DEVOTION, considered simply in itself, is an intercourse betwixt God and us; betwixt the Supreme, self-existent, inconceivable Spirit, which formed and preserves the universe; and that par­ticular spirit, with which, for awful reasons, he has animated a portion of matter upon earth that we call man. It is a silent act in which the soul di­vests itself of outward things, flies into heaven, and pours forth all its wants, wishes, hopes, fears, guilt or pleasures, into the bosom of an Almighty Friend. Though this devotion, in its first stages, may be a wearisome and insipid exercise; yet this arises mere­ly from the depravity of nature and our passions. A little habit will overcome the reluctance when you have fairly entered upon your journey; the ways of this wisdom will be ways of pleasantness, and all its paths peace. True devotion, doubtless requires a considerable degree of abstraction from the world: hence modern christians treat it as a vi­sion; hence many modern writers have little of its [Page 6] unction; but it glows in the scriptures, it warms us in the fathers, it burned in an Austin, and in ma­ny others of the persecuted martyrs who are now with God. That we have little of it, is not won­derful; it makes no noise in the circle of the learn­ed, or of the elegant under a heap of worldly cares: we smother the lovely infant and will not let it breathe.

Vanity, ambition, pleasure, avarice, quench the celestial fire: and these, alas, are too much the gods of mortals ever since the world began! Wri­ters have been amusing us only with shadows of this piety, instead of giving us its soul and substance. Superstition has placed it in opinion, ceremonies, austerities, pilgrimages, persecutions, an august temple or splendid imagery, which has little con­nection with sentiment or spirit. Enthusiasm has swelled with unnatural conceptions, and obtruded a spurious offspring upon the world instead of the engaging child of reason and truth; whilst the luke­warm and indifferent, have rested in a few outward duties which have had no vigor: and as they spring not from the heart, never entered the temple of the Most High.

Real piety is of a very different, and of a much more animated nature; it looks up to God, sees, hears, and feels him in every event, in every vi­cissitude, in all places, in all seasons and upon all occasions; it is theory vivified by experience, it is faith substantiated by mental enjoyment; it is heaven transplanted in the human bosom; it is the radiance of the Divinity, warming and encircling man; it is a spiritual sense gratfiied by spiritual sensations: without this, all ceremonies are inefficacious; books, prayers, sacraments and meditations, are but a bo­dy without a soul, or a statue without animation. [Page 7] That man is capable of having such an intercourse with his Maker, there are many living witnesses to prove, without having recourse to the visions of fanatics, or the dreams of enthusiasts. It may be proved to spring from natural and philosophical causes; God is a spirit, so is the mind. Bodies can have intercourse, so can souls: when minds are in an assimulating state of purity, they are in union with their Maker. This was the bliss of Paradise; sin interrupted, and holiness must restore it to a soul thus disposed. The Creator communicates himself in a manner which is as insensible to the natural eye, as the falling of the dews; but not less refreshing to its secret powers, than that is to vegetation. The primitive saints are describing this when they speak of their transports. David felt it when he longed for God. As the hart panteth after the water-brooks. Paul, when he gloried in his tribulations, it was embodied in him when he was carried up into the Third heaven and heard things impossible to be utter­ed. Stephen was filled with it, when he saw the Heavens opened, and prayed for his murderers. By it, martyrs were supported when they were stoned and sawed asunder: and till we feel it in ourselves, we shall never fully know how gracious the Lord is. If you can acquire this spiritual abstraction, you will at once have made your fortune for eternity; it will be of little moment what is your lot on earth, or what the distinguishing vicissitudes of your life; prosperity or adversity, health or sickness, honor or disgrace; a cottage or a crown will all be so ma­ny instruments of glory: the whole creation will become a temple; every event and every object lead your mind to God. And in his greatness and perfection you will insensibly lose the littleness, the glare and tinsel of all human things. If I wish on­ly [Page 8] to set off your persons to the greatest advantage, I would recommend this true sublime religion; it gives a pleasing serenity to the countenance, and a chearfulness to the spirits, beyond the reach of art or the power of affectation. It communicates a real transport to the mind, which dissipation mimicks for a moment, a sweetness to the disposition and lustre to the manners, which all the airs of modern polite­ness study but in vain.

