le about his appearance, who ventures to ask a child nks of him. Amidst the frowns and blushes of amidst a thousand efforts to prevent or to drown , truth, in all the horrors of nakedness, will genear in the surprised assembly; and he who has ought, in spite of his mirror, that his eyes had light and not unpleasing cast, will now learn, for ne, that "every body says he has a terribie squint." t approve of the modern practice of dressing little act accordance with the prevailing fashion, with imitation of their elders. When I look at a child, wish to feel doubtful whether it is not an unforrf, who is standing before me, attired in a costume Is age. Extreme simplicity of attire, and a dress hemselves only, are most fitted to these "fresh fe;" and it vexes me to see them disguised in the the day, or practising the graces and courtesies - life. Will there not be years enough, from thirenty, for ornamenting or disfiguring the person at French milliners; for checking laughter and forc; for reducing all varieties of intellect, all gradaeling, to one uniform tint? Is there not already sameness in the aspect and tone of polished life? children as they are, to relieve, by their "wild our elegant insipidity; leave their "hair loosely obes as free," to refresh the eyes that love simd leave their eagerness, their warmth, their unrencerity, their unschooled expressions of joy or amuse and delight us, when we are a little tired teness, the caution, the wisdom and the coldness wn-up world.

Children may teach us one blessed, one enviable art,-the t of being easily happy. Kind nature has given to them at useful power of accommodation to circumstances, which ▪mpensates for so many external disadvantages; and it is ■ly by injudicious management that it is lost. Give him at a moderate portion of food and kindness, and the peasat's child is happier than the duke's; free from artificial ants, unsated by indulgence, all nature ministers to his easures; he can carve out felicity from a bit of hazel twig, fish for it successfully in a puddle.

He must have been singularly unfortunate in childhood, or ngularly the reverse in after-life, who does not look back upon s scenes, its sports and pleasures, with fond regret. The isest and happiest of us may occasionally detect this feeling our bosoms. There is something unreasonably dear to the an in the recollection of the follies, the whims, the petty res and exaggerated delights of his childhood. Perhaps is engaged in schemes of soaring ambition; but he fancies, metimes, that there was once a greater charm in flying a te. Perhaps, after many a hard lesson, he has acquired power of discernment and spirit of caution, which defies ception; but he now and then wishes for the boyish conlence, which venerated every old beggar, and wept at every le of wo.

He who feels thus, cannot contemplate, unmoved, the joys d sports of childhood; and he gazes, perhaps, on the careee brow and rapture-beaming countenance, with the melanoly and awe which the lovely victims of consumption inire, when, unconscious of danger, they talk cheerfully of the ture. He feels that he is in possession of a mysterious cret, of which happy children have no suspicion. He knows at the life is, on which they are about to enter; and he is re that, whether it smiles or frowns upon them, its brightest ances will be cold and dull, compared with those under nich they are now basking.

LESSON CVII.

Mr. and Mrs. Bolingbroke.-MISS EDGEWORTH.

lingbroke. I WISH I knew what was the matter is morning. Why do you keep the newspaper all - my dear?

ingbroke. Here it is for you, my dear: I have

I humbly thank you for giving it to me when done with it-I hate stale news. Is there any e paper? for I cannot be at the trouble of hunt

S.

Yes, my dear; there are the marriages of two of

Who? Who?

Your friend, the widow Nettleby, to her cousin leby.

Mrs. Nettleby! Lord! But why did you tell me? Because you asked me, my dear.

Oh, but it is a hundred times pleasanter to read aph one's self. One loses all the pleasure of the y being told. Well, whose was the other marriage? Oh, my dear, I will not tell you; I will leave easure of the surprise.

. But you see I cannot find it. How provoking ny dear! Do pray tell it me.

Our friend, Mr. Granby.

. Mr. Granby! Dear! Why did not you make ? I should have guessed him directly. But why Il him our friend? I am sure he is no friend of ever was. I took an aversion to him, as you may , the very first day I saw him. I am sure he is no mine.

I am sorry for it, my dear but I hope you will go Mrs. Granby.

3. Not I, indeed, my dear. Who was she? Miss Cooke.