nished for the accident, but for the carelessness, which is a fault. We are all too much inclined to estimate guilt by consequences. A child who has been permitted to climb upon the chairs, and take things from the table, accidentally pushes off some valuable article. The child is perhaps punished. Now, in what respect did this child do wrong? You never taught him that he must not climb upon the table; of course, in that there was no disobedience, and he was not conscious of doing any thing improper. If merely a book had fallen, probably no notice would have been taken of it; but the simple fact that one thing fell instead of another, cannot alter the nature of the offence. If it had been the most valuable watch which had fallen, and thus had been entirely ruined, if it had occurred purely through accident, the child deserves no punishment.

Does any one ask what should be done in such cases? The answer is plain. Children ought to be taught not to do what will expose property to injury; and then if they do what is thus prohibited, consider them guilty, whether injury results or not. If the child, in the above case, had been so taught, this would have been an act of direct disobedience. And a faithful governess would probably pursue some such course as this; without any manifestation of anger, she would calmly and seriously say to her pupil:

66

My child, I have often told you that you must not climb upon the table, you have disobeyed me."

"But," says the child, “I did not mean to do any

harm."

"I presume you did not; I do not accuse you of doing harm, but of having disobeyed me. The injury was accidental, but the disobedience was deliberate and very wrong. I am very sorry to punish you, but I must do it; it is my duty."

She would then punish him, either by the infliction of pain, or by depriving him, for a time, of some of his usual privileges or enjoyments. The punishment, however, would be inflicted for the disobedience, and not for the accident. The child could not but feel that he was justly condemned.

But the question still remains, what is to be done, upon the original supposition, that the child had never been

taught that it was wrong to climb upon the table, or to throw his ball about the room? In that case, no one has a right to blame the child. The fault was in not having previously taught him the impropriety of such conduct.

Allowance must also be made for the ignorance of a child. You are, perhaps, in charge of a little child, eighteen months old, who often amuses herself in tearing to pieces some old newspaper, which you give her. Some day, you happen to have your attention particularly occupied for a length of time, and at last raise your eyes, to see what keeps her so quiet upon the floor. Behold, she has a very valuable book in her hand, which she has almost entirely ruined, and your first impulse is to punish her, or at least, severely to reprove her for the injury. But has she really been doing any thing deserving of punishment or censure? Certainly not. How can she know that it is proper for her to tear one piece of paper, but wrong for her to tear another? The only proper thing to be done, in such a case, is to endeavour to teach the child that a book must be handled with care, and must not be torn. But how can she be taught this without punishing her? She may be taught by the serious tone of your voice, and the sad expression of your countenance, that she has been doing something which you regret.

Guard against too much severity. By pursuing a steady course of efficient government, severity will very seldom be found necessary. If, when punishment is inflicted, it is done with composure and with solemnity, occasions for punishment will be very unfrequent. Fear is a useful and a necessary principle in the government of children. God makes use of it in governing his creatures. But it is ruinous to the disposition of a child to control him exclusively by this motive. How unhappy, for example, must that family be, where the parent always sits, with a face deformed with scowls, and where the voice is always heard in tones of severity and command. Such parents we do see. Their children fear them. They are always under restraint in their presence; and home becomes to them an irksome prison, instead of the happy retreat of peace and joy. But where the mother greets her children with smiles, and rewards their efforts to please her with caresses, and addresses them in tones of mildness and affection, she is touching those chords in the human heart,

which vibrate in sweet harmony; she is calling into action the noblest and the loveliest principles of our nature. And thus does she prepare the way for every painful act of discipline to come with effectual power upon the heart. The children know that she does not love to punish. In all cases in which it can be done, children should be governed by kindness. But where kindness fails, and disobedience ensues, let not the mother hesitate for a moment to fall back upon her last resort, and punish as severely as is necessary. A few such cases will teach almost every child how much better it is to be obedient than disobedient.