I PLANTED it with my own hand, said my lit­tle sister, holding up a withered China-aster, plucked up by the roots.—I covered it from the sun, I watered it night and morning; and after all (wiping her eyes with the corner of her frock) af­ter all it is dead!—" Alas! how many are the occurrences in life, thought I, which resemble Ma­ry's flower.—Too easily believing what we wish, we adopt some pretty trifle; and laying it as it were in our bosom, love it "as a daughter." Fan­cy paints it in gay colors; increasing in beauty, we see its little leaves expand, and trace its progress with anxious solicitude, from the swelling bud to the full blown; and then when we fondly expect to enjoy it, reality tells us after all it is dead!—

How often does an only son engross all the care of his parents, and wind himself round every fibre of their hearts. To cherish the idol, is every wish on the stretch, to indulge it are all the rarities of art and nature procured. Sleepless nights and anx­ious days, are their lot: and lo! when they hope [Page 9] to see the end of their labors, struck by the hand of disease, or debased by the contaminating touch of vice, the agonizing parents find, after all, it is dead!—

And how sanguine are the expectations of those relations and friends, who possess a lovely girl, en­dowed with all the charms of beauty and goodness— How do they exult in her very idea!—she is the so­lace of their calamities, and the staff of dependance for their declining years.—Friendship rises in her defence like a wall; and affection nourishes her like the mild dews of spring—Ah! to how little pur­pose! The canker-worm of love preys upon the de­licate root of this sweet sensitive, and the scorch­ing winds of disappointment drink up its moisture! —It fades—The hands of friendship and af­fection are united to support it in vain: for

It languishes and dies—and regret bitterly weeping, raves round the lovely fallen, and ex­claims after all, it is dead!—* * * &c.

TIME is precious, but its value is unknown to us. We shall attain this knowledge when we can no longer profit by it. Our friends [...]quire it of us, as if it was nothing; and we give it to them in the same manner. It is often a burth [...] [...] us: we know not what to do with it, and are embarrass­ed [Page 10] about it. The day will arrive, when a quarter of an hour will appear more desirable than all the riches in the universe. God who is liberal and ge­nerous in all his other gifts, teaches us by the wise economy of his providence, how circumspect we ought to be in the right management of our time; for he never gives us two moments together, he gives only the second as he takes away the first, and keeps the third in his hands, leaving us in an abso­lute uncertainty whether it shall ever be ours or not.

Time is given us that we may take care of eter­nity; and—eternity will not be too long to regret the loss of our time if we have mispent it.

MY Daughter give me thy heart. Thy supreme affection none on earth can deserve; hu­man attainments are all defective; human regards are often insincere. Put not your trust in the son of man; he may deceive, or he may change, or he may not be able to protect you: but of this kind you have nothing to fear from your Creator.

Every thing in nature is subject to vicissitude; and—nothing is more usual than for men to adopt a different deportment, as their circumstances or in­terests, their opinions or humors, vary. There is but one immutable friend that sticks closer than a brother a lover or a parent. He is the same yester­day, to day and forever. He will never leave you; he will never forsake you; he has engaged himself by his promise; and he is not a man that he should repent.

[Page 11]And now suppose that a woman possessed with a belief of the highest excellence, is disappointed in her prospects of an agreeable union with one of our sex: she turns her thoughts to heaven. She con­templates truth and rectitude, wisdom and good­ness, power, mercy and faithfulness in their source. she considers them as all—working together for her good; she sees them shining through the cloud of disappointment; from this cloud she hears, as it were, her Maker thus addressing her, "My daugh­ter, give me thy heart; throw thyself, my child, on my friendship. She is not disobedient to the hea­venly call.—She prostrates herself in the presence of the Most High. To him she devotes that heart which he formed; to him she pours it out with free­dom.

FEW will be found to display prudence or con­sistency of conduct, who do not sometimes step asid [...] from the tumult of the throng, to consider coolly their circumstances and situations. Life can­not proceed fortuitously, without incurring momen­tary danger. Plans of conduct must be formed, precautions taken, errors retrieved, and probabil­ities of futurity considered: but all this requires thought, and thought retirement.

It will conduce in a particular manner to the peace of all persons who superintend large families, if they habituate themselves to disregard those calumnies, which will certainly be poured upon them; though they should not merit ill treatment. Their hearts, will indeed be often wrung with grief, if they are [Page 12] sensible of every ill-natured whisper, which makes its way, like the worm in the earth, and may at last, corrode the worthiest bosom, if the breast-plate of reason is not previously applied.

