however, at length, to conquer my timidity, I accepted of an invitation to dine with one, whose open, easy manner, left me no room to doubt a cordial welcome.

Sir Thomas Friendly, who lives about two miles distant, is a Baronet, with an estate joining to that I purchased. He has two sons and five daughters, all grown up, and living, with their mother and a maiden sister of Sir Thomas's, at Friendly Hall. Conscious of my unpolished gait, I have, for some time past, taken private lessons of a professor, who teaches "grown gentlemen to dance;" and though I at first found wondrous difficulty in the art he taught, my knowledge of the mathematics was of prodigious use in teaching me the equilibrium of my body, and the due adjustment of the centre of gravity to the five positions. Having acquired the art of walking without tottering, and learned to make a bow, I boldly ventured to obey the Baronet's invitation to a family dinner, not doubting but my new acquirements would enable me to see the ladies with tolerable intrepidity; but, alas! how vain are all the hopes of theory, when unsupported by habitual practice!

As I approached the house, a dinner bell alarmed my fears, lest I had spoiled the dinner by want of punctuality. Impressed with this idea, I blushed the deepest crimson, as my name was repeatedly announced by the several livery servants, who ushered me into the library, hardly knowing what or whom I saw. At my first entrance, I summoned all my fortitude, and made my new-learned bow to Lady Friendly; but, unfortunately, in bringing back my left foot to the third position, I trod upon the gouty toe of poor Sir Thomas, who had followed close at my heels, to be the nomenclator of the family. The confusion this occasioned in me is hardly to be conceived, since none but bashful men can judge of my distress. The Baronet's politeness, by degrees, dissipated my concern; and I was astonished to see how far good breeding could enable him to suppress his feelings, and to appear with perfect case after so painful an accident.

The cheerfulness of her ladyship, and the familiar chat of the young ladies, insensibly led me to throw off my reserve and sheepishness, till, at length, I venture 1 to join the conversation, and even to start fresh subjects The library being

richly furnished with books in elegant bindings, I conceived Sir Thomas to be a man of literature, and ventured to give my opinion concerning the several editions of the Greek classics; in which the Baronet's opinion exactly coincided with my own.

To this subject I was led by observing an edition of Xenophon in sixteen volumes, which (as I had never before heard of such a thing) greatly excited my curiosity, and I rose up to examine what it could be. Sir Thomas saw what I was about, and, as I supposed, willing to save me trouble, rose to take down the book, which made me more eager to prevent him, and, hastily laying my hand on the first volume, I pulled it forcibly; but, lo! instead of books, a board, which, by leather and gilding, had been made to look like sixteen volumes, came tumbling down, and unluckily pitched upon a Wedgewood inkstand on the table under it. In vain did Sir Thomas assure me there was no harm; I saw the ink streaming from an inlaid table on the Turkey carpet, and, scarce knowing what I did, attempted to stop its progress with my cambric handkerchief. In the height of this confusion, we were informed that dinner was served up; and I, with joy, perceived that the bell, which at first had so alarmed my fears, was only the half hour dinner bell.

In walking through the hall, and suite of apartments, to the dining room, I had time to collect my scattered senses, and was desired to take my seat betwixt Lady Friendly and her eldest daughter at the table. Since the fall of the wooden Xenophon, my face had been continually burning like a firebrand; and I was just beginning to recover myself, and to feel comfortably cool, when an unlooked-for accident rekindled all my heat and blushes. Having set my plate of soup too near the edge of the table, in bowing to Miss Dinah, who politely complimented the pattern of my waistcoat, I tumbled the whole scalding contents into my lap. In spite of an immediate supply of napkins to wipe the surface of my clothes, my black silk dress was not stout enough to save me from the painful effects of this sudden fomentation; and for some minutes I seemed to be in a boiling caldron; but, recollecting how Sir Thomas had disguised his torture when I

trod upon his toe, I firmly bore my pain in silence, amidst the stifled giggling of the ladies and the servants.

I will not relate the several blunders which I made, during the first course, or the distress occasioned by my being desir ed to carve a fowl, or help to various dishes that stood near me; spilling a sauce-boat, and knocking down a salt-cellar : rather let me hasten to the second course, where fresh disasters overwhelmed me quite."

