plunged out of sight into the neighbouring thick

et.

E. Well-that was the boldest thing I ever heard of. But is it possible, mamma, to make oneself courageous?

Mrs. F. Courage, my dear, is of two kinds; one the gift of nature; the other of reason aud habit. Men have naturally more courage than women; that is, they are less affected by danger; it makes a less impression upon them, and does not flutter their spirits so much. This is owing to the difference of their bodily constitution; and from the same cause, some men and some women are more courageous than others. But the other kind of courage may in some measure be acquired by every one. Reason teaches us to face smaller dangers in order to avoid greater, and even to undergo the greatest, when our duty requires it. Habit makes us less affected by particular dangers which have often come in our way. A sailor does not feel the danger of a storm so much as a landsman; but if he was mounted upon a spirited horse in a fox chase, he would probably be the most timorous man in company. The courage of women is chiefly tried in domestic dangers. They are attendants on the sick and dying; and they must qualify themselves to go through many scenes of terror in these situations, which would alarm the stoutest hearted man who was not accustomed to them.

E. I have heard that women generally bear pain and illness better than men.

Mrs. F. They do so, because they are more used to them, both in themselves and others.

E. I think I should not be afraid again to see any body blooded.

Mrs. F. I hope not. It was for that purpose I made you stand by me. And I would have you always force yourself to look on and give assistance in cases of this kind, however painful it may at first be to you, that you may as soon as possible gain that presence of mind which arises from habit.

E. But would that make me like to be blooded myself?

Mrs. F. Not to like it, but to loose all foolish fears about it, and submit calmly to it when good for you. But I hope you have sense enough to do that already.

To drive alone to yonder town,
And flourish through the fair.

The father shook his head, My son,
You know not what you ask;
To drive a gig in crowded streets
Is no such easy task.

The horses, full of rest and corn,
Scarce I myself can guide ;
And much I fear, if you attempt,
Some mischief will betide.

Then think, dear boy, of something else
That's better worth your wishing
A bow and quiver, bats and balls,
A rod and lines for fishing.

But nothing could youug Jehu please
Except a touch at driving;
'Twas all in vain, his father found,
To spend his breath in striving.

At least attend, rash boy! he cried,
And follow good advice,

Or in a ditch both gig and you

Will tumble in a trice.

Spare, spare the whip, hold hard the reins,

The steeds go fast enough;

Keep in the middle beaten track,

Nor cross the ruts so rough:

And when within the town you come,

Be sure with special care

Drive clear of sign-posts, booths, and stalls And monsters of the fair.

The youth scarce heard his father out,
But roar'd, Bring out the whisky:
With joy he view'd the rolling wheels
And prancing ponies frisky.

He seiz'd the reins, and up he sprung,
And wav'd the whistling lash;

Take care, take care! his father cried;
But off he went slap-dash.

Who's this light spark? the horses thought
We'll try your strength, young master!
So o'er the rugged turnpike road

Still faster ran and faster.

Young Jehu, tott'ring in his seat,
Now wished to pull them in ;
But pulling from so young a hand
They valued not a pin.