'And now I think I see you raise your indignant head; and, with the lofty scorn of baseness which I have so often seen expressed in your countenance and mien, I hear you exclaim, "Shall I desert my earliest friend!--repay with cold ingratitude her long-tried, ardent attachment?" Your indignation, Ellen, is virtuous, but mistaken. If Miss Arnold's attachment be real, she has a claim to your gratitude, indeed; but not to your intimacy, your confidence, your imitation. These are due to far other qualifications. But are you sure, Ellen, that the warm return you make to Miss Arnold's supposed affection is itself entirely real? Are you sure, that it is not rather the form under which you choose to conceal from yourself, that her adulation is become necessary to you? Before you indignantly repel this charge, ask your own heart, whether you are, in every instance, thus grateful for disinterested love? Is there not a friend of whose love you are regardless?--whose counsels you neglect?--whose presence you shun?--from whom you withhold your trust, though the highest confidence were here the highest wisdom?--whom you refuse to imitate, though here the most imperfect imitation were glorious? You exchange your affection, and all the influence which your affection bestows, for a mere shadow of good-will. The very dog that fawns upon you, is caressed with childish fondness. Oh, Ellen, does it never strike you with strong amazement to reflect, that you are sensible to every love but that which is boundless? grateful for every kindness but that which is wholly undeserved--wholly beyond return? Is nothing due to an unwearied friend? Is it fitting, that one who lives, who enjoys so much to sweeten life, by the providence, the bounty, the forbearance of a benefactor, should live to herself alone? Yet ask your own conscience, what part of your plan of life, or rather, since I believe your life is without a plan, which of your habits is inspired by gratitude. Dare to be candid with yourself, and though the odious word will grate upon your ear, enquire whether selfishness be not rather your chosen guide;--whether you be not selfish in your pursuit of pleasure;--selfish in your fondness for the flatterer who soothes your vanity,--selfish in the profuse liberality with which you vainly hope to purchase an affection which it is not in her nature to bestow,--selfish even in the relief which you indiscriminately lavish on every complainer whose cry disturbs you on your bed of roses. Is this the temper of a Christian--of one "who is not her own, but is bought with a price?" Consider this awful price, and how will your own conduct change in your estimation? How will you start as from a fearful dream, when you remember, that of this mighty debt you have hitherto lived regardless? How will you then abhor that pursuit of selfish pleasure which has hitherto alienated your mind from all that best deserves your care,--blasted the very sense by which you should have perceived the excellence of your benefactor,--diverted your regards from the deeper and deeper death which is palsying your soul; and closed your ear against the renovating voice which calls you to arise and live? This voice, once heard, would exalt your confiding temper to the elevations of faith,--ennoble your careless generosity to the self-devotion of saints and martyrs,--your warmth of affection, now squandered on the meanest of objects, to the love of God. The true religion once received, would change the whole current of your hopes and fears;--would ennoble your desires, subdue passion, humble the proud heart, overcome the world. But you will not give her whereon to plant her foot; for where, amidst the multitude of your toys, shall religion find a place? Oh, why should we, by continual sacrifice, confirm our natural idolatry of created things? Why fill, with the veriest baubles of this unsubstantial scene, hearts already too much inclined to exclude their rightful possessor? The pursuit of selfish pleasure is indeed natural, for self is the idol of fallen man; but the great end of his present state of being is to prostrate that idol before the Supreme. The stony Dagon bows unwillingly, but bow he must. Our heavenly Father, though a merciful, is not a fond or partial parent; and the same lot is more or less the portion of us all. He has freely given. He has done more; he has warned us of the real uses of his gifts. Perverse by nature, we abuse his bounty. Again, he exhorts us by the ministry of his servants; and often graciously sweetens his warnings, by conveying them in the voice of partial friendship, or parental love. We reject counsel; and the father unwillingly chastises.