mended in their presence, they do not own that the beauty so commended is entirely artificial, provided such be really the case.

But,

I am far from advising any one to be guilty of the unnecessary egotism, of volunteering such an assurance; all I contend for is, that when we are praised for qualities, whether of mind or person, which we do not possess, we are guilty of passive if not practical lying, if we do not disclaim our right to the encomium bestowed.

The following also are PRACTICAL LIES of every day's experience.

Wearing paste for diamonds, intending that the false should be taken for the true; and purchasing brooches, pins, and rings of mock jewels, intending that they should pass for real ones. Passing off gooseberry wine at dinner for real Champaigne, and English liqueurs for foreign ones. But, on these occasions, the motive is not always the mean and contemptible wish of imposing on the credulity of others; but it has sometimes its source in a dangerous as well as deceptive ambition, that of making an appearance beyond what the circumstances of the person so deceiving really warrant ; the wish to be supposed to be more opulent than they really are; that most common of all the practical lies; as ruin and bankruptcy follow in its train. The lady who purchases and wears paste which she hopes will pass for diamonds, is usually one who has no right to wear jewels at all; and the gentleman who passes off gooseberry wine for Champaigne is, in all probability, aiming at a style of living beyond his situation in society.

On some occasions, however, when ladies substitute paste for diamonds, the substitution tells a tale of greater error still. I mean, when ladies wear mock for real jewels, because their extravagance has obliged them to raise money on the latter; and they are therefore constrained to keep up the appearance of their necessary and accustomed splendor by a PRACTICAL LIE.

The following is another of the PRACTICAL LIES in

common use.

The medical man, who desires his servant to call him out of church, or from a party, in order to give him the appearance of the great business which he has not, is guilty not of uttering, but of acting a falsehood; and the author also, who makes his publisher put second and third editions before a work of which, perhaps, not even the first edition is sold.

But, the most fatal to the interests of others, though perhaps the most pitiable of practical lies, are those acted by men who, though they know themselves to be in the gulf of bankruptcy, either from wishing to put off the evil day, or from the visionary hope that something will occur unexpectedly to save them, launch out into increased splendor of living, in order to obtain further credit, and induce their acquaintances to entrust their money to them.

There is, however, one PRACTICAL LIE more fatal still, in my opinion; because it is the practice of schools, and consequently the sin of early life;—a period of existence in which it is desirable, both for general and individual good, that habits of truth and integrity should be acquired, and strictly adhered to. I mean the pernicious custom which prevails amongst boys, and probably girls, of getting their schoolfellows to do their exercises for them, or consenting to do the same office for others.

Some will say, "but it would be so ill natured to refuse to write one's schoolfellows' exercises, especially when one is convinced that they cannot write them for themselves." But, leaving the question of truth and falsehood unargued a while, let us examine coolly that of the probable good or evil done to the parties obliged. What are children sent to school for?-to learn. And when there, what are the motives which are to make them learn? dread of punishment, and hope of distinction and reward. There are few children so stupid, as not to be led on to industry by one or both of these motives, however indolent they may be; but, if these motives be not allowed their proper scope of action, the stupid boy will never take the trouble to learn, if he finds that he can avoid punishment, and gain reward, by prevailing on

some more diligent boy to do his exercises for him. Those, therefore, who indulge their schoolfellows, do it at the expense of their future welfare, and are in reality foes where they fancied themselves friends. But, generally speaking, they have not even this excuse for their pernicious compliance, since it springs from want of sufficient firmness to say no,-and deny an earnest request at the command of principle. But, to such I would put this question. "Which is the real friend to a child, the person who gives it the sweetmeats which it asks for, at the risk of making it ill, merely because it were so hard to refuse the dear little thing; or the person who, considering only the interest and health of the child, resists its importunities, though grieved to deny its request? No doubt that they would give the palm of real kindness, real good nature to the latter; and in like manner, the boy who refuses to do his schoolfellow's task is more truly kind, more truly good natured, to him than he who, by indulging his indolence, runs the risk of making him a dunce for life.

