To make ourselves agreeable and respected, is at once to multiply our sources of happiness, and to increase our means of doing good. Made for social life, no small part of earthly joy is to be derived from the society of our acquaintance and friends. This joy may be greatly increased by a proper attention to the wants, wishes, and prevalent tastes of those with whom we mingle. We may add to their comfort as well as our own, And, if we may, we certainly ought.

There is a charm in good breeding, that is felt by all classes. The man whose ordinary deportment is courteous, who studies to render himself agreeable in every circle, and to whom politeness has become a second nature, who, without artifice or awkwardness, endeavors to abstain from what is offensive to others, and to perform those minute acts of attention which the rules of good-breeding require, wins his way into the good graces and affections of his acquaintances, multiplies the number of his friends, and readily finds admission into the society of the virtuous and the respected. At the same time, he is gradually extending his personal influence; and thus gives weight to his opinions, acquires power over the minds and hearts of his friends, and, if virtuous himself, recommends his own good qualities by presenting them in an attractive form. "He that regards the welfare of others should make his virtue approachable, that it may be loved and copied."

The Christian owes it to his profession to make his presence and acquaintance courted rather than shunned. If possible, he should endeavor to invest his religion with such charms as to attract, rather than to repel. If, by the exhibition of kindness, and by a constant attention to the great law of courteousness, he can win to himself and his profession the good graces and the admiration of others, and so commend the religion of the cross to his fellow-men, he is greatly at fault if he neglects the cultivation of such a gift. If it is characteristic of heaven-born charity, or true rellion, that it "doth not behave itself unseem

ly," or indecorously; if the Christian is to pay special attention to "whatsoever things are pure, lovely, and of good report," and "if there be any virtue, any praise," to "think on these things," to study to excel in them, to "covet earnestly the best gifts," then is it a great oversight, a great neglect of duty, for the follower of Jesus to pay no attention to the rules of good breeding, and to look with contempt on the art of politeness.

A kind expression of real kindness is the perfection of good breeding. To please others, and not one's self; never to give one's self the preference over others, even in little things; to manifest a uniform disinterestedness in trifles, in matters of small moment, as well as in weightier matters; these are essential to good breeding. But the great law of social intercourse, enjoined by the Great Author of our faith, includes all this: "Thou shalt love thy neighbor as thyself." Or, as the great apostle has expressed it, “Let every one of us please his neighbor for his good to edification; for even Christ pleased not himself."

This law of Christian love, then, if faithfully observed, will go very far towards the formation of good manners. The selfish propensities of the heart must be overcome, before this disinterestedness can be perfectly secured. But, in order to this, there must be an entire renovation of the heart. By nature, the heart is completely under the dominion of these propensities. As, therefore, nothing else can so change the disposition, so subdue the vengeful and selfish temper, and so inspire with true kindness and benevolence, as the grace of God in the gospel of Christ, so the very first and surest prerequisite to true gentility and sweetness of manners is, the attainment of pure and undefiled religion, by the renewing of the mind and the regeneration of the soul.

Though great ease and grace of deportment may unquestionably be attained without the possession of true piety, yet the same individual, it is maintained, would have found it far easier to

acquire such a degree of accomplishment, and have arrived at a still higher state of refinement, had he first sought and secured that benevolence and purity of heart, which flow from the possession of a heart renewed and sanctified by divine grace. He who has made this attainment, and learned from his great exemplar to bear the infirmities of the weak, and not to please himself, has already secured the first great element of a well-bred character; has a fountain of kindness and love within him, which, when properly directed, will, in the most natural manner, send forth its perennial streams to gladden every sphere in which he lives and moves.

A writer on "True Politeness, or Etiquette for Everybody," has very properly observed that "the essential part of good breeding is the practical desire to afford pleasure, and to avoid giving pain. Any man possessing this desire, requires only opportunity and observation to make him a gentleman." But this is the very law of Christian kindness to which I have just referred. The Bible constantly aims at the formation of such a character, and, as the most perfect example of it, exhibits to the admiring eye the faultless Jesus. If ever there was a perfect gentleman on earth, it was the son of Mary. The law of kindness was in his heart, and every act of his life was an expression of kindness in itself most kind. An intimate acquaintance with the spirit and manner of his life, and a constant study to be like him, will go very far towards the attainment of good breeding.

