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of your religious duty; since nothing leads more directly to the breach of charity, and to the injury and molestation of our fellowcreatures, than the indulgence of an ill-temper. Do not, therefore, think lightly of the offences you may commit, for want of a due command over it, or suppose yourself responsible for them to your fellow-creatures only; but, be assured, you must give a strict account of them all to the Supreme Governor of the world, who has made this a great part of your appointed trial upon earth.

A woman, bred up in a religious manner, placed above the reach of want, and out of the way of sordid or scandalous vices, can have but few temptations to the flagrant breach of the divine laws. It particularly concerns her, therefore, to understand them in their full import, and to consider how far she trespasses against them, by such actions as appear trivial when compared with murder, adultery, and theft, but which become of very great importance, by being frequently repeated, and occurring in the daily transactions of life.

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.

Though I wish the principle of duty towards God to be your ruling motive in the exercise of every virtue, yet, as human nature stands in need of all possible helps, let us not forget how essential it is to present happiness, and to the enjoyment of this life, to cultivate such a temper as is likewise indispensably requisite to the attainment of higher felicity in the life to come. The greatest outward blessings cannot afford enjoyment to a mind ruffled and uneasy within itself. A fit of ill-humor will spoil the finest entertainment, and is as real a torment as the most painful disease. Another unavoidable consequence of ill-temper is the dislike and aversion of all who are witnesses to it, and, perhaps, the deep and lasting resentment of those who suffer from its effects. We all, from social or self-love, earnestly desire the esteem and affection of our fellow-creatures; and indeed our condition makes them so necessary to us that the wretch who has forfeited them must feel desolate and undone, deprived of all the best enjoyments and comforts the world can afford, and given up to his inward misery, unpitied and scorned. But this can never be the fate of a good

natured person: whatever faults he may have, they will generally be treated with lenity; he will find an advocate in every human heart; his errors will be lamented rather than abhorred; and his virtues will be viewed in the fairest point of light. His goodhumor, without the help of great talents or acquirements, will make his company preferable to that of the most brilliant genius, in whom this quality is wanting; in short, it is almost impossible that you can be sincerely beloved by anybody, without this engaging property, whatever other excellencies you may possess; but, with it, you will scarcely fail of finding some friends and favorers, even though you should be destitute of almost every other advantage.

Perhaps you will say, "all this is very true; but our tempers are not in our own power-we are made with different dispositions, and, if mine is not amiable, it is rather my unhappiness than my fault." This is commonly said by those who will not take the trouble to correct themselves. Yet, be assured, it is a delusion, and will not avail in our justification before Him "who knoweth whereof we are made," and of what we are capable. 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 embitter 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 reme. dies 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 her peculiar distinctions, and an enraged woman is one of the most disgusting sights in nature.

ELIZABETH MONTAGU, 1720-1800.

ELIZABETH ROBINSON, daughter of Matthew Robinson, Esq., was born at York, on the 2d of October, 1720. When she was about seven years old, her parents removed to Cambridge, where she derived great advantage in the progress of her education from Dr. Conyers Middleton,' whom her grandmother had married as her second husband. Her uncommon sensibility and acuteness of understanding, as well as her extraordinary beauty as a child, rendered her an object of great notice and admiration in the society at Cambridge, and Dr. Middleton was in the habit of requiring from her an account of the learned conversations at which in his society she was frequently present; saying that, though she might but imperfectly understand them then, she would in future derive great benefit from the habit of attention inculcated by this practice.

In 1742, she was married to Edward Montagu, Esq., member of Parliament for Huntingdon. In three years, however, he died, leaving her the whole of his estate (for she had no children), and thus she was enabled to gratify her taste for study and literary society to the fullest extent. In 1769, she published her "Essay on the Writings and Genius of Shakspeare, compared with the Greek and French Dramatic Poets; with some Remarks upon the Misrepresentations of Voltaire." This work soon passed through many editions, and gave her a high rank in the literary world. The praise which Cowper and Warton have bestowed upon it is decisive as to its merits. "The learning," says Cowper, "the good sense, the sound judgment, and the wit displayed in it, fully justify not only my compliment, but all compliments that either have been already paid to her talents, or shall be paid here. after." Soon after the publication of this essay, she opened her house, Portman-square, in London, to the "Blue Stocking Club," and was intimate with the most eminent literary men of her day. In private life she was an example of liberality and benevolence. It was at her house that an annual entertainment was given, on May-day, to all the climbing-boys and chimney sweepers' apprentices in the metropolis. She died August 25, 1800.

