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most important of all subjects, how useless your assertions, and how devoid of efficacy your endeavors to disseminate the principles of Divine Truth! How enviable does the possession of this knowledge now appear to many a zealous Christian who has to deplore the consequences of a neglected youth! for I repeat, that in after life it is almost impossible to impress the mind with the same vividness, and consequently to enrich the memory with the same amount of useful knowledge, as when the aspect of the world is new, and the feelings comparatively unoccupied and unimpressed.

The same observations which occur in relation to the reading of the Scriptures at an early period of life, apply, in degree, to the acquisition of all other kinds of knowledge. | Never again will the mind be so free from distraction as now; never again will the claims of duty be so few; never again will the memory be so unoccupied. If, therefore, a store of knowledge is not laid up while the mind is in this state, it will be found wanting when most needed; and difficult indeed is the task, and mortifying the situation, of those whose information has to be sought, in order to supply the demand of every hour. As well might the cultivator of the soil allow his grain to remain in the fields, until hunger reminded him that bread was wanted on his board; as the woman who expects to fill a respectable station in life, go forth into society unprovided with that supply of knowledge and information which she will there find perpetually required. The use of such knowledge is a different question, and remains yet to be discussed; but on the importance of its acquisition in the season of youth, there can be but one opinion among experienced and rational beings.

Of all kinds of knowledge, that of our own ignorance is the first to be acquired. It is an humbling lesson for those to learn, who are built up on the foundation of what is called a good education; yet such is the fact, that the knowledge which young ladies bring home with them from school, forms but a very small part of that which they will be expect

ed to possess. Indeed, such is the illimitable nature of knowledge, that persons can only be said to know much or little by comparison. It is by comparing ourselves with others, and especially with those who are more advanced in life, that we first learn the important secret of our own deficiencies. And it is good to keep the mind open to this truth; for without having clearly ascertained our own inferiority, we should always be liable to make the most egregious mistakes; not only by telling those around us what they already know, and wearying our acquaintance with the most tedious commonplace, but by the worst kind of false assumption-by placing ourselves in exalted positions, and thereby rendering our ignorance more conspicuous.

All this, however, though a fruitful source. of folly and ridicule, is of trifling importance compared with the absolute want-the mental poverty-the moral destitution, necessarily occasioned by an absence of true knowledge; we must begin, therefore, by opening our minds to the truth, not by adopting the opinions of this or that set of persons, but by reading the works of the best authors, by keeping the mind unbiassed by the writings or the conversation of persons infected with prejudice, and by endeavoring to view every object in its full extent, its breadth, its reality, and its importance.

It is the grand defect in woman's intellectual condition, that she seldom makes any equivalent effort to do this. She is not only too often occupied with the mere frivolities of life, to estimate the true value of general knowledge; but, she is also too apt to hang her credulity upon her affections, and to take any thing for granted which is believed by those whom she loves. It is true, this servility of mind may appear to some like acting out the law of love, which I am so anxious to advocate; but how is it, if their dearest friends are in error, and if they err in such a way as to endanger their temporal and eternal interests? Is it not a higher and nobler effort of love, to see and rectify such error, than to endeavor to imbibe the same, for

the sake of being companions in folly, or in sin?

One of the greatest faults in the system of education pursued in the present day, is that of considering youth as the season for reading short and easy books. Although the ablest of female writers-I had almost said the wisest of women-has left on record her testimony against this practice, it continues to be the fashion, to place in the hands of young persons, all kinds of abstracts, summaries, and short means of arriving at facts; as if the only use of knowledge was to be able to repeat by rote a list of the dates of public events.

Now, if ever an entire history or a complete work is worth reading, it must be at an early period of life, when attention and leisure are both at our command. By the early and studious reading of books of this description, those important events which it is of so much consequence to impress upon the mind, become interwoven in the memory, with the spirit and style of the author; so that instead of the youthful reader becoming possessed of nothing more than a mere table of facts, she is in reality associating herself with a being of the highest order of mind, seeing with the eyes of the author, breathing his atmosphere, thinking his thoughts, and imbibing, through a thousand indirect channels, the very essence of his genius.

This is the only kind of reading which is really worthy of the name. Abstracts and compendiums may very properly be glanced over in after life, for the sake of refreshing the memory as to dates and facts; but unless the works of the best authors have been read in this manner in early life, there will always be something vapid in our conversation, contracted in our views, prejudiced in our mode of judging, and vulgar in our habits of thinking and speaking of things in general. In vain may we attempt to hide this great deficiency. Art may in some measure conceal what is wanting; but it cannot bring to light what does not exist. Prudence may seal the lips, and female tact may point out when to speak with safety, and

when to withhold a remark; but all those enlightened views, all that bold launching forth into the region of intellect, all the companionship of gifted minds, which intelligent women, even in their inferior capacity, may at least delight in, will be wanting to the happiness of her who chooses to waste the precious hours of youth in idleness or frivolity. Nor is it easy for after study to make up the deficiency of what ought to have been acquired in youth. Bare information dragged in to supply the want of the moment, without arrangement, and without previous thought, too often resembles in its crudeness and inappropriate display, a provision of raw fruits, and undressed food, instead of the luxuries of an elegant and well-furnished board.

