able. These are small matters; but it is the perpe tual dropping that wears out the stone, and not the sudden shower; and it is these small frettings of ill-humour that consume the peace of our bosoms, and attaint the character of domestic happiness in England, which else has there its full and perfect loveliness. That this propensity to ill-humour is the effect of a foggy atmosphere and a sluggish circulation, I have no doubt. But we do not abide an evil contentedly, merely because we know the cause; rather we go more hopefully to find a cure. Whether we can help feeling out of humour, I will not be positive; though by the habit of reflection and resistance, I think we may. That we can avoid making others feel it I am quite positive.

I know one, who, from the languor of a consumptive hahit, feels always ill and dispirited in the morning; when asked why she never speaks at breakfast-time, she says it is, lest, under those sensations, she may speak ill-naturedly. I know one, who, from mental exertion at night, feels for the few first hours of the next day, all the languor and exhaustion of disease. Having the care of children, she never reproves them or gives them orders till the sensation goes off, because she feels that she must wait to be in a good humour herself, before she can judge of any thing, much less venture a reproach. This case is more clearly physical than most; and yet it can thus be governed. I often hear ladies say in their families, "Do not tease me to-day, for I am unwell." I should not have the least objection to hear them say, "Do not tease me to-day, for I am in an illhumour"-the candour of the confession on one part, and the shame of it on the other, might put an end to ill-humour in both. That all can control their humours is certain; because all do, when they think

there is a necessity for it. In certain companies, in the presence of those we fear, or with whom we have some purpose to effect, either the ill-humour is conquered, or it is concealed. However the venom be native in our bosoms, the sting is put forth only at our pleasure—and strange as it is, we reserve it for our best and dearest friends; for the torment of our home, and the misery of our families.

You, who in character are yet unnamed, who are fretting and toiling yourselves to be hereafter called clever women, sensible women, elegant or accomplished, or benevolent women; has it ever come into your mind to earn the title of good-humoured women? Perhaps not, for you use the appellation in contempt; and yield it to those who can claim no character besides. You have heard it thus used, and you have not reflected on the term, or on the thing it means. Of this be persuaded-Good-humour will lighten sorrow, that talent can but render more acute. Good-humour will bear you through difficulties that the strongest sense cannot enable you to evade. Good-humour will preserve affections that beauty and elegance can do little more than win. Good-humour will lessen the sufferings of humanity more than thousands of gold and silver, which only administer to the body, while the other spares the mind. Good-humour will remain a blessing when others are gone by, like the woodroffe, that was sweet in my drawer, when even the rose had pe rished, and the woodbine was forgotten.

GOOD TEMPER AND GOOD HUMOUR.

Oh! blest with temper, whose unclouded ray
Can make to-morrow cheerful as to-day;

Good humour only teaches charms to last,

Still makes new conquests, and maintains its past.

POPE.

I AM acquainted, very intimately acquainted, with two ladies: they are cousins. I shall call them Susan and Amelia. They were so much alike, that people thought them sisters. They were brought up together, and with the same prospects in life. Now, it might have happened that Good-temper, that is Amelia, had been also good-humoured: and that Good-humour, that is Susan, had been good-tempered-and there would have been an end of my story. But the case is otherwise. Susan was not good-tempered, and Amelia was not good-humoured, as I am prepared to prove.

When I first knew them, they were in the nursery. I often questioned the nurse respecting their disposi tions; to which her answer was, "Why, ma'am, my mistress thinks that Amelia has the best heart at the bottom, but we all like Miss Susan best. She is very naughty, to be sure, now and then; but is not so tiresome as Miss Amelia." My own observation sufficiently illustrated her meaning. So long as things went on in their usual way, Susan was most pleasant child in the world. If Amelia ran to the rocking-horse before her, when she was going to ride, she began rocking her with all her might,

the

laughing as if that had been her first design. When something was to be divided, though the nurse owned the eldest should have the first choice, Susan would say, "Never mind, Amelia shall have which she likes" and the air of delight with which she took what was left, proved that she really did not mind. Like most good-humoured people, her compliance was pretty largely drawn upon. It was, Susan do this, and Susan do that. Let your cousin have that, and help your cousin to do this. But all was good to Susan she frisked about like a butterfly, that driven from one flower settles upon another, and loses nothing of its gayety. All strangers liked her; for she answered cheerfully to every question put to her; smiled at every thing that was said to please her when noticed, was playful and communicative; when left alone, amused herself, and troubled nobody.

But in vain to poor Amelia things went in the usual way: the right way for her they could not go. When in a good humour, she was a most generous child, and would do any thing to oblige another; but this did not happen once a-week. "I don't like this, I don't like that; I wish you would do this; I wish you would not do that." Changing the choice more rapidly than it was possible to comply with it; and when it was complied with, not a bit the better pleased this was the music through all the days besides. It is proverbially said of a person we need not name, that he is in a good humour when he is pleased: but this was not the case with Amelia; she was often pleased, delighted in her little heart, at having carried her point. But she took care nobody should see it, and sat pouting on, as if she had still been under contradiction. With strangers she was extremely disagreeable if jested

with, sulked, and turned away; seldom answered a question, but made a point of asking them when she saw it was inconvenient to attend to her. The child, I thought, was detestable, and certainly never happy.

But there came a day-I mention one-but there were many such-when outrageous noises drew me to the nursery. Susan had, in mischievous playfulness, thrown a favourite picture of Amelia's into the fire. Amelia with her usual whine, but not meaning really to hurt her cousin-she never had been known to hurt a worm-had pushed her over a stool, and caused her a severe fall. I found Susan in an outrageous passion, screaming and stamping; while Amelia, overwhelmed with grief for what she had done, was using every possible means to comfort and appease her. Though not in fact the aggressor, since she had no more intention of injuring her cousin, than her cousin of vexing her, she had forgotten all wrong; was begging her pardon a thousand and a thousand times; offering her dolls, books; every thing she possessed, to make it up, and never even told me the provocation she had received every thought of herself was lost in the idea that her cousin was hurt. Susan was in fact not hurt; but she chose to scream on, and she refused all compromise and compensation.No power of persuasion or command could force her to kiss her cousin, then or throughout the day: though poor Amelia did nothing but court and solicit her to peace. When I alluded to the picture, which I knew she felt the loss of, she answered sweetly, "If I had burned Susan's picture, she would have laughed and I ought to have laughed, for she only did it in fun, and not to have pushed her down." Susan recovered her careless good-humour