The works of Mrs. Montagu consist of the Essay on Shakspeare, before mentioned, and four volumes of epistolary correspondence held with most of the eminent literary men of the day. These letters do great credit both to her head and heart: they are written in an easy and perspicuous style; are filled with judicious and pertinent reflections upon the passing events and the great men of the times; and, with her Essay on Shakspeare, give her no mean rank among English authors. If not a profound critic, she was certainly an acute and ingenious one, possessing judgment and taste

See his life in "Compendium of English Literature," p. 489. So called from the "blue stockings" worn by a Mr. Stillingfleet, a member of this literary club. Such were the charms of his conversation, that when he was absent, it used to be said, "We can do nothing without the blue stockings," and thus by degrees the name was given to the society. See Croker's Boswell's Johnson, vol. viii. pp. 85 and 86.

as well as learning; and if not of such versatile talents as her namesake, Lady Mary Wortley,' she is an example of moral purity both in her writings and character.2

THE WORLD SEEN IN ITS TRUE LIGHT.

To the Rev. W. Freind.3

SIR-I had the pleasure of your letter on Saturday, and I was glad to see the evening of a day spent in diversion improve into friendship. The various pleasures the general world can give us are nothing in comparison of the collected comforts of friendship. The first play round the head, but come not to the heart; the last are intensely felt; however, both these kinds of pleasures are necessary to our satisfaction. If we would be more merry than wise, we may be imprudent; but to increase the critical knowledge that increases sorrow is not the desire or boast, but the misfortune and complaint, of the truly wise. It is really a misfortune to be above the bagatelle; a scorn of trifles may make us despise gray heads, mitred heads, nay, perhaps, crowned heads; it may teach us to take a little man from his great estate; a lord mayor from his great coach; a judge out of his long wig; a chief justice from his chair; it may even penetrate a crowd of courtiers till we reach the very heart of the prime minister. It is best to admire, and not to understand the world. Like a riddle, by its mystery rather than by its meaning, it affords a great deal of amusement till understood, and then but a very poor and scanty satisfaction. To the farmer every ear of wheat is bread; the thresher, by dint of labor, finds out it is half chaff; the miller, a man of still nicer inquiry, discovers that not a quarter of it will bear the sifting; the baker knows it is liable to a thousand accidents before it can be made into bread. Thus it is in the great harvest of life; reckon that lofty stem on which greatness grows, and all that envelop it, as a part of the golden grain, and it makes a good figure; and thus sees the common eye. The nicer inquirer discerns how much of the fair appearance wants intrinsic value, and that when it is sifted there remains but little of real worth, and even that little is with difficulty moulded to good use. Do not let you and I encourage

1 See "Compendium of English Literature," p. 532.

2 See an article on Mrs. Montagu's Letters, in the "Edinburgh Review," vol. xv. p. 75, and in the " "Quarterly," vol. x. p. 15; also, some selected letters in Sir Egerton Brydges, Censura Literaria," vol. ix. p. 48.

Afterwards Dean of Canterbury, son of Dr. Robert Freind, head-master of Westminster School.

this sharpness of sight; let the vision come to us through the grossest medium, and every little object borrow bulk and color: let all be magnified, multiplied, varied, and beautified by opinion, and the mistaken eye of prejudice: thus will the world appear a gay scene: as indulgent spectators we will call every trick a scheme, and every little wish ambition.

A VIEW OF LIFE.

To the Duchess of Portland.

MADAM-As your grace tenders my peace of mind, you will be glad to hear I am not so angry as I was. I own I was much moved in spirit at hearing you neglected your health, but since you have had advice, there is one safe step taken. As for me, I have swallowed the weight of an apothecary in medicine, and what I am the better, except more patient and less credulous, I know not. I have learnt to bear my infirmities, and not to trust to the skill of physicians for curing them. I endeavor to drink deep of philosophy, and be wise when I cannot be merry, easy when I cannot be glad, content with what cannot be mended, and patient where there is no redress. The mighty can do no more, and the wise seldom do as much. You see I am in the main content with myself, though many would quarrel with such an insignificant, idle, inconsistent person; but I am resolved to make the best of all circumstances around me, that this short life may not be half lost in pains, "well remembering and applying, the necessity of dying." Between the periods of birth and burial I would fain insert a little happiness, a little pleasure, a little peace: to-day is ours, yesterday is past, and to-morrow may never come. I wonder people can so much forget death, when all we see before us is but succession; minute succeeds to minute, season to season, summer dies as winter comes. The dial marks the change of hour, every night brings death-like sleep, and morning seems a resurrection; yet while all changes and decays, we expect no alteration; unapt to live, unready to die, we lose the present and seek the future, ask much for what we have not, thank Providence but little for what we have; our youth has no joy, our middle age no quiet, our old age no ease, no indulgence; ceremony is the tyrant of this day, fashion of the other, business of the next: little is allowed to freedom, happiness, and contemplation, the adoration of our Creator, the admiration of his works, and the inspection of ourselves. But why should I trouble your grace with these reflections? What my

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