mouth, that he lives in subordination to the divine government; that he moves within the track of the divine providence; that he resigns himself to the divine disposal; and makes God's will, and not his own, the rule and measure of his conduct.

Hence it follows, that falsehood is, in its very nature, criminal. Independently of consequences, or of wrong associations, it is sinful in its very essence; and in its simplest form bespeaks its original from him, who is the father of lies, and who was a liar from the beginning. If truth be the voice of God, shall we presume, in any instance, to extenuate a lie? There may be, indeed, degrees of criminality in falsehood, as there are in blasphemy. It may not be the same offence, to swear irreverently by the hairs of our head, as by heaven, or by the earth, or by the city of the great King. But still, to falsehood, in every shape, we may most fairly accommodate the argument of which we are here reminded, and pronounce, beyond the possibility of contradiction, that if God has numbered the hairs of our heads; if his hand has formed them white or black, and the truth of things has stamped them so; we cannot falsify even as to one of these, without lifting up our voice against (and shall I say, without in a certain sense denying?) the God that is above.

If these observations have any weight, the white lie (if we understand thereby an innocent falsehood) can have no existence in the nature of

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things. And thus the practice of saying “ Not at home" is stripped of its last defence, and driven from this last "refuge of lies." It is time, then, surely, for serious persons, at least, to renounce it; to adopt other modes of repelling interruption or levity from their doors; or even, if they complain that this cannot otherwise be effected, rather to admit the occasional visits of intrusion, than to cherish falsehood in the very bosom of their domestic privacy.

ESSAY XX.

THE SAME SUBJECT CONTINUED.

I TAKE the liberty of offering some further observations, as supplementary to the little paper on "Not at Home," which appeared in your publication of May last.

There is one imposing argument, by which the advocates for this practice endeavour to secure its permanency. They contend that this is but one of a large class of forms, all precisely of the same kind and that, if we reject it, we must, to be consistent, go a great deal farther: we must, in fact, renounce, with it, the use of terms, without which the common civilities of life could not be preserved. For instance, it is argued, that if we give up "Not at Home," we cannot answer cards of invitation in the usual form. We cannot say, "We are sorry we cannot wait on" an acquaintance, unless we feel an unmixed desire for his society, and are prevented by some strictly insurmountable impediment. Now, I conceive that this consequence by no means follows.

I will suppose myself invited to dine abroad,

and my inclination to do so counteracted by a prior engagement. No one can, I presume, charge me with the slightest breach of truth, if I decline in the usual way, though there is surely no absolute or physical impossibility in the case. Why, then, if I have sufficient reasons of another nature for refusing an invitation, am I not at liberty to use the same courtesy? If I feel that my time may be more profitably spent at home; or if I have grounds for fearing that, in the company I expect to meet, such conversation or amusements may be introduced, as are unsuitable to my sentiments; surely I may consider these obstacles at least as important as a prior engagement to another place. In such cases, then, I use the term "cannot" in its received import, as implying, not a strict impossibility, but an impediment sufficiently real to influence my conduct.

But is there no insincerity in professing that "I am sorry"? By no means. I may feel a decided disinclination to accept an invitation, and, at the same time, regret that I cannot oblige my acquaintance by compliance. I may experience, and should experience, real sorrow, if the impediment arises from any thing irregular in his mode of life. And with such sentiments, I may, in perfect candour, accompany my refusal with an expression of sorrow; reserving to myself, as

every wise man will, those secret reasons and motives, which it would be, perhaps, only mischievous to divulge.

But what if there be no serious motive, no moral consideration, nothing that can be called a reason in the case: can I, in these circumstances, refuse an invitation in the usual form? Can I, in short, profess myself, with truth, “sorry” at not being able to accept it, when my own whim or fancy is the only obstacle? In soberness I do not think I can. I see no possible argument by which such expressions can in this case be reconciled with truth, unless we admit the ridiculous supposition, that the writer is heartily sorry he is whimsical and capricious.

But, in fact, when we look for a high and delicate sense of truth, we naturally look for a great deal more. We expect to find a symmetry of character, an assemblage of those virtues, without which a mere insulated love of truth would be absolutely monstrous. And perhaps the advocates for truth have unintentionally betrayed its cause, in nothing more than in even supposing it in association with depravity and folly, and in giving rules for cases, where the sole intricacy arises from the impossibility of consistently preserving truth, where good sense and good nature are deliberately violated. In such an instance,