I have heard it pleaded by young women, that they did "not care for knowledge”—“ did not wish to be clever." And if such persons would be satisfied to fill the lowest place in society, to creep through the world alone, or to have silly husbands, and idiot sons, we should say that their ambition was equal to their destiny. But when we see the same persons jealous of their rights as intellectual beings, aspiring to be the companions of rational men, and, above all, the early instructors of immortal beings, we blush to contemplate such lamentable destitution of right feeling, and can only forgive their presumption in consideration to their ignorance and folly.

I cannot believe of any of the young persons who may read these pages, that they could be guilty of such an act of ingratitude to the great Author of their being, and the Giver of evey good and perfect gift they possess, as deliberately to choose to consign to oblivion and neglect the intellectual part of their nature, which may justly be regarded as the highest of these gifts. I would rather suppose them already acquainted with the fact, that those passions and emotions, to the exercise of which they believe themselves especially called, are many of them such as are common to the inferior orders of animals, while the possession of an understanding capable of unlimited extension, is an attribute

of the Divine nature, and one which raises among the miracles wrought by the Saviour them to a level with the angels.

CHAPTER II.

ECONOMY OF TIME.

In all our pursuits, but especially in the acquisition of knowledge, it is highly important to habituate ourselves to minute calculations upon the value and progress of time. That writer who could teach us how to estimate this treasure, and how to realize its fleetness, would confer a lasting benefit upon his fellow-creatures. We all know how to talk of time flying fast. It is, in short, the subject of our most familiar proverbs, the burden of the minstrel's song, the theme of the preacher's discourse, the impress we affix to our lightest pleasures, the inscription that remains upon our tombs. Yet how little do we actually realize of the silent and ceaseless progress of time! It is true, that one of the first exclamations which infant lips are taught to utter is the word "gone;" and the beautiful | expression, "gone for ever," occurs with frequency in our poetical phraseology. Clean gone for ever, is the still more expressive language of Scripture; and if any combination of words could be made to convey to us clear and striking impressions of this idea, it would be found among those of the inspired writers. Yet still we go on from day to day, insensible, and unimpressed by this, the most sublime and appalling reality of our existence. The fact that no single moment of our lives, whether happy or miserable, whether wasted or well employed, can ever be recalled, is of itself one of the most momentous truths with which we are acquainted-that each hour of our past existence, whether marked by wisdom or by folly, is gone for ever; and that neither ingenuity, nor effort, nor purchase, nor prayer, can call it back. Nay, so far is it removed from the range of possibility, that we should live again for any portion of our past lives, that it was not even

while on earth. Other apparent impossibilities he did accomplish before the eyes of wondering multitudes, breaking the bonds of nature, and even raising the dead to life; yet, we find not among these mighty works, that he said to any single day in man's experience, "Thou shalt dawn again." No. Even the familiar face of yesterday is turned away from us for ever; and though so closely followed by the remembrance of the past night, as well might we attempt to grasp the stars, as to turn back and enjoy its sweet repose again.

What then is the consequence? Since time, this great ocean of wealth, is ebbing away from us day by day, and hour by hour; since it must inevitably diminish, and since we know the lowest rate at which it must go, though none can tell how soon it may to them be gone for ever, is it not our first duty to make the best possible use of what remains, and to begin in earnest, before another day shall escape from our hold?

We will suppose the case of a man who finds himself the possessor of a vast estate, with the power to cultivate it as he will, and to derive any amount of revenue from it which his ingenuity or labor may obtain for him; yet, with this condition-that an enemy shall be entitled to take away a certain portion of it every day, until the whole is gone. The enemy might, under certain circumstances, with which the owner could not be acquainted, enjoy the liberty of taking the whole at once; but a certain part he must take every day. Now, would not the man who held this property on such a tenure, look sharply to his own interest, and endeavor to discover by what means he could turn his estate to the best account, before its extent should be so far diminished as to cripple his means? Reflecting, too, that each day it was becoming less, and that the smaller its extent, the smaller would be the returns he might expect, would he not begin, without the loss of a single day, so to improve his land, to till, to sow, and to prepare for getting in his produce, as that he might derive a lasting rev

enue of profit from the largest portion, before it should have passed out of his own hands?

A very common understanding, and a very trifling amount of knowledge, would prompt the possessor of such an estate to do this; yet, with regard to time, that most valuable of earthly possessions, how few of us act upon this principle! With some, the extent of this estate is narrowing to a very small circle; but with the class of human beings whom I am addressing, there is, in all human probability, a wider field for them to speculate upon. Illness, it is true, may come and snatch away a large portion, and death may be waiting to grasp the whole: how much more important is it, then, to begin to cultivate and reap in time!

Perhaps it is the apparent extent of our prospect in early life, which deludes us into the belief that the enemy is actually not taking any thing away. Still there are daily and hourly evidences of the lapse of time, which would serve to remind us of the impossibility of calling it back, if we would but regard them in this light. If, for instance, we have committed an egregious folly, if we have acted unjustly, thrown blame upon the innocent, or spoken unkindly to a dear friend-though it was but yesterday, last night, or this morning-not all our tears, though we might weep oceans, could wash away that single act or word; because the moment which bore that stain upon it, would be gone-and gone for

ever.

