tached from the things of earth, the loss of earthly things could not consistently be felt-that a mind entirely trusting in the wisdom and power of God, could not consistently suffer from anxiety-that a mind totally acquiescent in the will of God, could not consistently feel regret at the dispensations of Providence—and, above all, that where no loss, or anxiety, or regret could be felt, the mind could not consistently be deranged by them. These were truths beyond all controversy, and we were thence successfully going on to deduce the inconsistency of this helpless sufferer in particular, and of every body else in general, ourselves excepted, when the rolling of distant thunder in the horizon announced a coming storm, called off our attention, and turned the conversation. The storm arose. The young ladies became desperately frightened—they did not know for what, but lest some harm should happen to themselves, or somebody or something that belonged to them. When I endeavoured to sooth them by assurance that no ill would happen, they grew angry. How could I be sure of that? Lightning often kills people-wind often blows houses down-people sometimes lose their eyes or their hearing in a thunder storm-in short, they thought it quite wicked not to be frightened when there was danger, and distressed when there might be suffering, to others if not to ourselves. The storm subsided-but not so the fears. They had now indeed a definite object; very considerable damage was supposed to have been done on a distant part of the coast, where they had property, and they might possibly be very material losers by the accident. Gloom, fretfulness, and anxiety pervaded the house through all that night and the succeeding day. With the hopefulness generally experienced by the uninterested spectator of others' anxieties, I represented to them every probability or possibility, reasonable or unreasonable, that their property might not have been injured-but they persisted in expecting the worst, in rejecting all palliations of the possible mischief. They would not eat-they would not

sleep-they would not divert their minds by employment, or relieve themselves by conversation: and when they thought they perceived in me an opinion that they showed more uneasiness than was warranted by a yet uncertain ill, and more impatience under an imagined loss, than might have been reasonable even under a known one, they observed that to be less anxious than they were, would be unnatural, insensible, impossible-in short, inconsistent with common sense. It did not happen to us

at that time to renew the conversation of the balconyof minds detached from earth—of trust that could not be shaken of acquiescence that could not be moved-of that self-possession, in short, that could not be disturbed in a devoted and well-regulated mind.

Among our intimate acquaintance there was one young person whose liveliness of manner and buoyancy of spirits made her the life of her family and the zest of every company she happened to mix with. She went gaily and cheerfully about every task that circumstance or choice imposed-she spoke of every thing with playful vivacity, and did every thing with an air of confident expectation: meet her when you would or where you would, there was always brightness in her eye and a smile on her brow, and activity and enjoyment in her whole demeanour. We allowed that this was agreeable, we confessed great pleasure in her society-but we could not approve her character-it was not consistent for a Christian to be always so light-hearted. The pilgrim, the penitent, the culprit, the suppliant dependent on Almighty pity, the combatant struggling through unequal warfare, the prodigal as yet almost a stranger in his home, the meek, the mournful, and the brokenhearted, emblems by which the Deity has described his people, are characters, we said, that consist not with so much gaiety and lightness of spirits, such sanguine, cheerful, fearless animation.

There was another on whose brow the shade of pensiveness for ever sat supreme--she seemed to be always

feeling, one might have said always suffering—if there ever came a smile on her features, it was gone, ere you could be sure you saw it there-if there ever escaped from her a word of jest, the sigh came so quickly after, you felt forbidden to remark it: the liquid eye and changeful colour spoke intensity of feeling-but even in her feeling there was a stillness imperturbable-in her very pleasures, if she knew any, there was a tone of melancholy. Her affectionate softness we felt was lovely, her gentle sadness interesting: we could even have loved her, had we not seen her so very inconsistent. A Christian who professes, as we supposed she did, to have found a real and substantial bliss in grateful anticipation of eternal joy, ought never to be melancholyhabitual sadness, an air of habitual suffering, was not consistent with the security, and peace, and joy, offered in the Gospel to the believer, and professedly accepted by him.

There was a third person whose busy, bustling, babbling nature, happily set in motion by a disposition to good, was for ever talking and for ever doing-from sun-rise to sun-set she was to be seen in motion-assisting every body, exhorting every body, teaching every body-sometimes laden with books to give away, sometimes with work to be done, or clothes to be bestowedher tables were strewed with tracts and baby-linenher basket was filled with conserves and cough-mixtures -nobody could live without her assistance, nobody could die without her administration-it almost seemed that nobody could go to heaven without her guidance. The days were too short for what she had to do-the hours were not long enough for what she had to say— her busy head was always devising something-her bustling step was always pursuing something-her rapid finger was always making something-her tongue outstripped them all; and of all, good was the object, and benevolence the motive. Her name was written in every record of humanity, and sounded on every tongue,

and engraven doubtless in many a grateful heart-but we did not like her, because she was not, as we said, altogether consistent-while engaged so much abroad, domestick piety was overlooked-while hurried up and down in perpetual activity of benevolence, private devotion must be neglected; there could be no time for reading or reflection; the religion of the closet was of more avail than all this bustle, and more consistent with the genuine spirit of the Gospel.

A fourth friend we had of an opposite character. She was never to be found taking part in the institutions of benevolence, or joining in public exertions for the propagation of truth. She was not known as the instructor of the ignorant or the comforter of the afflicted; she was not known to belong to institutions or societies; she was very seldom heard to speak upon religion, and was very seldom seen in religious society. In private only might her piety be detected-in the peace and holiness that reigned in her family-the devotion that seemed to have its favourite dwelling in her closet-the silent study of the truth-the firm abiding by its precepts-the regulation of her temper by its laws-the tone, in short, of her whole feelings, habits, and desires, perceived though untold, betrayed rather than exhibited. It was necessary to know her intimately to perceive all this-we knew it, but it did not please us. If she was pious in heart and devoted in private, why did she not come forward? Why did she not join with others of like feelings, and do as they do? It was not consistent that one who really loved the truth should be supinely indifferent about its propagation-one who really feels must talk and act, must be anxious to impart what she knows and disclose what she enjoys-a barren and unproductive faith, so difficult to discover and so fruitless, could not be consistent Christianity.

There was a fifth, whom birth and circumstances had accustomed to all the elegancies and luxuries of life. A refined mind, a cultivated taste, and delicate habits, all con

spired to make these things valuable and needful to her; and it was evident they were valued and enjoyed. She was nice in her dress, expensive in her establishment, stylish in the arrangements of her household. Her we condemned at once: so much indulgence and display and care for things exterior, was not consistent with humility, self-denial, and renunciation of the world.

A sixth, who in a station of equal elevation and with equal means, was neglectful of appearances, homely in her habits, indifferent to the distinctions of society, whether from inclination or from conscientious selfabasement, received from us no kinder judgment. It was not consistent in people of rank to look like housemaids, to live like peasants, to contravene the arrangements of providence, by levelling the distinctions of rank and circumstance.

These, and such as these, are but instances of our ample success, in finding all our neighbours guilty of inconsistency. In the full enjoyment of these discoveries, there came athwart me, Mr. Listener, the recollection of your paper, well-nigh forgotten, and of my wish to help you. After all our talk about Consistency, and the want of Consistency, and the beauty of Consistency, where was the idea the word had stood for? Within me and around me I began to search for it. In my own mind I could find nothing like an idea upon the subject-I had applied the word so indiscriminately, to such a heterogeneous multitude of things, from the careless dropping of an unweighed word, to the crime of grossest malignity, it was impossible for any definition of the term, or any one idea to comprehend the whole. Around me-alas! in reiterating the charge of inconsistency on others, had we not amply proved it in ourselves?