I had a piece of rich, sweet pudding on my fork, when Miss Louisa Friendly begged to trouble me for a pigeon that stood near me. In my haste, scarce knowing what I did, I whipped the pudding into my mouth, hot as a burning coal. It was impossible to conceal my agony; my eyes were starting from their sockets. At last, in spite of shame and resolution, I was obliged to drop the cause of torment on my plate. Sir Thomas and the ladies all compassionated my misfortune, and each advised a different application. One recommended oil, another water; but all agreed that wine was best for drawing out the fire; and a glass of sherry was brought me from the sideboard, which I snatched up with eagerness: but, oh! how shall I tell the sequel?

Whether the butler by accident mistook, or purposely designed to drive me mad, he gave me the strongest brandy, with which I filled my mouth, already flayed and blistered. Totally unused to every kind of ardent spirits, with my tongue, throat and palate as raw as beef, what could I do? I could not swallow; and, clapping my hands upon my mouth, the liquor squirted through my fingers like a fountain, over all the dishes; and I was crushed by bursts of laughter from all quarters. In vain did Sir Thomas reprimand the servants, and Lady Friendly chide her daughters; for the measure of my shame and their diversion was not yet complete.

To relieve me from the intolerable state of perspiration which this accident had caused, without considering what I did, I wiped my face with that ill-fated handkerchief, which was still wet from the consequences of the fall of Xenophon, and covered all my features with streaks of ink in every direction. The Baronet himself could not support the shock, but joined his lady in the general laugh; while I sprung

from the table in despair, rushed out of the house, and ran home in an agony of confusion and disgrace, which the most poignant sense of guilt could not have excited

LESSON XLIV.

Intemperate Love of Praise.-BLAIR.

THE intemperate love of praise not only weakens the true principles of probity, by substituting inferior motives in their stead, but frequently also impels men to actions which are directly criminal. It obliges them to follow the current of popular opinion, whithersoever it may carry them. They will be afraid to appear in their own form, or to utter their genuine sentiments. Their whole character will become fictious, opinions will be assumed, speech and behavior modelled, and even the countenance formed, as prevailing taste exacts.

From one who has submitted to such prostitution, for the sake of praise, you can no longer expect fidelity or attachment on any trying occasion. In private life, he will be a timorous and treacherous friend. In public conduct, he will be subtle and versatile; ready to desert the cause which he had espoused, and to veer with every shifting wind of popu lar favor. In fine, all becomes unsound and hollow in that heart, where, instead of regard to the divine approbation, there reigns the sovereign desire of pleasing men.

This passion, when it becomes predominant, most commonly defeats its own end, and deprives men of the honor which they are so eager to gain. Without preserving liberty and independence, we can never command respect. That servility of spirit, which subjects us to the opinion of others, and renders us tributaries to the world for the sake of ap plause, is what all mankind despise. They look up with reverence to one, who, unawed by their censures, acts according to his own sense of things, and follows the free impulse of an honorable mind.

But him, who hangs totally on their judgment, they consider as their vassal. They even enjoy a malignant pleasure in

humbling his vanity, and withholding that praise which he is seen to court. By artifice and show, he may shine for a time in the public eye; but it is only as long as he can support the belief of acting from principle. When the inconsistencies, into which he falls, detect his character, his reputation passes away like the pageant of a day. No man ever obtained lasting fame, who did not, on several occasions, contradict the prejudices of popular opinion.

There is no course of behavior, which will, at all times, please all men. That which pleases most generally, and which only commands durable praise, is religion and virtue. Sincere piety towards God, kind affection to men, and fidelity in the discharge of all the duties of life; a conscience pure and undefiled; a heart firm to justice and to truth, superior to all terrors that would shake, and insensible of all pleasures that would betray it; unconquerable by the opposition of the world, and resigned to God alone; these are the qualities which render a man truly respectable and great.

Such a character may, in evil times, incur unjust reproach. But the clouds, which envy or prejudice has gathered around it, will gradually disperse; and its brightness will come forth, in the end, as the noon day. As soon as it is thoroughly known, it finds a witness in every breast. It forces approbation, even from the most degenerate. The human heart is so formed as to be attuned, if we may use the expression, to its praise. In fact, it is this firm and inflexible virtue, this determined regard to principle beyond all opinion, which has crowned the characters of such as now stand highest in the rolls of lasting fame. The truly illustrious are they, who did not court the praise of the world, but who performed the actions which deserve it.

As an immoderate passion for human praise is dangerous to virtue, and unfavorable to true honor; so it is destructive of self-enjoyment and inward peace. Regard to the praise of God, prescribes a simple and consistent tenor of conduct, which, in all situations, is the same; which engages us in no perplexities, and requires no artful refinement. But he, who turns aside from the straight road of duty, in order to gain applause, involves himself in an intricate labyrinth. He will be often embarrassed concerning the course which he ought