There are infinite reveries, numberless extravagances, and uccession of vanities, which pass through both. The eat difference is, that the first knows how to pick and cull thoughts for conversation, by surpressing some, and comnicating others; whereas the other lets them all indifferly fly out in words. This sort of diseretion, however, has place in private conversation between intimate friends. such occasions, the wisest men very often talk like the akest; for indeed talking with a friend is nothing else n thinking aloud.

Tully has therefore very justly exposed a precept, delivby some ancient writers: That a man should live with enemy in such a manner, as might leave him room to ome his friend; and with his friend, in such a manner, if he became his enemy, it should not be in his power urt him. The first part of this rule, which regards our aviour towards an enemy, is indeed very reasonable, as as very prudential; but the latter part of it, which ́reds our behaviour towards a friend, savours more of cung than of discretion; and would cut a man off from the atest pleasures of life, which are the freedoms of converon with a bosom friend. Besides that, when a friend is ned into an enemy, the world is just enough to accuse the fidiousness of the friend, rather than the indiscretion of person who confided in him.

Discretion does not only show itself in words, but in all circumstances of action; and is like an under agent of ovidence, to guide and direct us in the ordinary concerns life.

There are many more shining qualities in the mind of n, but there is none so useful as discretion. It is this, leed, which gives a value to all the rest; which sets em at work in their proper times and places; and turns em to the advantage of the person who is possessed of em. Without it, learning is pedantry, and wit impertince; virtue itself looks like weakness; the best parts ly qualify a man to be more sprightly in errors, and acve to his own prejudice.

Discretion does not only make a man the master of his wn parts, but of other men's. The discreet man finds out he talents of those he converses with; and knows how to pply them to proper uses. Accordingly, if we look into articular communities and divisions of men, we may oberve, that it is the discreet man, not the witty, nor the earned, nor the brave, who guides the conversation, and

eaution. With what forbearanee, with what patience, with what courage, did she endure her last illness! She complied with all the directions of her physicians; she encourag ed her sister, and her father; and, when all her strength of body was exhausted, supported herself by the single vigour of her mind. That, indeed, continued, even to her last moments, unbroken by the pain of a long illness, or the terrors of approaching death; and it is a reflection which makes the loss of her so much the more to be lamented: A loss infinitely severe; and more severe by the particular conjuneture in which it happened! She was contracted to a most worthy youth; the wedding day was fixed, and we were all invited. How sad a change from the highest joy, to the deepest sorrow! How shall I express the wound that pierc ed my heart, when I heard Fundanus himself, (as grief is ever finding out circumstances to aggrate its affliction.) ordering the money he had designed to lay out upon clothes and jewels for her marriage, to be employed in myrrh and spices for her funeral? He is a man of great learning and good sense who has applied himself, from his earliest youth, to the noblest and most elevated studies: but all the maxims of fortitude, which he has received from books, or advanced himself, he now absolutely rejects; and every other virtue of his heart gives place to all a parent's tenderness. We shall excuse, we shalt even approve his sorrow, when we consider what he has lost. He has lost a daughter who resembled him in his manners, as well as his person; and exactly copied out all her father. If his friend Marcellinus shall think proper to write to him, upon the subject of so reasonable a grief, let me remind him not to use the rougher arguments of consolation, and such as seem to carry a sort f reproof with them; but those of kind and sympathising humanity. Time will render him more open to the dictates of eason: for as a fresh wound shrinks back from the hand of the argeon, but by degrees submits to, and even requires the means of its cure; so a mind, under the first impressions of a misforune, shuns and rejects all arguments of consolation; but at length, if applied with tenderness, calmly and willingly acquiesees in them. Farewell. MELMOTH'S PLINK

SECTION IV.
On Discretion.

I HAVE often thought, if the minds of men were laid open, should see but little difference between that of a wise we nap, and that of a fool.

There are infinite reveries, numberless extravagances, and a succession of vanities, which pass through both. The great difference is, that the first knows how to pick and cull his thoughts for conversation, by surpressing some, and communicating others; whereas the other lets them all indifferently fly out in words. This sort of diseretion, however, has no place in private conversation between intimate friends. On such occasions, the wisest men very often talk like the weakest; for indeed talking with a friend is nothing else than thinking aloud.