What have we to do, but to perform our duty, and leave the event to Providence. Religion is the only safe refuge of a heart laboring under heavy calamities. Religion makes the most truly serene and chearful countenances.

THERE is no terrestrial good that can yield that substantial happiness which is suited to the natures and desires of the human mind; and he who thinks to find it in any thing beneath the sun, is surprising a phantom that will elude his chase; and if it seem to loiter for his approach, it will only be to con­vince him of his folly; to shew him a mistake that he never saw, and of which thousands never thought till their race terminated in that country, from whence none ever returned to own their error, or confess their shame.

A POOR half-witted man, named Joseph, whose employ was to go on errands, and carry par­cels, passing through London streets one day, heard psalm-singing in a place of worship; he went into it, having a large parcel of yarn hanging over his shoulders: it was Dr. Calamy's meeting-house, St. Mary's, Aldermanbury. A very well dressed audi­ence [Page 13] surrounded the Doctor. He read the text in 1st Tim. I. 15. "This is a faithful saying, and worthy of all acceptation, that Christ Jesus came into the world to save sinners, of whom I am chief." From this he preached in the clearest and simplest manner, the ancient apostolic gospel, the contents of this faithful saying, viz. that there is salvation for the vilest sinners, solely through the worthiness of Jesus Christ, the God who made all things. "Not many rich, not many noble, are called by this doc­trine (saith the apostle) but God hath chosen the weak things of this world to confound the things that are mighty." While the elegant assembly list­lessly heard this doctrine, and if they were struck with any thing at all, it was only with some brilliant expression or well turned period that dropped from the Doctor. Joseph, in rags, gazing with aston­ishment, never took his eyes from the preacher, but drank in with eagerness all he said: and trudging homeward, was heard thus muttering to himself; "Jesus Christ, the God who made all things, came into the world to save sinners, like Joseph; and this is true; and it is a "faithful saying." Not long after this, Joseph was seized with a fever and was dangerously ill. As he tossed upon his bed, his constant language was, "Joseph is the chief of sin­ners; but Jesus Christ came into the world to save sinners, and Joseph loves him for this." His neigh­bors who came to see [...] wondered at hear­ing him always dwelling on this. Some of the religious sort addressed him in the following man­ner:—But what say you of your own heart, Jo­seph? is there no token for good about it? no say­ing change there? Have you closed with Christ, by acting faith upon him? "Ah! no (says he) Joseph can act nothing; Joseph has nothing to say for him­self, [Page 14] but just that he is chief of sinners; yet seeing it is a faithful saying, that Jesus, he who made all things, came into the world to save sin­ners, why may not Joseph, after all, be sav­ed?" One man finding out where he heard this doctrine, on which he dwelt so uniformly, and with such delight, went and asked Doctor Calamy to come and visit him. He came; but Joseph was now very weak, and had not spoken for some time, and though told of the Doctor's arrival, he took no no­tice of him; but when the Doctor began to speak to to him, as soon as he heard the sound of his voice, he instantly sprang up on his elbows, and seizing him by the hands, exclaimed as loud as he could, with his now feeble and trembling voice, "O Sir, you are the friend of the Lord Jesus, who I heard speak so well of him, and whom I love for what you said of him. Joseph is the chief of sinners; but it is a faithful saying, that Jesus Christ, the God who made all things, came into the world to save sinners, and why not Joseph? O pray to that Je­sus for me, pray that he may save me: tell him that Joseph thinks he loves him, for coming into the world to save such sinners as Joseph." The Doctor prayed. When he concluded, Joseph thanke him more kindly: he then put his hand under the pillow and took out an old rag, in which were tied up five guineas; and putting it into the Doctor's hand, (which he had kept all [...] time close in his) he thus addressed him, "Jose [...] [...]n his folly, had laid up this to keep him in hi [...]d age: but Joseph will ne­ver see old age; take it, and divide it amongst the poor friends of the Lord Jesus, and tell them that Joseph gave it them for his sake who came into the world to save sinners, "of whom he is chief." So saying, he reclined his head. His exertions in talk­ing, [Page 15] had been too much for him, so that he instant­ly expired.

Doctor Calamy left this scene, but not without shedding tears over Joseph; and used to tell this little story with much feeling; and as one of the most affecting occurrences he ever met with.

