"I am the chief of sinners," said the
cardinal. "It is true," said the monk. "I have been guilty of every
kind of sin," sighed the cardinal. "It is a solemn fact, my son," said
the monk. "I have indulged in pride, in ambition, malice, and revenge,"
continued his Eminence. The provoking confessor assented without one
pitying word of doubt or protest. "Why you fool," at last said the
exasperated cardinal, "you don't imagine I mean all this to the letter?"
"Ho, ho!" said the monk, "so you have been a _liar_ too have you?"

Now, in all such cases as the above, it is not difficult to perceive the
want of sincerity; and to talk in that way is anything but wise and
consistent. While, on the one hand, it is unseemly to praise ourselves,
it is, on the other, equally uncalled for to disparage ourselves. There
is a proper place in which a man should stand in respect to himself as
in respect to others. Towards himself let there be a dignified modesty,
and towards others a respectful acknowledgment of any _sincere_
commendation which may be given of his character and of his works. In
all our personal confessions, either before men or God, let us endeavour
to mean what we say and not act the hypocrite, that we may obtain the
eulogium from others or from ourselves, what "humble and self-renouncing
Christians we are."

Under this class of talkers there is another character which we wish to
illustrate, viz., the household-wife, whose "house is never clean, and
whose food is never such as is fit to place before you."

In a certain part of England, long celebrated for being a stronghold of
Methodism, there is a small village, very beautiful for situation, and
well known among the lovers of rural retreats. In this said village
there lived a farmer and his wife, without children, who belonged to the
Methodist Church. Squire Hopkins, which we shall call him, was a man of
some note in the village, for his intelligence, influence, and
character. Even the parson had a good word to say of him, and was not
above holding a brief conversation with him, when he met him in the lane
on the left side of the church. The Squire was a man who never was
ashamed of his name as a Methodist, whether in the presence of the poor,
the rich, or the clergyman. He had stood for many years a member,
trustee, and steward in the Methodist Church. With all these honours,
and the good-will of almost the entire village, the Squire was an
unassuming and quiet man. His r