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her steam up, and will immediately leave
the shores trodden by living men.

I once knew a worthy priest who, when it
fell to his duty to read the words, "And be
ye not drunk with wine," always added
aloud the parenthesis, "nor with any other
strong liquor." In a similar spirit of innovation
to the commandment, "Honour thy
father and mother," I would append the
supplement, "and every other person of
fatherly or motherly age in respect to
yourself." Honour, in such a wide sense, need
not mean the affectionate duty with which
we regard a parent; but it may imply, in
all cases, even to apparently unworthy old
people, the abstinence from dishonour and
from the slightest disrespect in word or
manner, and the screening of faults, and the
shutting of the eyes on infirmities. It is not
for the young to rebuke the old; silence, a
sorrowing absence from reproof, and a
withdrawal from association with elderly persons
who do not respect themselves, is quite a
sufficient protest on the part of comparative
juniors, even against strangers who have no
claim on their forbearance. Boy and girl
censors are supremely disgusting in the rare
cases when they are not ridiculous. To
teach your grandmother her catechism, is as
much of an acted caricature as would be
the teaching her to suck eggs.

We all know from Paley's and other
natural theologies, how admirably the bodily
organisation of living creatures is contrived.
Some writers have traced the same design in
the moral feelings and natural dispositions
conferred on men. One psychological secret
confirms the notion. Before communicating
it, I will first ask the question, "Which stands
in greater need of the other's aidthe child
of the parent's, or the parent of the child's
aid? You answer, the former. Well then;
the secret in passional philosophy (which is
an undoubted fact) is, that the love which
the parent bears to the offspring is stronger
than the love which offspring in general bear
to their parent. Do you love your fathers and
mothers, my good boys and girls? Yes, you
do; you love them very much. Very well;
much as you love them, they love you still
more. They lay out plans for your welfare,
while you are laying out no plans for theirs;
they are often anxious about you and your
doings, when you are not in the slightest
degree anxious about them. Remember then,
my boys, the motive principle of what often
causes you perhaps annoyance. When the
old folks are fussy, and troublesome, and
interfering, and won't let you alone to manage
for yourselves; remember that a parent's
love is deeper-seated, and more powerful, and
more incessant, than you can understand,
until you come to be parents in your turn,
and have troublesome hobbydehoys, like
yourselves, to plague you, often keeping you
awake at night meditating how you can
manage for the best for them. The secret
may tend to make you think yourselves of
greater importance than you did before;
never mind that. Think of it; and try to
use it only for good. You are very clever, no
doubt, my juvenile friends; but (I hope no
offence) you don't yet know everything.

"How indolent Aunt Maria grows!"
murmurs our quick-tempered young friend
Emily, a lively, well-meaning girl of eighteen,
who has never known what illness is, and
whose consciousness of physical existence
extends no further than that to believe a thing
ought to be done, and to will to do it, are to
do it. "How very indolent; I had almost
said lazy! Every day, she lies later and
later in bed; she is not down to breakfast,
till we are thinking of dressing for dinner.
I don't know what it will come to by and
by, if things go on in this way. It is not
like, what she has so often talked to us about,
improving her habits day by day. And then,
she becomes so discontented and hard to
please. She told me she could not relish the
jelly I made for her last week; only yesterday
she said that the game, which the doctor
recommended, and which cousin Charles went
purposely all the way to the moors to shoot,
had a strange disagreeable taste, such as she
never perceived in grouse before. It is very
tiresome to have to do with people who are
so constantly dissatisfied as Aunt Maria is
now. When I tell her all the news I can
think of as likely to interest her, she hardly
takes the trouble to listen to me; I have even
fancied lately that she does not care much
about seeing me and Charles when we go to
her room. She really ought to exert herself
more, and to exercise a little self-control. I
shall tell her what I think about it; and if
she likes to be angry, so she may!"

Emily, under the impression that she is
ill-used and coldly treated by her Aunt, whom
she dearly loves in her heart, does remonstrate;
and, carried by her feelings further
than she intended, she drops a sharp word
about giving way to slothfulness, and about
precept being easier than example.

Aunt Maria makes no reply except a
strange, wondering, appealing look, but which
look, nevertheless, seems to convey instinctively
to her niece's heart an idea which had
never struck her before. The result is instant
repentance and shame. The offender
throws herself into her aged relative's arms,
begging forgiveness with earnest tears. Aunt
Maria accords it with childlike tenderness,
begs in turn forgiveness for the great trouble
she has given, and for the infirmities of
temper she may have shown, adding, "You
do not know, dear child, how sadly I feel. I
wonder what can be the cause of it; I never
experienced anything of the kind before.
Kneel close to me, my love, and read some
of the prayers for the visitation of the sick.
Thank you; thank you. Let me rest my
hands upon your head. God bless you, my
love! Again I thank you for all your kindness