Tully has therefore very justly exposed a precept, deliv. ered by some ancient writers: That a man should live with his enemy in such a manner, as might leave him room to ecome his friend; and with his friend, in such a manner, that, if he became his enemy, it should not be in his power to hurt him. The first part of this rule, which regards our behaviour towards an enemy, is indeed very reasonable, as well as very prudential; but the latter part of it, which regards our behaviour towards a friend, savours more of cunning than of discretion; and would cut a man off from the greatest pleasures of life, which are the freedoms of conversation with a bosom friend. Besides that, when a friend is turned into an enemy, the world is just enough to accuse the perfidiousness of the friend, rather than the indiscretion of person who confided in him.

the

Discretion does not only show itself in words, but in all the circumstances of action; and is like an under agent of Providence, to guide and direct us in the ordinary concerns of life.

There are many more shining qualities in the mind of man, but there is none so useful as discretion. It is this, indeed, which gives a value to all the rest; which sets them at work in their proper times and places; and turns them to the advantage of the person who is possessed of them. Without it, learning is pedantry, and wit impertinence; virtue itself looks like weakness; the best parts only qualify a man to be more sprightly in errors, and active to his own prejudice.

Discretion does not only make a man the master of his own parts, but of other men's. The discreet man finds out the talents of those he converses with; and knows how to apply them to proper uses. Accordingly, if we look into particular communities and divisions of men, we may observe, that it is the discreet man, not the witty, nor the learned, nor the brave, who guides the conversation, and

gives measures to society. A man with great talents, but void of discretion, is like Polyphemus in the fable, strong and blind: endued with an irresistible foree, which, for want of sight, is of no use to him.

Though a man has all other perfections, yet if he wants discretion, he will be of no great consequence in the world: on the contrary, if he has this single talent in perfection, and but a common share of others, he may do what he pleases in his particular station of life.

At the same time that I think discretion the most useful. talent a man can be master of, I look upon cunning to le the accomplishment of little, mean, ungenerous minds. Discretion points out the noblest ends to us; and pursues the most proper and laudable methods of attaining them cunning has only private, selfish aims and sticks at nothing which may make them succeed. Discretion has large and extended views; and, like a well-formed exe commands a whole horizon: cunning is a kind of short-sightedness, that discovers the objects which are near at hand, but is not able to discern things at a distance. Discretion the more it is discovered, gives a greater authority to the person who possesses it: cunning, when it is once detected, loses its force, and makes a man incapable of bringing a bout even those events which he might have done, had he passed only for a plain man. Discretion is the perfection of reason; and a guide to us in all the duties of life: can ning is a kind of instinct, that only looks out after our im mediate interest and welfare. Discretion is only found in men of strong sense and good understandings: cunning is often to be met with in brutes themselves; and in persons who are but the fewest removes from them. In short, cunning is only the mimic of discretion; and it may pass upon weak men, in the same manner as vivacity is often mistak en for wit, and gravity, for wisdom.

The cast of mind which is natural to a discreet man, makes him look forward into futurity, and consider what will be his condition millions of ages hence, as well as what it is at present. He knows that the misery or happiness which is reserved for him in another world, loses nothing of its reality by being placed at so great a distance from him. The objects do not appear little to him because they are remote. He considers, that those pleasures and pains which lie hid in eternity, approach nearer to him every moment; and will be present with him in their full weight and measure, as much as those paius and pleasures which

A MULTITUDE of cases occur, in which we are no less accountable for what we think, than for what we do.

As, first, when the introduction of any train of thought depends upon ourselves, and is our voluntary act, by turning our attention towards such objects, awakening such passions, or engaging in such employments, as we know must give a peculiar determination to our thoughts. Next, when thoughts, by whatever accident they may have been origin-ally suggested, are indulged with deliberation and complacency. Though the mind has been passive in their reseption, and, therefore, free from blame; yet, if it be active in their continuance, the guilt becomes its own. They may have intruded at first, like unbidden guests; but if, when entered, they are made welcome, and kindly entertained, the case is the same as if they had been invited from the beginning. If we are thus accountable to God for thoughts either voluntarily introduced, or deliberately indulged, we are no less so, in the last place, for those which find admittance into our hearts from supine negligence, from total relaxation of attention, from allowing our imagination to rove with entire license, "like the eyes of the fool, towards the end of the earth." Our minds are, in this case, throwa open to folly and vanity. They are prostituted to every evil thing which pleases to take possession. The consequences must all be charged to our account; and in vain we plead excuse from human infirmity. Hence it appears, that the great object at which we are to aim in governing our thoughts, is, to take the most effectual measures for preventing the introduction of such as are sinful, and for hastening their expulsion, if they shall have introduced themselves without consent of the will.