dangerous and fatal doctrine to teach young persons, the most common readers of romance, that rectitude of conduct and of principle are either naturally allied with, or adequately rewarded by, the gratification of our passions, or attainment of our wishes. In a word, if a virtuous and self-denied character is dismissed with temporal wealth, greatness, or rank, the reader will be apt to say, "Verily virtue has had its reward." But a glance at the great picture of life will show that the duties of self-denial, and the sacrifice of passion to principle, are seldom thus remunerated; and that the internal consciousness of their high-minded discharge of duty produces on their own reflections a more adequate recompense in the form of that peace which the world cannot give or take away.

An anxious, restless temper, that runs to meet care on its way, that regrets lost opportunities too much, and that is overpainstaking in contrivances for happiness, is foolish, and should not be indulged.

If you cannot be happy in one way, be happy in another; and this facility of disposition wants but little aid from philosophy, for health and good humor are almost the whole affair. Many run about after felicity, like an absent-minded man hunting for his hat while it is on his head or in his hand.

Though sometimes small evils, like invisible insects, inflict great pain, yet the secret of comfort lies in not suffering trifles to vex us, and in prudently cultivating an undergrowth of small pleasures, since very few great ones, alas! are let on long leases.

To despond is very easy; but it requires works as well as faith to engage successfully in a difficult undertaking. There

are, however, few difficulties that hold out against real attacks; they fly like the visible horizon before those who advance. A passionate desire and an unwearied will can perform impossibilities, or what seem to be such to the cold and the feeble. If we do but go on, some unseen path will open among the hills.

We must not allow ourselves to be discouraged by the apparent disproportion between the result of single efforts and the magnitude of obstacles to be encountered. Nothing good nor great is to be obtained without courage and industry; but courage and industry must have sunk in despair, and the world must have remained unornamented and unimproved, if men had nicely compared the effect of a single stroke of the chisel with the pyramid to be raised, or of a single impression of the spade with the mountain to be levelled.

Efforts, it must not be forgotten, are as indispensable as desires. The globe is not to be circumnavigated by one wind. We should never do nothing. "It is better to wear out than to rust out," said Bishop Cumberland. "There will be time enough to rest in the grave," said a French philosopher. In truth, the proper rest for man is change of occupation.

MORAL EFFECTS OF Books.

SOUTHEY.

Would you know whether the tendency of a book is good or evil, examine in what state of mind you lay it down. Has it induced you to suspect that what you have been accustomed to consider unlawful may, after all, be innocent, and that that may be harmless which you have hitherto been taught to think dangerous? Has it tended to make you dissatisfied and impatient under the control of others, and disposed you to relax in that self-government, without which both the laws of God and man tell us there can be no virtue, and consequently no happiness? Has it attempted to abate your admiration for what is great and good, and to diminish in you the love of your country and your fellow-creatures? Has it addressed

itself to your pride, your vanity, your selfishness, or any other of your evil propensities? Has it disturbed the sense of right and wrong which the Creator has implanted in the human soul? If so, if you are conscious of all or of any of these effects, or if, having escaped from all, you have felt that such were the effects it was intended or likely to produce, throw the book in the fire, whatever name it may bear on the title page. Throw it in the fire, young man, though it should have been the gift of a friend: young lady, away with the whole set, though it should be the prominent furniture of a rosewood bookcase!

LIX. THE LYING SERVANT.

LONDON MAGAZINE.

THERE lived in Swabia* a certain lord, pious, just, and wise, to whose lot it fell to have a serving man, a great rogue, and, above all, addicted to the vice of lying. The name of the lord is not in the story; therefore the reader need not trouble himself about it.

The knave† was given to boast of his wondrous travels. He had visited countries which are nowhere to be found on the map, and seen things which mortal eye never beheld. He would lie through the twenty-four hours of the clock; for he dreamed falsehoods in his sleep, to the truth of which he swore when awake. His lord was a shrewd as well as a virtuous man, and used to see the lies in the valet's mouth; so that he was often caught-hung, as it were, in his own untruths, as in a trap. Nevertheless he persisted still the more

* Swabia was one of the ten circles into which the German empire was divided previous to its dissolution in 1806. It has now disappeared from the maps as a geographical division, its territory having been distributed chiefly among Bavaria, Wirtemberg, and Baden.