"If you wish to be a well-bred lady," says a fair authoress, "you must carry your good manners everywhere with you. It is not a thing that can be laid aside and put on at pleasure. True politeness is uniform disinterestedness in trifles, i. e., (even in trifles,) accompanied by the calm self-possession which belongs to a noble simplicity of purpose; and this must be the effect of a Christian spirit running through all you do, or say, or think." Again, she remarks, "The charm which true Christian politeness sheds over a person, though not easily described, is felt by all hearts, and responded to by the best feelings of our nature. It is a talisman of great power to smoothe your way along the rugged paths of life, and to turn towards you the best side of all you meet."

To the same effect is the testimony of the Prince of Conti, of the house of Bourbon, in one of the Port Royal essays. He observes, that "worldly politeness is no more than an imitation or imperfect copy of Christian charity; being the pretense, or outward appearance of that deference to the judgment, and attention to the interest, of

others, which the true Christian has as the rule of his life, and the disposition of his heart."

No one can have a correct knowledge of that religion which the Bible commends, and not unite in this testimony. True religion is love to God and man in the fullest and most constant exercise-the very essence of kindness. It teaches the most undissembled and unaffected modesty, humility, self-denial, gentleness, tenderness, meekness, simplicity, disinterestedness, and benevolence, of which the human heart is capable. It causes and promotes serenity, cheerfulness, approachableness, and even affability, or readiness for conversation. It enjoins respect for all, condescension to inferiors, and veneration for all of superior station or worth. All this flows spontaneously from the heart of an experienced Christian, without effort or constraint.

The modesty inculcated by the Gospel, leads us to be diffident of our own goodness, to esteem others better than ourselves, and to arrest all tendency towards arrogancy or disrespect. Its humility checks and destroys that pride and haughtiness, which, under "the various modifications of superciliousness, vanity, and false diffidence," occasion more offenses against good manners, and breaches of the rules of good breeding, than any other cause whatever. Its selfdenial leads us to disregard our own wants, comforts, and preferences, out of deference to the feelings of others; while its gentleness, tenderness, sympathy, and simplicity prompt us to seek the kindest expression of the kindness of the heart. Let the cheerfulness and serenity of true religion be shed over all this, and what can exceed the religion of the Gospel, as a means of promoting good-breeding?

"Religion," says Dr. Witherspoon, "is the great polisher of the common people. Let us go to the remotest cottage of the wildest country, and visit the family that inhabits it. If they are pious, there is a certain humanity and good-will attending their simplicity, which makes it highly commendable. There is also a decency in their sentiments, which, flowing from the dictates of conscience, is as pleasing in all respects as the restraint imposed by the rules of good-breeding, with which the persons here in view have little opportunity of being acquainted. On the contrary, unbred country people, when without principle, have generally a savageness and brutality in their carriage as contrary to good manners as to piety itself." Judging from an extensive observation, this distinguished citizen and divine observes, in respect to the middle ranks of life, "I scruple not to affirm, that whatever sphere a man has been bred in, or attained to, religion is

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not an injury but an addition to the politeness of his carriage."

Such must be the testimony of every candid and careful observer of society. Says the venerable Dr. Miller, "We have only need to see an example of that unaffected kindness, affability, respectfulness, gentleness, and attention to the feelings and comfort of all around us, which real religion at once demands and inspires, united with the gravity, dignity, and prudence, becoming those who remember that for every word and action they must give an account-we have only, I say, to see this happy union of qualities fairly exemplified in human deportment, to be convinced that nothing can be more nobly beautiful or attractive, in the view of every thinking beholder, than the undissembled expression of pure Christian feeling; and, of course, that, to be an humble and assiduous imitator of Christ, is the shortest way for any one to exhibit the most perfect manners of which our nature is capable."

