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HYPER-HUMILITY.

"Ir is," says the learned and pious Archbishop Usher, a good observation which we read in Claudius, that, not only in the splendour of bodily things, but also in mournful abasing of oneself, there may be boasting, and that so much the more dangerous, as it deceives under the name of doing God service." It is much to be feared that at the present time, and among those who have much in them that deserves commendation, if not reverence, this dangerous and deceitful boasting may be found. With some it turns into a revolting habit, which is not too strongly stigmatized by the word "cant."

Let it be observed, that there is the strongest possible distinction between humility of spirit and an ostentatious parade of it in words or in actions. It is undoubtedly very right to be sensible of offences, and to be heartily sorry for them; but this "mournful abasing of oneself," as the good Archbishop phrases it, with all the clamour and all the trappings and the suits of woe, savours more of vanity than of a contrite. heart, and generally tends more towards offence than towards edification. There are many who, in their "mournful abasement," deceive themselves, while they think they are doing God

service. These are to be pitied, and should be treated with gentle yet earnest remonstrance. Again, there are some, who, by this clamour of self-accusation, try to deceive others with the pretence of that which they do not feel; who insult the Deity and deceive mankind by an outward show of sanctimonious self-abhorrence, which they well know to be deceit. For these the stocks and the ducking-stool are but too mild admonishments. Nevertheless, let us take care that we do not confound weakness with hypocrisy.

THOUGHTFULNESS.

WORDSWORTH Somewhere speaks-very finely, as I think-of

"A soul by contemplation sanctified.'

Of course this is to be understood differently from the being "sanctified" in a biblical or theological sense. It would be carrying the philosophy of "contemplation" much beyond its province, were we to say, that it could stand in the place of religion, or that the soul by much searching, could of itself find out what it ought to know, and become pure and holy in the Christian acceptation of the words. This I premise, to avoid misconstruction. But I would point to the distinction between those restlessly active minds that are for ever buzzing through

the intellectual world, devouring knowledge in a hurry, and flying to a fresh meal before the last is half digested-between such minds and the calm thoughtfulness which leisurely and silently ponders what is before it, and looks even beyond, in the same direction, fearful of the distraction of variety. How odious is the vulgar loquacity and bustle of him who sees indeed, but does not contemplate nor consider, compared with the calmer and milder dignity of one whose range of observation may have been much less, but who has a soul by contemplation sanctified-that is, made meditative, gentle, aspiring, reverential-pregnant with admiration and with awe.

But by such a minded man as this, we are not to understand either an anchorite, or even one unfitted for all that is amiable, and much that is strenuous, in the ordinary business of life. There is nothing more to be shunned than such a habit of severe reflection and abstraction, as will not permit a man to mingle in what is useful and innocently pleasant in the world, even to the trifles which please children and little dogs. Some one tells a story about that delightful writer Goldsmith, that when he was sought by a pompous person at his lodgings in the village of Islington, and was expected to be found severely thoughtful in his study, surrounded by his books, he was, in fact, descried in the midst of a group of little children, making

them infinitely happy, while he was instructing a docile dog how to beg for gingerbread and halfpence.

And the admirable Sir Thomas More (albeit he had such a crooked bend in his mind as to be capable of persecuting and scourging heretics) is very express in acquainting us that after the grave business of his chancellorship was over, and he went home to his house at Chelsea, he deemed it a duty to unbend himself, and be pleasant with his household. "For," says he," when I come home I must converse with my wife, chat with my children, and talk with my servants, all the which things I reckon and account among business, for as much as they must of necessity be done, and done they must needs be, unless a man will be a stranger in his own house. And in any wise a man must so fashion and order his conditions, and so appoint and dispose himself, that he may be merry, jocund, and pleasant among them, which either nature hath provided, or chance has made, or he himself hath chosen to be the companions of his life; so that with too much gentle behaviour and familiarity he doth not mar them, and by too much sufferance of his servants make them his masters."

Certainly these household rules which Sir Thomas More lays down are far too much neglected in these days, and men are truly, as it were, strangers in their own houses." With

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regard to servants, who are, whether one will or no (and why should one not will it ?), a part of the family, the "sufferance" which they have is of a very anomalous kind, and though they are perhaps not less effectually "masters" than if too familiarly treated, yet the affectionate respectfulness which it is evident the worthy Chancellor aimed at, is not generally attained.

A great household is oftentimes (to my eyes) one of the most melancholy things that can be looked upon. It is a crowd of people living together too luxuriantly, yet without the comfort of family union, or the independence of absolute separation of interests. The habits of Sir Thomas More would make a most desirable reform in such matters.

FRENCH NOVELS.

A PERSON with an English name has lately put forth a book for the ostensible purpose of introducing to the better acquaintance of the English public the fashionable French novels, and other specimens of the light and loathsome literature of France, in the present day. The book is called "Modern Literature of France;" but as a very accurate critic has already said, "those who have recourse to it with the hope of obtaining any idea of the modern literature of France will be wofully disappointed.

The

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