LOOK on every day as a blank sheet of paper, put into your hands to be filled up: remember the cha­racters will remain to endless ages; and can never be expunged; be careful, therefore, not to write any thing but what you may read with pleasure a thousand years hence.

TRUE happiness is of a retired nature, and an enemy to pomp and noise: it arises in the first place from the enjoyment of ones self; and in the next from the friendship and conversation of a sew select companions.

THE joys of dissipa [...] [...] like gaudy colors, which for a moment attract the sight, but soon fa­tigue and oppress it; while the satisfactions of home resemble the green robe of nature, on which the eye loves to rest, and to which it always returns with a sensation of delight.

THE shades of the evening had begun to spread their dimming gloom over the plains, when Palemon, who, with his son Thirsis, had just fold­ed their flock, slowly returning to their peaceful dwelling. Palemon had long been an inhabitant of these uplands. His head was silvered over with age. Thirsis had just reached that ascending period of life which verges on manhood. A lively filial respect was implanted in his breast towards the venerable author of his being. He looked up to him, not on­ly for support, but for that advice, by which he was to guide his steps through the thorny roads of life. Every admonition that fell from his father's lips, he treasured up in his mind, and noted every precept on the tablet of his heart.

Slowly returned they towards their home; for time had now abated the vigor of the parent. "Be­hold, my son," cried the hoary-headed sage, as they moved on, side by side, "Behold how every appearance marks the approach of winter! The grove is no longer rendered vocal by the sweet choirsters that lately tuned, among its branches, their sweetest lay. The scene around us yields not its wonted pleasure. Its beauty fades apace. All nature seems to [...] as if apprehensive of those dreary clouds wh [...] [...] will overcast you azure sky.

"How cheer [...] [...] was that very scene, which is now enw [...] [...] dejecting gloom! Ri­pening crops of grain then waved to the gentle breeze; a breeze fraught with refreshing fragrance from yonder balmy meads aside fruitful plains, now, alas! stripped of their flowery vestment, and, with it, of their enlivening odours.

[Page 17]"Then, as we early sought the fold, while yet Aurora lighted up the dawn, or when, at our re­turn, the evening resumed her gentle reign, sooth­ed by the nightingale's melodious notes, we tasted all the sweets by bounteous nature spread. But now, which ever way we turn, the fading prospect sickens to our view. The wood-land's variegated dyes, drooping, proclaim in oft repeated sighs, the summer's last farewell. No more, ye fields, the flowrets deck your glades; no more the trees their verdant foliage wave; no more the warblers chear the listening swain. Stern winter's chill approach has changed the scene.

"But why, my son, do we lament these transi­ent pleasures flown? Spring shall return and deck again the ravag'd plain; and nature lose again her wintry form, though not perhaps for me.—My summer too is closed. But the bright cherub Hope, presents a prospect far beyond the skies, where hap­pier fields enjoy a cloudless day, and groves immor­tal wear unfading bloom.

"Let, Thirsis, this clear ray of hope, beam ever in thy breast. Thou then wilt not regret the fad­ing beauties of the transient spring, nor heed the terrors of the northern blast. A few revolving suns may bring the change w [...] lands me on that peaceful shore, where wi [...] [...] [...]ns shall ne'er dis­turb the scene; but w [...] [...]rlasting spring shall reign. This has [...] [...]solation through life's unvarying round [...] [...]hirsis, be it thine."

Thus, as they walked, [...]efluously flowed the admonitions of the hoary sage. Nor were they lost, they were treasured up in the mind of Thirsis.— When his venerable parent slept underneath the grassy sod, he became as Palemon had been, esteem­ed by all the country round, for the simplicity of his manners, and the rectitude of his conduct.

AND is it true, then, that the cold and unfeel­ing are the happiest of mankind? Are the fine­ly feeeling soul—the susceptible heart—the qui [...] perception of another's woes—the sources of mi [...] ­ry only? Are the noblest gifts of Heaven, bestow­on Heaven's creatures only for their torment?

Impious and ridiculous conclusion! Rather let afflicted sensibility believe, that there are (at least hereafter) peculiar blessings reserved for those,

"Who feel for all the woes of all mankind;" and that the sigh, the tear, the pang of sympathy, are treasured up in Heaven, as the price of joys in­effable, of which, in the end, they shall not be disappointed.