+ Knave, in its primitive sense, implied merely the idea of subjection or dependence, and meant a servant or a child. It is thus used in this lesson.

in his lies, and when any one said, "How can that be?" he would answer, with fierce oaths and protestations, that it was so.

It chanced, one pleasant day in spring, after the rains had fallen heavily, and swollen the floods, that the lord and the knave rode out together, and their way was through a silent and shady forest. Suddenly appeared an old and well-grown fox. "Look!" exclaimed the master; "what a huge beast! Never before have I seen a renard so large." "Doth this beast surprise thee by its hugeness?" replieth straight the serving man, casting his eye slightingly on the animal, as he fled away for fear: "I have been in a kingdom where the foxes are as big as the bulls in this." Whereupon, hearing so vast a lie, the lord answered calmly, but with mockery in his heart, "In that kingdom there must be excellent lining for cloaks, if furriers can there be found to dress skins so large."

And so they rode on, the lord in silence; but soon he began to sigh heavily. Still he seemed to wax more and more sad in spirit, and his sighs grew deeper and more quick. Then the knave inquired of the lord what sudden affliction or cause of sorrow had happened. "Alas!" replied the wily master, "I trust in Heaven's goodness that neither of us two hath today, by any frowardness of fortune, chanced to say the thing which is not; for, assuredly, he that hath so done must this day perish." The knave, on hearing these doleful words, and perceiving real sorrow to be depicted on his master's countenance, instantly felt as if his ears grew more wide, so that not a word or syllable of so strange a discovery might escape his troubled sense. And So, with eager exclamation, he demanded of the lord to ease his suspense, and to explain why so cruel a doom was now about him who had spoken an untruth.

"Hear, then, dear knave," answered the lord, "since thou must needs know; and may no trouble come to thee from what I shall say. To-day we ride far, and in our course is a vast and heavy-rolling flood, of which the ford is narrow, and the pool is deep; to it hath Heaven given the power of sweeping down into its dark holes all dealers in falsehood who may

rashly venture to put themselves within its truth-loving current. But to him who hath told no lie there is no fear of the river. Spur we our horses, for to-day our journey must be long."

Then the knave thought, "Long, indeed, must the journey be for some who are now here;" and as he spurred, he sighed more deeply than his master had done before him, who now went gayly on. They soon came to a brook. Its waters were small, and its channel such as a boy might leap across. Yet, nevertheless, the knave began to tremble, and falteringly asked, "Is this the river where harmless liars must perish?" "This? Ah, no,” replied the lord; "this is but a brook; no liar need tremble here." Yet was the knave not wholly assured; and stammering, said, "My gracious lord, thy servant now bethinks him, that he to-day hath made a fox too huge; that of which he spake was not so large as an ox, but as big as a good-sized deer." The lord replied with wonder in his tone, “What of this fox concerneth me? If large or small, I care not. Spur we our horses, for to-day our journey must be long."

"Long, indeed," still thought the serving man; and in sadness he crossed the brook. Then came they to a stream, running quickly through a green meadow, the stones showing themselves in many places above its frothy water. The varlet started, and cried aloud, "Another river! Surely of rivers there is to-day no end: was it of this thou spakest heretofore?" "No," replied the lord, "not of this." And more he said not; yet marked he with inward gladness his servant's fear. 66 Because, in good truth," rejoined the knave, "it is on my conscience to give thee note that the fox of which I spake was not bigger than a calf." Large or small, let me not be troubled with the fox; the beast concerneth not me at all."

66

As they quitted the wood, they perceived a river in the way, which gave sign of having been swollen by the rains; and on it was a boat. "This, then, is the doom of liars," said the knave; and he looked earnestly towards the ferry boat. "Be informed, my good lord, that renard was not larger than a fat sheep." The lord seemed angry, and answered, "This is not