By being thus consistent and decided in government, and commencing with the infancy of each child, in all ordinary cases great severity may be avoided. And it is never proper for a parent or teacher to be harsh, and unfeeling, and forbidding, in their intercourse with children or pupils. The most efficient government may be almost entirely administered by affection, if it be distinctly understood that disobedience cannot pass unpunished.

How little we think of the tremendous responsibilities which are resting upon us; and of the wide influence, either for good or for evil, which we are exerting. We are setting in operation a train of causes which will go down through all coming time. Long after we have gone to our eternal home, our words and our actions will be aiding in the formation of character. We cannot, then, arrest the causes which our lives have set in progress, and they will go on elevating immortals to virtue and to heaven, or urging them onward in passion, and in sin, and woe.-Abbott.

THE LILIES OF THE FIELD.

Lo, the Lilies of the field,

How their leaves instruction yield!
Hark to Nature's lesson given
By the tuneful birds of heaven!
Every bush and tufted tree
Warbles sweet philosophy,

Mortal, fly from doubt and sorrow,
God provideth for the morrow!

Say, with richer crimson glows
The kingly mantle than the rose ?
Say, have kings more wholesome fare
Than we poor citizens of air?
Barns nor hoarded grain have we,
Yet we carol merrily.

Mortal, fly from doubt and sorrow,
God provideth for the morrow!

One there lives whose guardian eye
Guides our humble destiny ;
One there lives, who, Lord of all,
Keeps our feathers lest they fall,
Pass we blithely, then, the time,
Fearless of the snare and lime,
Free from doubt and faithless sorrow;
God provideth for the morrow!-Heber.

STRICT HONESTY.

SARAH. I say, Jane, just bring me a sheet of writingpaper, will you? for I must write a letter.

JANE. Where am I to find it?

SARAH. Why there's plenty in my mistress's letter-case in the parlour.

JANE. Yes; but that is not mine, nor yours either. SARAH. Well, what does that signify? I am sure there is plenty; my mistress will never miss it; and what's the value of a sheet of paper?

JANE. Why, whether my mistress should miss it or not makes no difference at all. It is not mine, and I cannot take it; it is not honest.

SARAH. Honest, indeed! Well, I never was suspected of being dishonest in my life; and I lived four years in my last place, and I had a good character for honesty when I came away, and I never scrupled to take a trifle of that kind either.

JANE. It seems then your mistress did not know that these trifles were taken, or perhaps the character she gave you might have been different.

SARAH. Why, as to that, what is the value, I say, of a

sheet of paper? My mistress can afford that well enough,

I warrant you.

JANE. Why, now, it seems to me that the value of the thing signifies nothing; the question is whether it is mine, or whether it is not; and if it is not, I have no business to lay a finger on it. Besides, I look upon it, that when we take a little thing because we think it will not be missed, it is a sign that we only keep our hands from greater things because we think they will be missed. SARAH. Nay, I think I would not take a great thing either.

JANE. Why not?

SARAH. I don't know.

JANE. No; but depend upon it that, if you have a right principle, it will keep you from small crimes as well as great ones. You remember the verse that our old dame taught us at school;

"

"It is a sin to steal a pin,

Much more to steal a greater thing."

And we have been taught to keep "our hands from picking and stealing." And though perhaps we may do these things without being seen, that does not turn wrong into right. Besides, those who do these things, always take care to do them when their masters and mistresses do not see them. Now, if they did not know that they were doing wrong, they would not be ashamed of being seen. We may be pretty sure that, when we are afraid of being seen, we know that we are doing what we ought not to do.'

SARAH. Well, I believe you are right; but I cannot help often thinking that you are too particular. Why, the other day, when a few little sweet cakes came out of the dining-room after dinner, you would not so much as give me one, and I dare say you would not touch one yourself.

JANE. I could not give you one, Sarah, for they were not mine; and, for the same reason, I, of course, could not touch one myself.

SARAH. Why, they never would have been missed; neither master nor mistress would have counted them. If I had thought they would, I would not have touched one for the world; for they never would have believed me to be honest again; and, with a servant, character is every thing.