Yes! these feelings shall be treasured up in Hea­ven; and on the day of final reckoning, when mor­tal frailties shall meet the all-piercing eye of Judicial Perfection, then, with cherubic tongues, they shall plead the cause of those, whose bosoms, while on earth, they refined, elevated and rendered fit for the transports of this happier region. There shall sympathy produce no sensations but those of delight; and the degrees of happiness be determined by those of sensibility.

Nay, even i [...] [...] there are tender lux­uries of soul, [...] with the pangs of too susceptible virtue, [...] [...]se who have truly felt, would not exchange [...] [...]he insipid enjoyments of sordid indifference, [...] the frantic excesses of the selfish voluptuary.

SO much have our common pursuits, which we plead as the means of supporting life, diverted men from the true ends for which they were sent into the world, that the judicious and pious, in all ages, since the time of Solomon, have readily sub­scribed to his opinion, that all of them are indeed "vanity and vexation of spirit." For we find that there are some who spend their whole time in gram­mar and rhetoric, or in learning to speak well, without allowing themselves any leisure to study the more important concerns of living well.

Others there are, who are so busy in finding out the riddles of a logical sphinx, that they examine all the trifles and impertinencies of reason, to find out what reason is, and in the search thereof, of­tentimes lose themselves and their reason too.

There are many, who, by arithmetic, learn to divide every thing into the most minute fractions, and yet do not know how to divide a half-penny with a poor afflicted brother in the way of charity.

Many there are, who by the help of geometry, can set limits to grounds and separate them from one another; can measure cities and countries, and yet cannot attain to any rule whereby they are enabled to measure themselves.

The musician can bri [...] [...]ferent voices and tones into one harmony, yet a [...] while may have no­thing that is harmonious in his own mind; nothing, which, by reason of its perturbation, does not run counter to all musical measures.

The astronomer, whilst with fixed eyes he looks up to heaven, and attentively views the motion of the stars, very frequently stumbles into the next [Page 20] ditch; and while he is foretelling things to come, loses those that are present; for though with fixed eyes he looks up to heaven, his mind is too much de­filed with the mire of this world, to think of a bet­ter.

The philosopher disputes gravely and accurately of the nature of things, and yet, perhaps is no wis­er than a real child, as to the nature of himself, and the things of heaven.

The physician takes care of the health of others, but as to the knowledge of the diseases of his own mind, may be as blind as a beetle; he diligently watches the variations of his patient's pulse, but how to cure the evil dispositions, and wrong tem­pers, in himself, he knows nor cares but little a­bout them.

The historian has the Theban and Trojan wars at his fingers ends, but is almost wholly ignorant of a much higher concern, the proper knowledge of himself.

The lawyer, though he has spent whole years in the construction and exposition of human laws, for the government of others, is too often but little ac­quainted with the divine law which te [...]nes and en­joins a strict government over his own actions.

The theologist earnestly contends for, and dis­putes about faith, but too seldom thinks about char­ity; he speaks much of [...] but to help his neigh­bor in time of need, h [...] too little concern.

The merchant is very solicitous of gain from eve­ry port to which he can extend his trade, or in which he can obtain credit—yet seldom troubles his head in establishing a correspondence with that hap­py country, which offers the richest merchandize —that neither moth can corrupt, nor thieves have power to steal.

[Page 21]The farmer, though daily exercised with much toil and fatigue, in breaking up and improving the most stubborn and rugged soils, with a view to a beneficial crop, yet how does he neglect, year after year, to break up and improve the barren soil of his own heart, which, without equal care and cul­tivation, will never produce that crop of good works, which makes truly rich, and adds no sorrow.

Arts and sciences do indeed weary the minds of men with continual labor, but yield them no true felicity.

It is religion, only, can regulate the heart—it causes it to melt in sympathy with distress, or to glow with pleasure at the happiness of another— it is that alone can harmonize the mind, "Attuning all its passions into peace."

The astronomer, if enlightened by it, must con­template, with wonder and admiration, those lumi­naries which his eye so often gazes on with pleasure. The philosopher too, when the won­ders of nature are opened to his view, with what doration and gratitude must he look up to that great source from whence they flow! And in all profes­sions, how [...] [...]rfect is man! unless illumined by the bright [...] of religion, which, like the glo­rious luminary, the sun, will enlighten all our paths.