But some may reply, "It would make one odious in the school, were one to refuse this common compliance with the wants and wishes of one's companions."-Not if the refusal were declared to be the result of principle, and every aid not contrary to it were offered and afforded; and there are many ways in which schoolfellows may assist each other, without any violation of truth, and without sharing with them in the PRACTICAL LIE, by imposing on their masters, as theirs, lessons which they

never wrote.

This common practice in schools is a PRACTICAL LIE of considerable importance, from its frequency; and because, as I before observed, the result of it is, that the first step which a child sets in a school is into the midst of deceit-tolerated, cherished deceit. For, if children are quick at learning, they are called upon immediately to enable others to deceive; and, if dull, they are enabled to appear in borrowed plumes themselves.

How often have I heard men in mature life say, "Oh!

One night, when on his way to Y, where races were to succeed the assizes, which had just commenced, he stopped at an inn, to refresh his horse; and, being hot with riding, and depressed by some recent losses at play, he drank very freely of the spirits which he had ordered. At this moment he saw a school-fellow of his in the bar, who, like himself, was on his way to Y. This young man was of a coarse, unfeeling nature; and, having had fortune left him, was full of the consequence of newly acquired wealth.

Therefore, when Edgar Vernon impulsively approached him, and, putting his hand out, asked how he did, Dunham haughtily drew back, put his hands behind him, and, in the hearing of several persons, replied, "I do not know you, sir ! ”____“ "_"Not know me, Dunham ? cried Edgar Vernon, turning very pale. "That is to say, I do not choose to know you."" And why not?" cried Edgar, seizing his arm, and with a look of menace.

cause

because

"Be

I do not choose to know a man who murdered his mother." "Murdered his mother!" cried the by-standers, holding up 'their hands, and regarding Edgar Vernon with a look of horror. "Wretch!" cried he, seizing Dunham in his powerful grasp," explain yourself this moment, or,"...."Then take your fingers from my throat!" Edgar did so; and Dunham said, "I meant only that you broke your mother's heart by your ill conduct; and pray, was not that murdering her?" While he was saying this, Edgar Vernon stood with folded arms, rolling his eyes wildly from one of the bystanders to the other; and seeing, as he believed, disgust towards him in the countenances of them all. When Dunham had finished speaking, Edgar Vernon wrung his hands in agony, true, most true, I am a murderer! I am a parricide!" Then, suddenly drinking off a large glass of brandy near him, he quitted the room, and, mounting his horse, rode off at full speed. Aim and object in view, he had none; he was only trying to ride from himself; trying to escape from those looks of horror and aversion which the remarks of Dunham had provoked. But what right had Dunham so to provoke him?

66

After he had put this question to himself, the image of Dunham, scornfully rejecting him his hand, alone took possession of his remembrance, till he thirsted for revenge; and the irritation of the moment urged him to seek it immediately.

The opportunity, as he rightly suspected, was in his power; Dunham would soon be coming that way on his road to Y·; and he would meet him. He did so ; and, riding up to him, seized the bridle of his horse, exclaiming, "you have called me a murderer, Dunham; and you were right; for, though I loved my mother dearly, and would have died for her, I killed her by my wicked course of life!"-" Well, well; I know that," replied Dunham, "so let me go! for I tell you I do not like to be seen with such as you. Let me go, I say!

He did let him go; but it was as the tiger lets go its prey, to spring on it again. A blow from Edgar's nervous arm knocked the rash insulter from his horse. In another minute Dunham lay on the road a bleeding corpse; and the next morning officers were out in pursuit of the murderer. That wretched man was soon found, and soon secured. Indeed, he had not desired to avoid pursuit; but, when the irritation of drunkenness and revenge had subsided, the agony of remorse took possession of his soul; and he confessed his crime with tears of bitterest penitence. To be brief; Edgar Vernon was carried into that city as a manacled criminal, which he had expected to leave as a successful gambler; and, before the end of the assizes, he was condemned to death.

He made a full confession of his guilt before the judge pronounced condemnation; gave a brief statement of the provocation which he received from the deceased; blaming himself at the same time for his criminal revenge, in so heart-rending a manner, and lamenting so pathetically the disgrace and misery in which he had involved his father and family, that every heart was melted to compassion; and the judge wept, while he passed on him the awful sentence of the law.

His conduct in prison was so exemplary, that it proved