you not to trust me! and Lady Baryton's heart reproached her, at least for some hours. There were other hearts also that experienced self-reproach, and of a far longer duration; for the Melbournes, when they heard what had happened, saw that the seeming benevolence of their concealment had been a real injury, and had ruined her whom they meant to save. They saw that had they told Lady Baryton the truth, that lady would either not have hired her, in spite of her skill, or she would have taken care not to put her in situations calculated to tempt her cupidity. But, neither Lady Baryton's regrets, nor self-reproach, nor the greater agonies of the Melbournes, could alter or avert the course of justice; and Ann Belson was condemned to death. She was, however, strongly recommended to mercy, both by the jury and the noble prosecutor; and her conduct in prison was so exemplary, so indicative of the deep contrition of a trembling, humble christian, that, at length, the intercession was not in vain; and the Melbournes had the comfort of carrying to her what was to them, at least, joyful news ; namely, that her sentence was commuted for transporta

tion.

Yet, even this mercy was a severe trial to the selfjudged Melbournes; since they had the misery of seeing the affectionate nurse of their children, the being endeared to them by many years of active services, torn from all the tender ties of existence, and exiled for life as a felon to a distant land! exiled too, for a crime which, had they performed their SOCIAL DUTY, she might never have committed. But the pain of mind which they endured on this lamentable occasion was not thrown away on them; as it awakened them to serious reflection; they learned to remember, and to teach their children to remember, the holy command, "that we are not to do evil, that good may come ;" and that no deviation from truth and ingenuousness can be justified, even if it claims. for itself the plausible title of the active or passive LIE OF

BENEVOLENCE.

There is another species of withholding the truth,

I

which springs from so amiable a source, and is so often practised even by pious christians, that, while I venture to say it is at variance with reliance on the wisdom and mercy of the Creator, I do so with reluctant awe. mean a concealment of the whole extent of a calamity from the person afflicted, lest the blow should fall too heavily upon them.

I would ask, whether such conduct be not inconsistent with the belief that trials are mercies in disguise? that the Almighty" loveth those whom he chasteneth, and scourgeth every son that he receiveth?"

If this assurance be true, we set our own judgment against that of the Deity, by concealing from the sufferer the extent of the trial inflicted; and seem to believe ourselves more capable than he is to determine the quantity of suffering that is good for the person so visited; and we set up our finite against infinite wisdom.

There are other reasons, besides religious ones, why this sort of deceit should no more be practised than any other.

The motive for withholding the whole truth, on these occasions, is to do good; but will the desired good be effected by this opposition to the Creator's revealed will towards the sufferer? Is it certain that good will be performed at all, or that concealment is necessary?

What is the reason given for concealing half the truth? Fear lest the whole would be more than the sufferer could bear; which implies that it is already mighty, to an awful degree. Then, surely, a degree more of suffering, at such a moment, cannot possess much added power to destroy; and if the trial be allowed to come in its full force, the mind of the victim will make exactly the same efforts as minds always do when oppressed by misery. A state of heavy affliction is so repulsive to the feelings, that even in the first paroxysms of it we all make efforts to get away from under its weight; and, in proof of this assertion, I ask, whether we do not always find the afflicted less cast down than we expected? The religious pray as well as weep; the merely moral look around for consolation here,

and, as a dog, when cast into the sea, as soon as he rises and regains his breath, strikes out his feet, in order to float securely upon the waves; so, be their sorrows great or small, all persons instantly strive to find support somewhere; and they do find it, while in proportion to the depth of the affliction is often the subsequent rebound.

I could point out instances (but I shall leave my readers to imagine them) in which, by concealing from bereaved sufferers the most affecting part of the truth, we stand between them and the balm derived from that very incident which was mercifully intended to heal their wounds.

I also object to such concealment; because it entails. upon those who are guilty of it a series of falsehoods; falsehoods too, which are often fruitlessly uttered; since the object of them is apt to suspect deceit, and endure that restless agonizing suspicion, which those who have ever experienced it could never inflict on the objects of their love.

