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kind; thus paying an obliging deference to their judgment, so far as it is not inconsistent with the higher obligations of virtue and religion.

This must be accompanied with an elegance of taste, and a delicacy observant of the least trifles, which tend to please or to oblige; and, though its foundation must be rooted in the heart, it can scarce be perfect without a complete knowledge of the world. In society, it is the medium that blends all different tempers into the most pleasing harmony; while it imposes silence on the loquacious, and inclines the most reserved to furnish their share of the conversation. It represses the desire of shining alone, and increases the desire of being mutually agreeable. It takes off the edge of raillery, and gives delicacy to wit.

To superiors, it appears in a respectful freedom. No greatness can awe it into servility, and no intimacy can sink it into a regardless familiarity. To inferiors, it shows itself in an unassuming good nature. Its aim is to raise them to you, not

to let you down to them. It at once maintains the dignity of your station, and expresses the goodness of your heart. To equals, it is every thing that is charming; it studies their inclinations, prevents their desires, attends to every little exactness of behavior, and all the time appears perfectly disengaged and careless.

Such and so amiable is true politeness; by people of wrong heads and unworthy hearts, disgraced in its two extremes; and, by the generality of mankind, confined within the narrow bounds of mere good breeding, which, in truth, is only one instance of it.

There is a kind of character, which does not, in the least, deserve to be reckoned polite, though it is exact in every punctilio of behavior; such as would not, for the world, omit paying you the civility of a bow, or fail in the least circumstance of decorum. But then these people do this merely for their own sake: whether you are pleased or embarrassed with it, is little of their care. They have performed their own parts, and are satisfied.


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THOUGH Nature weigh our talents, and dispense
To every man his modicum of sense,
And conversation, in its better part,

May be esteemed a gift, and not an art,
Yet much depends, as in the tiller's toil,
On culture and the sowing of the soil.
Words learned by rote a parrot may rehearse,
But talking is not always to converse;
Not more distinct from harmony divine,
The constant creaking of a country sign.

Ye powers, who rule the tongue,-if such there are,And make colloquial happiness your care,

Preserve me from the thing I dread and hate,
A duel in the form of a debate.

Vociferated logic kills me quite;

A noisy man is always in the right;
I twirl my thumbs, fall back into my chair,
Fix on the wainscot a distressful stare,
And, when I hope his blunders are all out,
Reply discreetly; "To be sure, no doubt!"

Dubius is such a scrupulous, good man;
Yes, you may catch him tripping if you can.
He would not, with a peremptory tone,
Assert the nose upon his face his own;
With hesitation admirably slow,

He humbly hopes, presumes, it may be so.
His evidence, if he were called by law
To swear to some enormity he saw,
For want of prominence and just relief,
Would hang an honest man, and save a thief.
Through constant dread of giving truth offense,
He ties up all his hearers in suspense;
Knows what he knows as if he knew it not;
What he remembers seems to have forgot;
His sole opinion, whatsoe'er befall,
Centering, at last, in having none at all.

A story, in which native humor reigns,
Is often useful, always entertains:
A graver fact, enlisted on your side,
May furnish illustration, well applied;

But sedentary weavers of long tales
Give me the fidgets, and my patience fails.
'Tis the most asinine employ on earth,
To hear them tell of parentage and birth,
And echo conversations, dull and dry,
Embellished with, "He said," and "So said I."
At every interview their route the same,
The repetition makes attention lame:
We bustle up, with unsuccessful speed,


And, in the saddest part, cry, Droll indeed!"

I pity bashful men, who feel the pain
Of fancied scorn and undeserved disdain,
And bear the marks, upon a blushing face,
Of needless shame, and self-imposed disgrace.
Our sensibilities are so acute,

The fear of being silent makes us mute.
True modesty is a discerning grace,

And only blushes in the proper place;

But counterfeit is blind, and skulks, through fear,
Where 'tis a shame to be ashamed t' appear;

Humility the parent of the first,

The last by vanity produced and nursed.

The circle formed, we sit in silent state,

Like figures drawn upon a dial-plate;

"Yes, ma'am," and "No, ma'am," uttered softly, show,
Ev'ry five minutes, how the minutes go;

Each individual, suffering a constraint
Poetry may, but colors cannot paint,
As if in close committee on the sky,
Reports it hot or cold, or wet or dry;
And finds a changing clime a happy source
Of wise reflection and well-timed discourse.
We next inquire, but softly, and by stealth,
Like conservators of the public health,
Of epidemic throats, if such there are,

And coughs, and rheums, and phthisics, and catarrh.
That theme exhausted, a wide gap ensues,

Filled up, at last, with interesting news.

And now, let no man charge me that I mean
To clothe in sable every social scene;
To find a medium asks some share of wit,
And therefore 'tis a mark fools never hit.





GOOD people all, with one accord,
Lament for Madam Blaize;
Who never wanted a good word-
From those who spoke her praise.

The needy seldom passed her door,
And always found her kind;
She freely lent to all the poor-
Who left a pledge behind.

She strove the neighborhood to please
With manner wondrous winning;
And never followed wicked ways-
Unless when she was sinning.

At church, in silks and satins new,
With hoop of monstrous size,
She never slumbered in her pew-
But when she shut her eyes.

Her love was sought, I do aver,
By twenty beaux, and more;
The king himself has followed her-
When she has walked before.

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GILBERT AINSLIE was a poor man; and he had been a poor

man all the days of his life, which were not few, for his thin

hair was now waxing gray. He had been born and bred on the small moorland farm which he now occupied; and he hoped to die there, as his father and grandfather had done before him, leaving a family just above the more bitter wants of this world. Labor, hard and unremitting, had been his lot in life; but although sometimes severely tried, he had never repined; and through all the mist, and gloom, and even the storms, that had assailed him, he had lived on, from year to year, in that calm and resigned contentment, which unconsciously cheers the hearth-stone of the blameless poor.

With his own hand he had plowed, sowed, and reaped his often scanty harvest; assisted, as they grew up, by three sons, who, even in boyhood, were happy to work along with their father in the fields. Out of doors, or in, Gilbert Ainslie was never idle. The spade, the shears, the plow-shaft, the sickle, and the flail, all came readily to hands that grasped them well; and not a morsel of food was eaten under his roof, or a garment worn there, that was not honestly, severely, and nobly earned. Gilbert Ainslie was a slave, but it was for them he loved with a sober and deep affection. The thralldom under which he lived, God had imposed, and it only served to give his character a shade of silent gravity, but not austerity; to make his smiles fewer, but more heartfelt; to calm his soul at grace, before and after meals; and to kindle it in morning and evening prayer.


There is no need to tell the character of the wife of such a Meek and thoughtful, yet gladsome and gay withal, her heaven was in her house; and her gentler and weaker hands helped to bar the door against want. Of ten children that had been born to them, they had lost three; and, as they had fed, clothed, and educated them respectably, so did they give those who died a respectable funeral. The living did not grudge to give up, for a while, some of their daily comforts, for the sake of the dead; and bought with the little sums, which their industry had saved, decent mournings, worn on Sabbath, and then carefully laid by. Of the seven that survived, two sons were farm-servants in the neighborhood, while three daughters and two sons remained at home, growing, or grown up, a small, happy, hard-working household.

Many cottages are there in Scotland like Moss-side, and

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