attentions to her. Amanda was not displeased with them; on the contrary, she thought she saw in him all those good qualities which she felt in her own mind. Every look that he gave, and every word that he spoke, confirmed her in this. Every thing she wished to be in a lover, every thing her favourite authors told her a lover ought to be possessed of, she believed to be in Philemon. Her parents perceived the situation of her mind. In vain did they represent to her the danger she ran, and that she had not yet acquaintance enough of Philemon to know any thing, with certainty, about his character. She ascribed these admonitions to the too great coldness and prudence of age, and she disregarded them. Thus did Amanda believe herself deeply enamoured of Philemon; but it could not be with Philemon, for she knew little of him. She was the dupe of her own wishes; and she deceived herself into a belief that she was warmly attached to him, when it was only an ideal being of her own creation that was the object of her passion. Philemon may be worthy of the love of Amanda, or Amanda may be able to preserve the deception she is under even after marriage; but her danger is apparent.

The influence of self-deception is wonderfully powerful. Different as are the above persons, and different as their situations, all have been under its guidance. As observed above, dishonesty, in our ordinary transactions in the world, is a vice, which only the most corrupted and abandoned are in danger of falling into; but that dishonesty with ourselves, which leads us to be our own deceivers, to become the dupes of our own prevailing passions and inclinations, is to be met with more or less in every character. Here we are, as it were, parties to

the deceit, and instead of wishing to guard against it, we become the willing slaves of its influence. By this means, not only are bad men deceived by evil passions into the commission of crimes, but even the worthiest men, by giving too much way to the best and most amiable feelings of the heart, may be led into fatal errors, and into the most prejudicial misconduct. Did men, however, endeavour to guard against the influence of this self-deceit, did they coolly and on all interesting occasions examine into the principles and motives of their conduct, did they view themselves not under the mist and cover of passion, but with the eyes of an impartial spectator, much might be done to avoid the dangers I have pointed out.-S.

No

No 56. SATURDAY, AUGUST 7, 1779.

THE first of the two following letters I received some time ago from my friend Mr. Umphraville; and I think I need make no apology, either to him or my readers, for giving it a place in this day's Mirror.

MY DEAR SIR,

'The moment that I found myself disengaged from business, you know I left the smoke and din of your blessed city, and hurried away to pure skies and quiet at my cottage.

'I found my good sister in perfect health, free from flying rheumatic pains, anguish, complaints, slight megrims, and apprehensions of the toothache, and all the other puny half pangs that indo

lence is heir to, and that afford a kind of comfort to the idle, by supplying them with topics of complaint and conversation.

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'You must have heard that our spring was singularly pleasant; but how pleasant it was you could not feel in your dusky atmosphere. My sister remarked that it had a faint resemblance of the spring in. Although I omit the year, you may believe that several seasons have passed away since that animating era recollected by my sister. "Alas! my friend," said I, seasons return, but it is only to the young and the fortunate." A tear started in her eye; yet she smiled and resumed her tranquillity. We sauntered through the kitchen-garden, and admired the rapid progress of vegetation. "Every thing is very forward," said my sister; we must begin to bottle gooseberries to-morrow."-" Very forward, indeed," answered I. "This reminds me of the young ladies whom I have seen lately; they seemed forward enough, though a little out of season too."

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'It was a poor witticism; but it lay in my way, and I took it up. Next morning the gardener came into our breakfasting-parlour:-"Madam," said he, "all the gooseberries are gone."-" Gone," cried my sister, "and who could be so audacious? Brother, you are a justice of the peace; do make out a warrant directly to search for and apprehend. We have an agreeable neighbourhood indeed; the insolence of the rabble of servants, of low-born purse-proud folks, is not to be endured."-" The gooseberries are not away," continued the gardener, "they are all lying in heaps under the bushes; last night's frost, and a hail-shower this morning, have made the crop fail."-"The crop fail!" exclaimed my sister; " and where am I to get gooseberries for bottling?"-"Come,

come, my dear," said I, "they tell me that, in Virginia, pork has a peculiar flavour, from the peaches on which the hogs feed; you can let in your goslings to pick up the gooseberries; and I warrant you, that this unlooked-for food will give them a relish far beyond that of any green geese of our neighbour's at the castle."-" Brother," replied she, you are a philosopher." I quickly discovered that, while endeavouring to turn one misfortune into jest, - I recalled another to her remembrance; for it seems, that, by a series of domestic calamities, all her goslings had perished.

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A very promising family of turkey chicks has at length consoled her for the fate of the goslings; and on rummaging her store-room, she finds that she has more bottled gooseberries left of last year, than will suffice for the present occasions of our little family.

'What shall I say of my sister? her understanding is excellent; and she is religious without superstition. Great have been her misfortunes, poor woman! and I can bear testimony to her fortitude and resignation under them; and yet the veriest trifles imaginable unhinge her mind.

That people of sense should allow themselves to be affected by the most trivial accidents is absurd and ridiculous. There are, indeed, some things, which, though hardly real evils, cannot fail to vex the wisest, and discompose the equanimity of the most patient; for example, that fulsome court paid by the vulgar to rich upstarts, and the daily slights to which decayed nobility is exposed.

I hope that your periodical essays find favour in the sight of the idle and frivolous. You may remember, I told you long ago, that I would never read any of them. The perusal of them could not make me esteem you more than I do already; and it might

bring many fashionable follies to my knowledge, of which I am happily ignorant. I ever am,

Yours affectionately,

EDWD. UMPHRAVILLE.'

'TO THE AUTHOR OF THE MIRROR.

SIR,. Edinburgh, July 23, 1779. 'I am confined, by the occupations of a laborious employment, to a constant residence in town. During the summer and autumn, however, I sometimes can afford a day, which I wish to spend in a jaunt to the country. I lived in the country, Sir, in my earlier days; and whenever I hear a wood, a meadow, or the banks of a river, mentioned, I always think of peace, of happiness, and innocence.

This season I have had a friend in town, who, being an idle man, is a great maker of parties. Among others he contrives to get people together of a Saturday or a Sunday, to go and dine in the country, which, he says, in the neighbourhood of Edinburgh, affords some of the most beautiful and romantic scenes he ever saw. Last Saturday I was asked to join in one of his parties of this sort; to which, being a lover of rural scenes, as I mentioned before, I readily consented.

My friend had the ordering of every thing on our expedition. The carriages he had bespoke did not arrive at the place of meeting till near an hour after the time appointed; and, when they did come, we had to wait another hour for our conductor, who, having sat up at a town-party, till five that morning, was not willing to be disturbed till midday.

'We arrived at the place of our destination betwixt two and three. I immediately proposed a walk, to enjoy the beauty of the fields, and the purity of the