carpet, with the deep crimson of the curtain, gave a glow of warmth to the picture, strikingly opposed to the growing whiteness of the scene without.

A number of young persons were in the room; the plainness of their dress, their easy familiarity and small numbers, did not indicate a party, and yet there were more than might belong to a single family. This was not hard to understand. And how powerfully came to my mind, at the moment, the boundless munificence of that Being, who has provided enjoyments for every season; comforts for nature's most sad and cheerless hours. What was to them the chilling shower that fell without, or the frost that bound the palsied earth in impenetrable hardness? In the enjoyment of present pleasures, other, but not less, they sighed not at recollection of the tints of autumn or the summer's sun. And then came into my gladdened mind all the delights of social intercourse; of sentiments sweetly responding to each other; of feelings tenderly participated; of argument without dispute; reproof without unkindness. And I thought, if I might not share it, I might now at least contemplate it: and so I tried to list what passed within. To ordinary persons this might have been difficult. But what can professed listeners not hear?

The youthful party, for such it was, had recently met, as it seemed to me, to pass a social evening, all on familiar terms and intimately acquainted; therefore there was neither reserve nor form to check or damp their pleasures. The tea was making, and as they sipped the fragrant draught, the talk went cheerfully round. It began as usual with the weather. I do not exactly object to this; because something must be said first; and, as the beginning address is a great difficulty to the reserved and modest, it is

very well to have an established form of commencement, fitted for all circumstances. But I did think half an hour something too long for this prelude. And I did think besides, that when one called it miserable weather, and another said it was a wretched day, and a third declared it put her quite out of temper, and a fourth wished she could sleep till it was finer, the speakers either did not well regard the meaning of their words or had formed an extraordinary estimate of misery and wretchedness, as well as of the value of time, and the preservatives of good-humour. And I began to be something impatient when one remarked at some length on the wonderful shortening of the days, which, as it usually occurs in November, I thought scarcely might need a remark, much less an expression of surprise or complaint. The subject next in succession was that of dress. Here, too, the gentle critic must concede something to what makes a necessary part of a woman's business; and so I was very patient for a while. But, indeed, this subject so far outlived its predecessor, the remarks were so useless, the eagerness so disproportioned to the occasion, the importance attached to it so much too great, and the expenditure of thought on it so very obvious, I began to be well nigh weary of my listening, when it diverged a little from dress in the abstract, to dress in the application, and all the dresses of all the ladies in the parish, red, blue, and black, Sunday and working-day, were numbered, described, and discussed.

But wo to him whose discontent would have a change at any rate, before he knows for what! From the dress we passed to the persons, and from the persons to the affairs, of others. What was before

but useless, now became mischievous. Words were repeated, tales were told, surmises were whispered, peculiarities were mimicked, falsehoods were circulated, and truths were ridiculed. The only hope that promised some limit to the evil circulated was, that as all talked at once, no one could receive much impression from what another said. But I, the silent Listener, did, for I observed that one in particular was so addicted to exaggeration, that if she told a truth, it became a falsehood on her lips; another was so possessed with the image of self, that even in talking of others, she never failed to push in the I and the me at every sentence, either by the way of comparison, or simile, or illustration: and another was so envious, at least, if not censorious, that she replied with a but to even the least suggestion of merit, or palliation of demerit, in another: in a fourth, I remarked that her opinion changed so rapidly, in one thing only was she decided, that of differing from whoever happened to be heard last. Another was so absolutely certain of every thing, one was almost constrained to believe her an eyewitness of all that had passed in the three kingdoms since she was born, and for twenty years before. But no one more displeased me than a little lady, who could assume every body's countenance, mimic every body's tone of voice, and caricature every body's manners.

Full two good hours more had elapsed before the conversation had progressed through all these shades of subjects, and there came a transition for which I could not well account; it having arisen in a corner whence I could not distinctly hear amid the tumult. But suddenly it seemed to me, from certain words I caught, that my young party were speaking of reli

gion. I was not long in doubt how the conversation might have passed from things so frivolous to a theme so important; for I soon was doomed to know that the frivolity of talk does not depend upon its subject. These young critics were talking indeed of preachers, and of sermons, and of last Sunday's congregation, and who was there, and who ought to have been there and was not. And one minister was compared with another, and one extolled, and the other depreciated. And the last sermon at their parish church, which seemed to be tolerably well remembered, was closely criticised. One liked this part, and one did not like that part, and some ridiculed and even mimicked the peculiarities in the expression and manner of the preacher. And then the mistakes and inconsistencies of all the religious people in their circle of acquaintance were hinted and wondered at, and apparently very conscientiously bewailed.

It was a point as difficult, indeed, as it seemed to be important, to determine, amid conflicting opinions, who amongst them were to be considered religious and who were not. And so went on-but I forbore to listen. The night's increasing chillness warned me thence; and as I betook myself to my solitary home, I tried in vain to recall, of all I had heard, one single expression of feeling, one thought that bespoke reflection, one breathing of piety, cultivation, or good sense. Yet had I reason to believe the young persons possessed all these: they had been carefully, politely, and religiously educated; they knew much and probably felt much. Why then was it so? From habit simply-habit, unresisted by others when they were younger, and now unresisted by themselves, growing every year more

inveterate, shortly to become too difficult to conquer. Dispersed in society where good sense, piety, and intellect, give the tone to the discourse, these young people would be found silent, reserved, and embarrassed, wishing in vain they had words in which to clothe their thoughts, or courage to express their feelings, and ask an explanation of their doubts. And their minds must have more than the ordinary power of resistance, if they come not eventually to prefer the company of the trifling, the frivolous, and the senseless.

Meantime the Oracle of Wisdom has declared, "The thought of foolishness is sin." What sin, then, in its habitual and confirmed expression, become by habit the language of our lives! What sin in the perversion of that power whose use is unlimited in good-in telling forth the praises of Godin speaking comfort to the suffering; in giving information to those that know not; in adding the highest zest to intellectual pleasures; the most exquisite enjoyment to social intercourse! Rational conversation is the means above all others calculated to correct our mental errors; to shame our selfish passions; to correct the false estimate we form of ourselves, and induce a liberal and benevolent consideration of the feelings of others. It is the genial fire applied from time to time to save the heart from the icy coldness that steals upon it mid the selfish occupations of the world. It is the overflow of feelings too big for the bosom to hold and be at peace. It is the gentle consolation that neither age, nor sorrow, nor infirmity, forbids to us; the draught oblivious, in which suffering the most poignant can for awhile forget itself: the offspring of confidence and love, better thriving on the hearth of domestic