LET us study to join all the parts of virtue in proper union, to be constantly and uniformly good, just, and upright, as well as pitiful and courteous; pious as well at sympathising. Let us pray to him who made the heart, that he would fill it with all proper dispositions; rectify all its errors; and ren­der [...] the happy abode of personal integrity and so­cial tenderness, of purity, benevolence, and de­vo [...].

THERE is a remarkable passage in the life of Canute, king of England, containing instruc­tions both to prince and people. His courtiers, (ever too prone to magnify and flatter those whom they think to please by so doing) would frequently extol his power and wealth, and pretend some­times almost to adore his person. Canute was a man of too good understanding not to see the folly of such flattery, and of the persons from whom it came; but for their effectual conviction, and to shew the small power of kings, he caused his roy­al seat to be placed on the sea-shore, while the tide was comming in; then, in the midst of his flatter­ing nobles and great lords, whom he caused to as­semble together for that purpose; arrayed in robes of gold with his crown on his head, and all the state and royalty he could command, he thus ad­dressed the sea. "Thou sea, belongest to me, and the land whereon I sit is mine, nor hath any one unpunished resisted my commands; [...] [...]arge thee, therefore, come no farther upon th [...] and, neither presume to wet the feet of thy sovereign lord." But the sea came rolling on, and, without rever­ence, wet and dashed the king. Then rising from his seat, and looking round him, he desired all present to behold the weakness of human power, and that none truly deserved the name of king, but him whose eternal laws both heaven, earth and seas obey. From that time he never wore a crown, esteeming earthly royalty nothing else than poor contemptible vanity.

[Page 23]NOURISH in your bosoms humility and good-nature; these will teach you to make the best of your lot, whatever it be, and give a relish to eve­ry enjoyment. All is serene where they reside. Humility by arrogating nothing to herself, remains unhurt at the supercilious scorn of ignorance or pride; and good nature, by casting a veil over the foibles of others, presents to our view the best side of this motley scene.

IF you have really made any advancement in mental improvement, it will invigorate the pow­ers of the soul, and inspire her with that magnanim­ity which is certainly necessary to the happiness of a being, who is every moment exposed to sorrow and disappointment. Value not yourselves on any refinements that are short of this effect.

POLITENESS is that amiable disposition, which delight in the happiness of others, consults their ease, prevents their wants, and yields them every possible convenience. This is the source of those civilities and attentions, which distinguish a well-bred person: without it etiquette dwindles into unmeaning ceremony.

NOTHING so highly elevates and adorns the human character, as a steady rational piety; nor is any thing capable of yielding so pure and exalt­ed [Page 24] a happiness to the soul, as a habit of devotion. No one who has experienced the vicissitude of sub­lunary things, but must highly value the privilege of possessing a friend, ever ready to hear the com­plaints of affliction, and the power to relieve them.

THERE are pleasures to be met with in this journey of life; pure and sublime ones too, if we look for them through the medium of unvitiated taste.—Did you ever discharge a social duty, but upon looking into the heart, you there perceived a glow of satisfaction?—But if you aim at more ex­alted, more rapturous sensations, give full scope to the impulses of benevolence: try what it is to heal the broken-hearted; diffuse joy through the mansions of sorrow, and rescue merit from the pressure of indigence and misfortune.—These em­ployments are capable of yielding pleasures suitable to the most exalted capacities, boundless as the most sanguine imagination can paint them.

NOR is it from the relative duties alone we can derive happiness: the amusing, interesting Book of Nature is open to all who can read it: here you meet with eternal variety, order and beau­ty; a thousand charms await the mind which pos­sesses a taste for simple pleasures; to such the whole creation is a boundless source of rational amuse­ment. Happy, ineffably happy, they who can be pleased with artless nature, and contemplate with delight, the noble imagery with which she abounds.

[Page 25]THAT kindness which flows from the heart, is like a clear stream, that pours its full and rapid current chearfully along, for ever unobstructed in its course; while those acts of benificence, which are performed with reluctance, resemble shallow waters supplied by a muddy fountain, retarded in their noisy progress by every pebble, dried by heat, and frozen by cold.

IN the country, the mind borrows virtue from the scene. When we tread the lofty mountain, when the ample lake spreads its broad expanse of waters to our view, when we listen to the fall of the torrent, the awed and astonished mind is raised above the temptations of guilt; and when we wan­der amid the softer scenes of Nature, the charms of the landscape, the song of the birds, the mild­ness of the breeze, and the murmurs of the stream, soothe the passions into peace, excite the most gen­tle emotions, and have power to cure all sadness but dispair!—"Can man forbear to smile with Nature? Can the stormy passions in his bosom roll, while every gale is peace, and every grove is me­lody?

