peculiar grace. Every wise woman must be humble; be cause every wise woman must know, that no human being has anything to be proud of. The gifts, which she possesses, she has received; she cannot therefore glory in them, as if they were of her own creation. There is no ostentation in any part of her behavior: she does not affect to conceal her virtues and talents, but she never ambitiously displays them. She is still more pleasingly adorned with the graces of mildness and gentleness. Her manners are placid, the tones of her voice are sweet, and her eye benignant; because her heart is meek and kind. From the combination of these virtues arises that general effect, which is denominated loveliness, a quality which renders her the object of the complacence of all her friends, and the delight of every one who approaches her. Believing that she was born, not for herself only, but for others, she endeavors to communicate happiness to all who are around her; in particular, to her intimate connexions. Her children, those immortal beings, who are committed to her care, that they may be formed to knowledge and virtue, are the principal objects of her attention. She sows in their minds the seeds of piety and goodness; she waters them with the dew of heavenly instruction; and she eradicates every weed of evil, as soon as it appears. Thus does she benefit the church, her country, and the world, by training up sincere Christians, useful citizens, and good men. It is scarcely necessary to observe, that, with so benevolent a heart, she remembers the poor, and that she affords them, not only pity, but substantial relief. As she is a wise woman, who is not afraid to exercise her understanding, her experience and observation soon convince her, that the world, though it abounds with many pleasures, is not an unmixed state of enjoyment. Whilst, therefore, she is careful to bring no misfortunes on herself by imprudence, folly, and extravagance, she looks with a calm and steady eye on the unavoidable afflictions through which she is doomed to pass; and she arms her mind with fortitude, that she may endure, with resolution and cheerfulness, the severest trials. sickness and distress at last come, she submits to ith patience and resignation. A peevish complaint t escape from her lips; nor does she once murmur the hand of her heavenly Father lies heavy upon he is, if possible, more serene, more mild, more on the bed of disease, than she was in the seasons of nd felicity. So affectionate is she to her surrounding and so grateful for the attentions which they pay to t they almost forget that she suffers any pain. * * ove of God crowns all her virtues : religion is deeply her heart; but here, as in all her behavior, she is parade. Her piety is sincere and ardent, but humble red. A mind, h strength and gentleness are thus united, may be ed to the soft light of the moon, which shines with the al rays of the sun. We are, at first view, ready to that it is more lovely than great, more charming gnified; but we soon become convinced, that it is th true wisdom, and endowed with noble purposes. LESSON XI. f Filial Affection.-Lear, Cordelia and Physician SHAKSPEARE. O My dear father! Restoration hang dicine on my lips, and let this kiss those violent harms, that my two sisters 1 thy reverence made!— u not been their father, these white flakes allenge pity of them. Was this a face exposed against the warring winds? id against the deep, dread-bolted thunder? most terrible and nimble stroke ck, cross lightning? My enemy's dog, Though he had bit me, should have stood that night Had not concluded.-Ah! he wakes; speak to him. Cor How does my royal lord? How fares your majesty ? Thou art a soul in bliss, but I am bound Upon a wheel of fire, that mine own tears Do scald like molten lead. Cor. Sir, do you know me? Lear. You are a spirit, I know; when did you die? Cor. Still, still far wide Phys. He's scarce awake; let him alone awhile. Where have I been? where am I? fair daylight? I'm mightily abused; I should even die with pity To see another thus. I know not what to say; I will not swear these are my hands: let's see— I feel this pin prick: would I were assured Of my condition. Cor. Oh! look upon me, sir, And hold your hand in benediction o'er me- Lear. Pray, do not mock me; I am a very foolish, fond old man, Fourscore and upward; and, to deal plainly, Methinks I should know you, and know this man; To be my child Cordelia. Cor. And so I am; I am. Lear. Be your tears wet? yes; I pray you, weep not. If you have poison for me, I will drink it. you do not love me; for your sisters No cause, no cause. Am I in France? In your own kingdom, sir. Do not abuse me. Be comforted, good madam ;him to go in; trouble him no more her settling. Will't please your highness walk? u now forget and forgive; LESSON XII. at the Notch of the White Mountains.-DWIGHT. Nor Notch of the White Mountains is a phrase appropria very narrow defile, extending two miles in .ength two huge cliffs, apparently rent asunder by some ivulsion of nature. This convulsion was, in my own at of the deluge. There are here, and throughout England, no eminent proofs of volcanic violence, nor ong exhibitions of the power of earthquakes. story recorded any earthquake or volcano, in other es, of sufficient efficacy to produce the phenomena of ce. The objects rent asunder are too great, the ruin ast and too complete, to have been accomplished by gents. The change appears to have been effected the surface of the earth extensively subsided; when es and continents assumed a new face; and a general tion of the elements produced a disruption of some ins, and merged others beneath the common level of ion. Nothing less than this will account for the sunof a long range of great rocks, or rather of vas! mountains; or for the existing evidences of the immense force, by which the rupture was effected. The entrance of the chasm is formed by two rocks, standing perpendicularly, at the distance of twenty-two feet from each other; one about twenty feet in height, the other about twelve. Half of the space is occupied by a brook which is the head stream of the Saco; the other half, by the road. The stream is lost and invisible beneath a mass of fragments, partly blown out of the road, and partly thrown down by some great convulsion. When we entered the Notch, we were struck with the wild and solemn appearance of every thing before us. The scale, on which all the objects in view were formed, was the scale of grandeur only. The rocks, rude and ragged in a manner rarely paralleled, were fashioned and piled by a hand operating only in the boldest and most irregular manner. As we advanced, these appearances increased rapidly. Huge masses of granite, of every abrupt form, and hoary with a moss which seemed the product of ages, speedily rose to a mountainous height. Before us, the view widened fast to the south-east. Behind us, it closed almost instantaneously, and presented nothing to the eye but an impassable barrier of mountains. About half a mile from the entrance of the chasm, we saw, in full view, the most beautiful cascade, perhaps, in the world. It issued from a mountain on the right, about eight hundred feet above the subjacent valley, and at the distance from us of about two miles. The stream ran over a series of rocks almost perpendicular, with a course so little broken as to preserve the appearance of a uniform current, and yet so far disturbed as to be perfectly white. The sun shone with the clearest splendor, from a station in the heavens the most advantageous to our prospect; and the cascade glittered down the vast steep, like a stream of burnished silver. At the distance of three quarters of a mile from the entrance, we passed a brook, known, in this region, by the name of the flume; from the strong resemblance to that object, exhibited by the channel, which it has worn, for a considerable length, in a bed of rocks; the sides being perpendicular to the bottom. This elegant piece of water we |