1 Thy glorious features with our pencil's point, Thou dost make the soul A wondering witness of thy majesty; Of its own nothingness, bidding it stand As if to answer to its God through thee. MRS. SIGOURNEY. LESSON LXXVII. STORY OF THE ARK AND DOVE. "TELL me a story, please," my little girl And so the mighty waters bare them up, All, all was desolation. Chirping nest, Then I looked Upon the child, to see if her young thought Since, many a time, When to her rest, ere evening's earliest star, Mothers can tell how oft, In the heart's eloquence, the prayer goes up Fast bound, shall dare the billows of the world, MRS. SIGOURNEY. LESSON LXXVIII. GOVERNMENT OF THE TEMPER. THE principal virtues or vices of a woman, must be of a private and domestic kind. Within the circle of her own family and dependents lies her sphere of action, the scene of almost all those tasks and trials, which must determine her character and her fate, here and hereafter. Reflect, for a moment, how much the happiness of her husband, children, and servants, must depend on her temper, and you will see that the greatest good or evil, which she ever may have in her power to do, may arise from her correcting or indulging its infirmities. It is true, we are not all equally happy in our dispositions; but human virtue consists in cherishing and cultivating every good inclination, and in checking and subduing every propensity to evil. If you had been born with a bad temper, it might have been made a good one, at least with regard to its outward effects, by education, reason, and principle; and, though you are so happy as to have a good one while young, do not suppose it will always continue so, if you neglect to maintain a proper command over it. Power, sickness, disappointments, or worldly cares, may corrupt and imbitter the finest disposition, if they are not counteracted by reason and religion. It is observed that every temper is inclined, in some degree, either to passion, peevishness, or obstinacy. Many are so unfortunate as to be inclined to each of the three in turn: it is necessary, therefore, to watch the bent of our nature, and to apply the remedies proper for the infirmity to which we are most liable. With regard to the first, it is so injurious to society, and so odious in itself, especially in the female character, that one would think shame alone would be sufficient to preserve a young woman from giving way to it; for it is as unbecoming her character to be betrayed into ill-behavior by passion as by intoxication; and she ought to be ashamed of the one as much as of the other. Gentleness, meekness, and patience are peculiar distinctions; and an enraged woman is one of the most disgusting sights in nature. It is plain, from experience, that the most passionate people can command themselves, when they have a motive sufficiently strong, such as the presence of those they fear, or to whom they particularly desire to recommend themselves. It is, therefore, no excuse to persons, whom you have injured by unkind reproaches and unjust aspersions, to tell them you were in a passion. The allowing yourself to speak to them in a passion, is a proof of an insolent disrespect, which the meanest of your fellow-creatures would have a right to resent. When once you find yourself heated so far, as to desire to say what you know would be provoking and wounding to another, you should immediately resolve either to be silent, or to quit the room, rather than give utterance to any thing dictated by so bad an inclination. Be assured, you are then unfit to reason or to reprove, or to hear reason from others. It is, therefore, your part to retire from such an occasion to sin; and wait till you are cool, before you presume to judge of what has passed. By accustoming yourself thus to conquer and disappoint your anger, you will, by degrees, find it grow weak and manageable, so as to leave your reason at liberty. You will be able to restrain your tongue from evil, and your looks and gestures from all expressions of violence and ill-will. Pride, which produces so many evils in the human mind, is the great source of passion. Whoever cultivates in himself a proper humility, a due sense of his own faults and insufficiences, and a due respect for others, will find but small temptation to violent or unreasonable anger. In the case of real injuries, which justify and call for resentment, there is a noble and generous kind of anger, a proper and necessary part of our nature, which has nothing in it sinful or degrading. I would not wish you insensible to this; for the person, who feels not an injury, must be incapable of being properly affected by benefits. With those who treat you ill, without provocation, you ought to maintain your own dignity. But, in order to do this, while you show a sense of their improper behavior, you must preserve calmness, and even good-breeding; and thereby convince them of the impotence, as well as injustice, of their malice. You must also weigh every circumstance with candor and charity, and consider whether your showing the resentment deserved, may not produce ill consequences to innocent persons; and whether it may not occasion the breach of some duty, or necessary connection, to which you ought to sacrifice even your just resentments. Above all things, take care that a particular offense to you does not make you unjust to the general character of the offending person. Generous anger does not preclude esteem for whatever is really estimable, nor does it destroy good-will to the person of its object; it even inspires the desire of overcoming him by benefits, and wishes to inflict no other punishment, than the regret of having injured one who deserved his kindness; it is always placable, and ready to be reconciled, as soon as the offender is convinced of his error; nor can any subsequent injury provoke it to recur to past disobligations, which had been once forgiven. The consciousness of injured innocence naturally produces dignity, and usually prevents excess of anger. Our passion is most unruly, when we are conscious of blame, and when we apprehend that we have laid ourselves open to contempt. Where we know we have been wrong, the least injustice in the degree of blame imputed to us, excites our bitterest resentment; but, where we know ourselves faultless, the sharpest accusation excites pity or contempt, rather than rage. MRS. CHAΡΟΝΕ. LESSON LXXIX. THE DAUGHTER AT HER MOTHER'S GRAVE. IT was thirteen years since my mother's death, when, after a long absence from my native village, I stood beside the sacred mound, beneath which I had seen her buried. Since that mournful period, a great change had come over me. My childish years had passed away, and with them my youthful character. The world was altered too; and, as I stood at my mother's grave, I could hardly realize that I was the same thoughtless, happy creature, whose cheeks she so often kissed in an excess of tenderness. But the varied events of thirteen years had not effaced the remembrance of that mother's smile. It seemed as if I had seen her but yesterday; as if the blessed sound of her well-remembered voice was in my ear. The gay |