It is not, then, to the circles of the gay, the wealthy, and the fashionable, that we are to look for the best specimens of good breeding. Again and again have I been pained and shocked in society of this description, with such offenses against genuine politeness, and breaches of the rules of good manners, as never could have been committed, in the same circumstances, by the sincere and humble Christian. The most perfect gentlemen with whom it has been my happiness to be acquainted, have learned their politeness not in the school of Chesterfield, but of Christ.

It will be said, however, that Christians are not always well-bred, and many of them are exceedingly deficient in good-manners. Unquestionably; and, at another time, I will develope some of the principal causes of their deficiency in politeness, and show that it is to be attributed not to their religion, but to their circumstances.

LISZT gave a concert at Hamburg, in the "City of London Hotel." In a few minutes the hall was filled to overflowing. I arrived late; but, notwithstanding, obtained a good place close by the platform on which the piano-forte was standing-to which I was conducted by the backstairs. Liszt is one of the monarchs in the realm of music; and, as I have said, I was conducted into his presence by the back-stairs; and I am not ashamed to acknowledge it.

The hall, the very ante-chambers gleamed with brilliancy, with gold chains and diamonds. On a sofa near me sat a Jewish maiden, corpulent and over-dressed: she looked like a hippopotamus with a fan. Solid Hamburg merchants stood crowding each other, as though some weighty stock business was to be transacted. A smile rested on their lips, as though they had been buying bills, and had made a fortune. The mythological Orpheus, by his playing, set trees and rocks in motion: Liszt, our modern Orpheus, had electrified them before he began to play. Common fame, by the halo which surrounded him, had opened the eyes and ears of the people: everybody seemed to know and feel beforehand what was to follow. I myself, in the light of those many sparkling eyes, in that anxious beating of the heart, felt the presence of a great genius, whose bold hand, in our own days, has marked out the limits of his art.

In the "great Machine City of the world," London, or in Hamburg, the "European Exchange," would it have been noteworthy to have heard Liszt for the first time. Time and place here harmonized, and in Hamburg was I to hear him.

Ours is not the age of fancy and feeling it is that of the understanding. Artistical dexterity is an indispensable requisite for the execution of any art or endeavor. Language has been so cultivated that it belongs to our school discipline to be able to express our thoughts in verse, such as would, half a century ago, have been esteemed a work of true poetry. In every great city there are scores of people to be met with who can execute music with a skill which, twenty years ago, would have caused them to be listened to as artists. Everything technical, material, as well as spiritual, has, in our day, reached its utmost de

velopment; and hence, in our times, there is a sort of elevation, even in the inert masses.

Our great genius, if he be a true soul, and not the mere foam flung up by the seething of the age, must be able to endure a critical analysis, and elevate himself far above all that can be learned by mere study. He must be able not merely to fill his own niche in the spiritual world, but must do more: like the coral insect, he must add another bough to the living tree of art, or all his endeavors are of no avail.

There are in our day two masters of the piano, who in this wise fill up their place: THALBERG and LISZT.

When Liszt entered, it was as though an electric shock ran through the room. The ladies mostly rose; it seemed as if a sunbeam diffused itself over every face; as though every eye rested on a dear friend.

I stood close by the artist. He is a hagard young man. Long dark hair surrounds his pale face. He made his salutations and took his seat at the instrument. Liszt's whole aspect and movements indicate him at once to be one of those persons who are noticeable, solely and entirely from their own individuality. God's hand has set upon him a seal which marks him out among thousands.

When Liszt seated himself at the piano-forte, the first impression made upon me by his appearance, and by the play of strong passions upon his pale visage, was that he seemed like a demon bound to the instrument from which the tones were pouring forth. They came from his blood, from his thoughts: he was a demon who must play his soul free. He was on the rack; his blood eddied, his nerves thrilled; but as he played on, all the demoniacal disappeared. I saw the pale countenance assume a nobler and more beautiful expression. The divine soul shone forth from his eyes-from every feature. He became beautiful-as beautiful as life and enthusiasm can render one.

