"Well, then, it seems that my children don't think me harsh," replied my uncle, "let the world say what it will then; but in order to compose ourselves, for we are just now a little irritated, let us turn into this picture-gallery, and talk of this conversation in the bookseller's shop at a more convenient time, and in some more proper place than the public street."

There was no farther allusion made to the scene in the bookseller's shop by my uncle or myself during that evening. At six o'clock we were in the coach, where we found two more persons. We travelled all night, and at sunrise were at a considerable distance from London.

About mid-day we had arrived at a town which is only two short stages from our home, and at this town a young lady, who had come by another coach, got in with us; and being young and incautious, told me pleasantly where she was going, namely, to the very village where our home was situated. I had some curiosity to know more of this young lady, and therefore put several questions to her without letting her, in the least degree, into my own history; a rather unfair measure often practised on the unwary by passengers in a public vehicle. My uncle, in the meantime, as I thought, had fallen into a doze, and, as I supposed, had heard nothing of what was passing. "I am going," said the young lady, "to visit my aunt, and to stay a long time with her; and my aunt says that there is a most delightful family living near her, a very large family too, and many young people, and that she will introduce me to this family, for she is very intimate with them; and then I shall partake in all their delightful employments, and perhaps be permitted to help them in their school, and to enjoy their schemes of pleasure in the woods and the fields, and hear the father of the family instruct them; for she says he is the kindest father in the world, and so cheerful that his children are never happy when he is from them; and she tells me that he talks so sweetly to them about religion, and makes it so pleasant, and is so good to the poor, and so kind to his servants, that she can never speak enough in his praise."

"And pray, madam," I said, "what may this gentleman's name be?"

In reply she named my uncle, as I expected; and VOL. XIII.-B

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was going on in the same artless manner, for she was quite young,when my uncle, rousing himself, and looking smilingly on her, for she was a simple, blooming young creature, "My little lady," he said, "methinks you would do well to exercise more caution in forming hasty acquaintances; for once, through the care of a gracious Providence, you have fallen into good hands; but another time, when you happen to meet with strangers in this sort of way, wait a little before you become too communicative. But how comes it," added the good man, "that you are travelling alone at your tender age?"

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"I have come only a little way alone, sir," she replied. "My father was with me till I arrived at the last stage." "So far so well," said my uncle; "and as I find you are going no farther than we are, I shall have pleasure in delivering you safe to your aunt."

This remark led to an explanation; and the young lady being found to be the niece of a neighbour, and my uncle to be the very identical Mr. Smith in whose favour the fair traveller was already so much interested, we immediately became friends before we had travelled together another couple of miles.

At length the woods and hills about my uncle's house arose to view. At the sight of them the tender father settled his wig, and began to anticipate the delight of embracing his beloved children again. I saw joy kindle in his eye as we advanced towards home, and it blazed forth when first we espied, through openings in the trees, the dear domestic party winding along the gravel walk from the house to meet the coach. Our good neighbour Mrs. Horton, the aunt of our little friend, was in the company; hence we had nothing to do but to get out of the coach at the gate, and walk up to the house.

I have often thought, and so also must many of my readers, that the greatest pleasure of going out is derived from coming home. This assertion may perhaps partake in some degree of the nature of a bull; nevertheless, it contains a truth which no happy member of a family will deny.

It was not, however, with an intention of drawing a view of domestic felicity that I took up my pen. Suffice it to say, that our evening was as sweet as the interchange of heartfelt kindness and elegant courtesies

could render it; and my uncle and I did not enjoy our beds the less from having travelled all the night before in a stagecoach. The next day I had a conversation with my uncle, with which I propose to finish my narrative.

There is in my uncle's pleasure-ground a long imbowered walk upon a terrace, from whence, through openings in the trees, a lovely dingle discloses itself in various points of view, presenting many exquisite combinations of shade and light, water and wood, rock and verdure. To this place we have often observed the dear father of the family to retire at noonday, no doubt there to pray and meditate, sometimes being reclined on the mossy bank, and sometimes pacing slowly up and down the close-shorn walk, as David Brainerd is reported to have done in the forests of the New World.

On these occasions even the youngest children of the family are as careful to avoid any intrusion, as our ancestors would have been to have shunned the haunts of the Druids in the hours which were consecrated to the less holy rites of their mysterious worship. Yet no one ever makes any remarks in the presence of my uncle on this his daily custom.