Again, we scarcely become acquainted with life in any of its serious aspects, before death is presented to our notice. And where are they "the loved, the lost?" Their days have been numbered-all those long days of companionship in which their friends might have loved, and served them better, are gone for ever. "And why," we ask, when the blow falls nearest to ourselves-when the delight of our eyes is taken away as with a stroke"why do not the sun, and the moon, and the stars, delay their course?-why do the flowers not cease to bloom?—the light and cheerful morning not fail to return? above all, why

do those around us continue their accustomed avocations? and why do we join them at last, as if nothing had occurred ?" It is because time passes on, and on, and neither life, nor death, nor joy, nor sorrow, nor any of the changes in our weal or wo, present the minutest hindrance to his certain progress, or retard for a single moment his triumphant and irresistible career.

Nor is it simply as a whole, that we have to take into account the momentous subject of time. Every year, and month, and day, have their separate amount of responsibility; but especially the season of youth, because the habits we acquire during that period, have an influence upon the whole of our after lives.

The habit of making correct calculations upon how much can be done in any stated portion of time, is the first thing to begin with, for without this, we are very apt to go on with any thing that may happen to interest us, to the culpable neglect of more important duties. Thus, though it may be well for a man to pluck the weeds up in his garden for half an hour after breakfast; yet, if his actual business lies in the counting-house, or the exchange, it would be worse than folly for him to remain plucking weeds up for half the day.

In order to make the best use of time, we must lay out beforehand the exact amount proportioned to every occupation in which we expect to engage. Casualties will perpetually occur demanding an additional allowance, and something must consequently be given up in exchange; but still our calculations may generally be made with a degree of certainty, which leaves no excuse for our being habitually at a loss what to do.

There is a class of young persons, and I fear not a very small one, who rise every morning trusting to the day to provide its own occupations and amusements. They descend from their chambers with a listless, dreamy hope that something will occur to interest, or enliven them, never imagining that they themselves are called upon to enliven and interest others. Such individuals

being liable to disappointment every day, almost always learn to look upon themselves as unfortunate beings, less privileged than others, and, in short, ill-treated by faith, or rather by Providence, in being placed where they are.

It is this waiting to be interested, or amused, by any thing that may chance to happen, which constitutes the great bane of a young woman's life, and while dreaming on in this most unprofitable state, without any definite object of pursuit, their minds become the prey of a host of enemies, whose attacks might have been warded off by a little wholesome and determined occupation. Their feelings, always too busy for their peace, become morbid, restless, and ungovernable, for want of proper exercise; while imagination, allowed to run riot over a boundless field of vague and half-formed observations, leads their affections in her train, to fix upon whatever object caprice or fancy may select.

It is not attributing too much importance to the right economy of time, to say that it might prevent all this. I presume not to lay down rules for the occupation of every hour. Particular duties must always appertain to particular situations; and since the necessary claims upon our attention are as varied as our individual circumstances, that which in one would be a right employment of time, would be a culpable breach of duty in another. There are, however, a few general rules which cannot be too clearly or too deeply impressed upon the mind-rules which the rich and the poor would be equally benefited by adopting; which the meanest and the most exalted individual would alike find it safe to act upon; and by which the wisest and best of mankind might increase their means and extend their sphere of usefulness to their fellow-creatures.

The first of these rules is to accustom yourselves every morning to say what you are intending to do; and every night, with equal faithfulness, to say what you have actually done during the day. If you find any material difference between what you have intended, and what you have achieved, try to proportion them better, and the next day,

either lay out for yourself, or, what is far better, endeavor to accomplish more. This is the more to be recommended, because we learn, both by experience and observation, that whenever we bring down our good intentions to a lower scale, it is a certain symptom of some failure either in our moral, intellectual, or physical power. Still there is much allowance to be made for the inexperience of youth, in not being able to limit good intentions by the bounds of what is practicable; it is therefore preferable that a little should be taken off, even from what is good in itself, rather than that you should go on miscalculating time, and means, to the end of life.

There are persons, and some considerably advanced in years, who habitually retire to rest every night, surprised and disappointed that the whole of their day's work has not been done. Now, it is evident that such persons must be essentially wrong in one of these two things-either in their calculations upon the value and extent of time, or in their estimate of their own capabilities; and in consequence of these miscalculations, they have probably been making the most serious mistakes all their lives. They have been promising what they could not perform; deceiving and disappointing their friends, and those who were dependent upon them; besides harassing their own spirits, and destroying their own peace, by frightful miscalculations of imperative claims, when there was no residue of time at all proportioned to such requirements.

The next rule I would lay down is, if possible, of more importance than the first. It is, that you should always be able to say what you are doing, and not merely what you are going to do. "I am going to be so busy-I am going to get to my work-I am going to prepare for my journey-I am going to learn Latin-I am going to visit a poor neighbor." These, and ten thousand other "goings," with the frequent addition of the word "just" before them, are words which form a net-work of delusion, by which hundreds of really well-intentioned young persons

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