Talent is fit for employment, but tact is fittest, for it has a knack of slipping into place, with a sweet silence and glibness of movement, as a billiard ball insinuates itself into the pocket,-it seems to know everything without learning anything,-it has served an invisible and extemporaneous apprenticeship,-it wants no drilling, it never ranks in the awkward squad,it has no left hand, no deaf ear, no blind side,--it puts on no wondrous wisdom,-it has no air of profundity, but plays with the details of place, as dexterously as a well-taught hand flourishes over the keys of the piano-forte, it has all the air of common place, and all the force and power of genius.

EXTRACTS FROM CASPIPINI'S LETTERS.

TELL me thou poor purblind mortal, amidst all these changes, and vicissitudes, that attend thy bodily frame, what is it within thee that thinks, that reasons, and reflects, and observes upon every change that passes, and continues to do so, let thy body be affected as it may? what is it that renders thee secretly dissatisfied, after thou hast amused thyself with all these fine speculations,-what is it that tells thee that such and such things are good, and right, and proper to be done, and that such and such things are wrong and evil in their nature, and leading to misery, and tells thee so, let thy bodily state and temper be what it will, whether thy present humour disposes thee to obey, or neglect its dictates.

Couldst thou read aright the volume that is unfolded

C

in thine heart, thou wouldst find there the same language which thy Saviour speaks in his gospel, viz.— "That the kingdom of God is within thee;" that virtue, goodness, holiness, are not empty names, but that they are a real nature of heavenly extraction; that they depend not merely upon our animal sensations, but may be called forth, and brought into exercise, independent of, and superior to them; that this heavenly nature will regulate, control, and direct the several passions or appetites of thine earthly part; that whether thy temper be gentle or violent, meek or wrathful, kind and tender, or sour and morose, this blessed principle, if attended to and obeyed, will make both its good and its evil turn to thine advantage.

It will overcome all that is harsh, peevish, and discontented, within thee, and will give an heavenly tincture, virtue, and efficacy to thine earthly meekness, tenderness, and love.

It will teach thee to look above nature, above instinct, above reason, for that which is to set nature, instinct, reason, right; it will satisfy thee of the truth and authority of the Bible revelation, and teach thee to consider thyself and all mankind, not only as the children of Adam, but as sons of God, in Christ, only to be redeemed out of their present bondage by means of that communication, which the Redeemer himself hath opened between earth and heaven-betwixt our fallen spirits and his own spirit of love.

From these few observations, for which I beg your candid attention and indulgence, I think you cannot

but conclude with me, that virtue, goodness, or holiness, do not consist in a mere external decency of behaviour; that they do not consist in, nor are they regulated merely by, our bodily feelings, but they are the gift of God, in Christ, and to be received by the spirit of prayer into our hearts.

Were we once, my good friend, convinced of this, we should not wait for the mere sympathy of animal nature to prompt us to benevolent deeds: we should be kind and tender from a superior principle; we should find ourselves willing to answer the calls of this principle, even against the strongest reluctances of our earthly part.

Our tenderness of heart would be even and uniform, in all its acts and operations; and though our eyes might even refuse the tribute of a tear, yet our souls would be inwardly moved to do what compassion dictates should be done. After all, do not think, Sir, I have been declaiming against animal sympathies; they have their uses-great uses, too, but then let them not be supposed to extend and operate beyond their native sphere. They belong to the earth; they dwell in the earthly part of our frame ;-if we place them indeed under the guidance of heaven, they will partake of the virtue of angels, otherwise, they will be no more in the sight of heaven, than the meekness of the lamb, or the tenderness of the turtle dove. Receive it, then, as a maxim abundantly confirmed by the experience of all mankind, that outward emotion is by no means an infallible sign of inward charity; but that tenderness.

may often appear in the eye, whilst avarice, or some other infernal passion, keeps the door of the heart.

FROM THE MEMOIRS OF COUNT SEGUR.

ANTHONY BENEZET, in a conference with the general, Chevalier de Chastellux, said, "I know that thou art a man of letters, and a member of the French Academy. Men of letters have for some time past written many good things: they have attacked errors, prejudices, and more than all, intolerance; will they not at last try to disgust mankind with war, and make men live amongst each other like friends and brothers."

My longest visits, says Count Segur, were paid to a very silent old man, who very rarely uncovered his thoughts, and never his head; his gravity, his monosyllables proved sufficiently at our first meeting that he was a Quaker; notwithstanding, I must own, that in spite of my esteem for his virtue, our first interview would have been our last, but that on a sudden, a door opened, and a being entered the parlour, who seemed to be a nymph rather than a mere woman: I never saw one who united so much elegance to so much propriety of appearance. It was Polly Leighton, the daughter of my grave Quaker. Her dress was white as herself, whilst the ample muslin of her neckerchief, and the envious cambric of her cap scarcely allowed me to see her light-coloured hair, in short, the simple adorning of this pious maiden vainly endeavoured to

conceal the finest form and the most seducing features. Her eyes appeared to reflect, as in two mirrors, the sweetness of a pure and tender soul. She received us with a degree of confiding ingenuousness which charmed me; and the language of thee and thou, which her sect prescribes, gave to our new acquaintance an air of old friendship.

I doubt whether the finest work of art could ever eclipse this, the finest work of nature, (le chef d'œuvre de la nature,) as the Prince de Broglio called her. In our conversation she surprised me by the candour and originality of her questions.

"Thou hast, of course," said she, "neither wife nor children in Europe, as thou hast quitted thy country, and art come to such a distance in order to carry on the hateful trade of war." "But it is for your sakes," I replied, "that I have left all that is dear to me, and it is to defend your liberties that I come to fight against the English."

"The English," answered she, "have done thee no harm, and what does our freedom signify to thee? One ought never to meddle with other people's affairs, except it be to settle them amicably, and to prevent the shedding of blood." "But my king," I rejoined, "has commanded me thither, to bear his arms against your enemies and his own." "Well, then," said she, thy king has commanded thee to do what is unjust and inhuman, and that is contrary to the commandment of thy Maker. Thou shouldst obey thy God, and disobey thy king; for his kingly power is only