It happened, however, that on that day which succeeded our arrival at home, I chanced to cross one end of this consecrated path at the hour when my uncle might be expected to be there; and the excellent man, seeing me in the clear obscure at the end of the vista, called to me, and requested me to join him.

"Francis," said he, as soon as I had come up to him, "I have been thinking of one or two circumstances which happened during our journey.

"The first of these was the conversation in the bookseller's shop, and the second, what I happened to hear in the coach from our young fellow-traveller; and I will now tell you, my dear nephew, what are the reflections which have been inspired by these things.

"It may be said," continued he, "of every human being, and especially if he be at all known in the world, that he has three characters-the first being that which is given him by the world in general, and by persons who have only heard of him, or seen him, as a common acquaintance: the second, that given to him by his relations, intimate friends, and dependants: and the third, that which is known to himself only.

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"All these characters are more or less misunderstood, and commonly more or less misstated. Supposing the individual to be amiable in temper, and possessing an ordinary portion of natural affection, his public character is generally less favourable than his private one. If he is a highly talented person, it sometimes happens that he is better spoken of in public than in private, and sometimes the reverse: it being certain that the more largely an individual is spoken of in the world, the more difficult it often is to acquire a knowledge of what he really is in his private life; and the more exposed he is to common slander, and the malevolent comments of envious men.

"When a man feels himself to be beloved at home, and among his connexions; when he has an assurance of being received on his return to his house with such smiles, such caresses, as I met with yesterday; when he knows that his presence is as sunshine in the little circle of which he is the centre, he is surprised and hurt (as I was when in the bookseller's shop) to hear himself described as a gloomy tyrant by any pragmatical talker, who takes credit to himself for knowing more of him than any other person present; and he begins to ask, What have I done to deserve this, and how can I thus be misunderstood? And it is natural for him to experience irritation and sourness on the occasion. And truly, Francis, my boy, it was as much as I could do to conceal my anger in the presence of the knot of critics who were assembled in the shop; or my triumph, when I heard my praises from our warmhearted young companion, which, I trusted, were the simple and sincere echo of the voice of my friends. However, I rejoice that I did not betray myself, but that I was enabled, by the divine help, to bear myself meekly, both under the evil and the good report, and that I was kept within bounds till this morning afforded me an opportunity of reflection and meditation, in this my favourite haunt, this calm retreat, this silent shade, so well agreeing with prayer and praise, where the strife of Satan ceases in some degree with me, and where I have so often heard the notes of the heavenly dove. Here I have been brought to see that I am neither what the world would make me, nor what my friends believe me to be. I have been led to renounce both characters, namely, that which is given me by

common report, and that which is given me by my friends and lovers, as neither of them belong to me; and both, even the worst of these, as being far too good for me; for, in looking into myself with that discernment which is spiritually bestowed, I find that I am more vile by nature than my worst enemies have ever dared to represent me. I have been made to feel that there is in me no good thing whatever, and that I should prefer death to an exposure of my real thoughts and feelings to the most partial friend I have on earth. I have been led to see that it is by a continual miracle that I am, and have been, enabled to preserve any thing like consistency of character; and that I have reason to thank my God every moment for having brought me so far on the journey of life, with that degree of respectability which I possess, even in the eyes of my worst enemies. For when, my beloved nephew, we are made to understand that every imagination of the thoughts of our hearts is only evil continually while we remain in a state of nature, and that even when in a state of grace the original nature is ever struggling vehemently against the new principle, we ought to be filled with gratitude and astonishment at the infinite goodness and care of God, which prevent us from exposing and betraying ourselves in some unguarded moment, in such a manner as might blast our reputation, and destroy our usefulness for life.

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These, my dear nephew, have been the reflections which have occupied me for the last hour, and I impart them to you for your benefit; apply my case to yourself; and if the world thinks worse of you than your partial friends do, be assured that both think better of you than you deserve. Blessed and happy will that time be, my Francis, when your old uncle will really be what he now only seems to be in the eyes of those who love him best."

The good man gave me his hand as he spoke, and as I held it to my lips my tears fell upon it, and I could not help in part re-echoing his last sentence.

"Blessed and happy indeed," I said, " will that time be, when all need of seeming what we are not shall have passed away, and when we shall be like Christ our Saviour, for we know that when he shall appear we shall be like him, for we shall see him as he is.”—1 John, iii., 2.