Besides, religion and reason enable us in time, to bear the calamity of which we know the extent; but we are always on the watch to find out that which we only suspect, and the mind's strength, frittered away in vain and varied conjectures, runs the risk of sinking beneath the force of its own indistinct fears.

Confidence too in those dear friends whom we trusted before is liable to be entirely destroyed; and in all its bearings, this well-intentioned departure from the truth is pregnant with mischief.

Lastly, I object to such concealment, from a conviction that its continuance is IMPOSSIBLE; for, some time or other, the whole truth is revealed at a moment when the sufferers are not so well able to bear it as they were in the first paroxysms of grief.

In this, my next and last tale, I give another illustration of those amiable, but pernicious lies, the LIES OF

REAL BENEVOLENCE.

THE FATHER AND SON.

"WELL, then, thou art willing that Edgar should go to a public school," said the vicar of a small parish in Westmoreland to his weeping wife. "Quite willing.""And yet thou art in tears, Susan?". "_" I weep for his faults; and not because he is to quit us. I grieve to think he is so disobedient and unruly that we can manage him at home no longer. And yet I loved him so dearly! so much more than 25 Here her sobs redoubled; and, as Vernon rested her aching head on his bosom, he said, in a low voice, "Aye; and so did I love him, even better than our other children; and therefore, probably, our injustice is thus visited. But, he is so clever! He learned more Latin in one week than his brothers in a month!" "And he is so beautiful!" observed his mother. "And so generous!" rejoined his father; "but, cheer up, my beloved; under stricter discipline than ours he may yet do well, and turn out all we could wish.""I hope, however," replied the fond mother, "that his master will not be very severe; and I will try to look forward." As she said this, she left her husband with something like comfort; for a tender mother's hopes for a darling child are easily revived, and she went, with recovered calmness, to get her son's wardrobe ready against the day of his departure. The equally affectionate father meanwhile called his son into the study, to prepare his mind for that parting which his undutiful conduct had made unavoidable.

But Vernon found that Edgar's mind required no preparation; that the idea of change was delightful to his volatile nature; and that he panted to distinguish himself on a wider field of action than a small retired village afforded to his daring, restless spirit; while his father saw with agony, which he could but ill conceal, that this desire of entering into a new situation had power to annihilate all regret at leaving the tenderest of parents and the companions of his childhood.

However, his feelings were a little soothed when the parting hour arrived; for then the heart of Edgar was so melted within him at the sight of his mother's tears, and his father's agony, that he uttered words of tender contrition, such as they had never heard from him before; the recollection of which spoke comfort to their minds when they beheld him no longer.

But, short were the hopes which that parting hour had excited. In a few months the master of the school wrote to complain of the insubordination of his new pupil. In his next letter he declared that he should be under the necessity of expelling him; and Edgar had not been at school six months, before he prevented the threatened expulsion, only by running away, no one knew whither! Nor was he heard of by his family for four years; during which time not even the dutiful affection of their other sons, nor their success in life, had power to heal the breaking heart of the mother, nor cheer the depressed spirits of the father. At length the prodigal returned, ill, meagre, pennyless, and penitent; and was received, and forgiven. "But where hast thou been, my child, this long, long time?" said his mother, tenderly weeping, as she gazed on his pale sunk cheek. "Ask me no questions! I am here; that is enough; " Edgar Vernon replied, shuddering as he spake. "It is enough!" cried his mother, throwing herself on his neck! "For this, my son was dead, and is alive again; was lost, and found!" But the father felt and thought differently; he knew that it was his duty to interrogate his son; and he resolved to insist on knowing where and how those long four years had been passed. He, however, delayed his questions till Edgar's health was re-established, but when that time arrived, he told him that he expected to know all that had befallen him since he ran away from school." "Spare me till tomorrow," said Edgar Vernon, "and then you shall know all." His father acquisesced; but the next morning Edgar had disappeared, leaving the following letter behind him :—

"I cannot, dare not, tell you what a wretch I have