His " Valse Infernale" is more than a daguerreotype from Meyerbeer's "Robert." We do not stand before it gazing on the well-known portraiture we transport ourselves into it; we plunge down into its very depths, and discover new whirling forms. It was not as though the

strings of the piano were sounding; every note seemed like a ringing water-drop.

He who can admire technical dexterity of art, must do homage to Liszt; he who is enraptured by the genial spirit, the gift of God, will do still deeper homage. The Orpheus of our times has sounded his notes through the "great Machine City of the world," and men felt and acknowledged, as a Copenhagener phrased it, that his fingers were true railroads and steam-engines;" his genius is more powerful to bring together the spirits of men, than all the railroads in the world. The Orpheus of our time has sounded his notes through the "European Exchange," and, for the moment at least, the people believed in his gospel; the spirit's coin rings louder than that of the world.

We often use, without being aware of its significance, the phrase, "a sea of sound:" and such a sea is it which pours forth from the piano at which Liszt is seated. The instrument seems transformed into a whole orchestra. Ten fingers, possessed of such skill, can do that which seems incredible, though guided by a mighty genius. It is a sea of sound, which, in its wildest uproar, is yet a mirror for all the evanescent impulses of every glowing spirit.

I have met with politicians who have comprehended by Liszt's playing, how peaceful peasants could be wrought upon by the notes of the Marseillaise Hymn to seize their weapons, leave home and flocks, to do battle for an idea. I have seen staid citizens of Copenhagen, with all the Danish autumnal chill in their blood, at his playing become political bacchanals. The head of the mathematician has become dizzied by his ringing figures and in the computation of his notes. Young Hegelians-not mere blockheads, but the most highly gifted among them-who in the galvanic currents of philosophy only grimaced intellectually, have in this "sea of sound" perceived the wave-like advance of knowledge towards

the shores of completion. The poet has found herein the whole lyric of his heart, or a rich drapery for his boldest imaginings. The traveller -for I close by speaking of myself-perceived sound-forms of all that he had seen or should see. I listened to his playing as if to the overture to my journey. I heard, how my heart throbbed and bled at parting from my home. I heard the farewell of the waves; waves which I should first again hear dashing on the cliffs of Terracina. It pealed like organ-tones from the old cathedrals of Germany; down from Alpine heights rolled the glaciers; in carnival attire danced Italy, thrusting with harlequin sword of lath, thinking all the while in her heart of Cæsar, of Horace, and of Raffaelle. It blazed forth from Etna and Vesuvius; from Grecian mountains, where the old gods lie dead, sounded the trump of doom; tones which I knew not, tones for which I had no name, shadowed forth the Orient -the poet's second father-land.

When Liszt ceased playing, flowers rained down upon him. Lovely young maidens, ancient dames who yet had once been lovely young maidens, flung their bouquets: but he had flung a thousand bouquets of sound into their hearts and heads.

From Hamburg he was to go to London, there to scatter new bouquets of sound, there to breathe poesy over the material every-day life. Happy he, who can thus journey on his whole life long; ever beholding mankind in their spiritual Sabbath-day attire; in the festival pomp of inspiration! Shall I again meet him?-such was my last thought; and fortune so ordered it that we should meet again in our journey, in a place where I and my readers could have least expected it, that we should meet, become friends, and again part. This all belongs to the closing chapter of this journey. For the present fared he to Victoria's capital, I to that of Gregory the Sixteenth. A. H. G.

A MOMENT! what art thou? the briefest space
Of time, immeasurable, undefined;
"Twere vain for mortal man of finite mind,
Thy indivisibility to trace.

Yet such as thee compose the circling yearOur threescore years and ten, that narrow span, Prescribed by Heaven to bound the life of man;

That gone, how short indeed doth it appear. How soon a moment's swallowed in the vast Unfathomable ocean of the past!

Quick, as the quickest twinkle of the eye,
"Tis lost forever in immensity;

Yet in a moment's space, to endless day,
The vital spark starts from the still warm clay.