THE occasional acts of benificence which pro­ceed either from ostentation or fear, resemble those scanty spots of verdure to which a sudden shower will sometimes give birth in a flinty and sterile soil; while pure genuine philantrophy flows like those unseen dews which are only marked in their benign effects spreading new charms over creation.

FONDNESS for children, even in one not a parent, is an affection very natural to a tender heart; for what is more interesting than the inno­cence, the helplessness, the endearing simplicity of childhood?

IN the enjoyment of the beauties of Nature, the charms of friendship, and the delightful intercourse of elegant and cultivated minds, the stream of time flows not like the turbulent torrent which rushes in unequal cadence, as impelled by the tempestuous winds, nor like the sluggish pool, whose waters rest in dull stagnation: it glides chearfully along, like the clear rivulet in the valley, whose surface is un­ruffled by the blast of the mountains, and whose bason reflects the verdant landscape through which it passes.

AVARICE is a passion as despicable as it is hate­ful. It chuses the most insidious means for the at­tainment of its ends: it dares not pursue its objects with the bold impetuosity of the soaring eagle, but skims the ground in narrow circles like the swallow.

THE middle station of life appears to be that temperate region, in which the mind, neither ener­vated by too full a ray of prosperity, nor chilled and debased by the freezing blast of penury, is in the sitution most favourable for every great and gene­rous exertion.

[Page 27]In a mind where the principles of religion and integrity are firmly established, sensibility is not merely the ally of weakness, or the slave of guilt, but serves to give a stronger impulse to virtue.

VIRTUE is the only true support of pleasure; which when disjointed from it, is like a plant when its fibers are cut, which may still look gay and lovely for a while, but soon decays and perishes.

Live well, and then how soon soe'er thou die,

Thou art of age to claim eternity.

THE real motives which influence men of the world, can be as little kno [...] from their actions, as the original hue of some muddy substance, which, by chemical operations has been made to assume a a tint of the parest colours.

THE human heart revolts against oppression, and is soothed by gentleness, as the wave of the ocean rises in proportion to the violence of the winds, and sinks with the breeze into mildness and serenity.

THE effusions of gaiety which are so exhilarating to a mind at ease, come to an aching breast as a ray [Page 28] of the sun falls upon ice, too deep to be penetrated by its influence.

Sensibility, when genuine and pure, has a strong connection with peity.—That warmth of affection, and tenderness of heart which lead men to feel for their brethren, and to enter into their joys and sor­rows, should naturally dispose them to melt at the remembrance of the divine goodness; to glow with admiration at the divine Majesty; to send up the voice of praise and adoration to that Supreme Be­ing who makes his creatures happy. He who pre­tends to great sensibility toward men, and yet has no feeling for the high objects of religion, no heart to admire and adore the great father of the universe, has reason to distrust the truth and delicacy of his Sensibility.

LET us study [...]o join all the [...]arts of virtue in proper union to be consistantly and uniformly good; just and upright, as well as pitiful, and courteous; pious as well as sympathising.

Let us pray to him who made the heart, that he would fill it with all proper dispositions; rectify all its errors, and render it the happy abode of personal integrity and social tenderness, of purity, benevo­lence and devotion.

TIME, when yet before us, seems to advance with slow and tardy steps, no sooner is it past, than we discern its wings.

FORTITUDE without wisdom is rashness: Wisdom without justice is craft; and justice with­out mercy is cruelty.

'TIS safer to fall a prey to ravens than railers; for ravens will eat none but the dead; whereas these will devour a man while he is alive.

THE hour is hasting, in which, whatever praise or censure I have acquired will be remembered with equal indifference.—Time, who is impatient to date my last paper, will shortly moulder the hand that is now writing, in the dust, and still the breast that now throbs at the reflection; but let not this be read as something that relates only to another; for a few years only can divide the eye that is now reading from the hand that has written.

To know that there is nothing more deceitful than our own hearts, is an important acquisition in the science of morality; to know, that the best heart by its own delusions may be rendered the seat of misery; is the strongest argument that can be adduced in favour of self-government; the encou­ragement of mental rectitude and subjection of the passions.

THAT man is truly virtuous who is neither proud in good fortune, nor abject in bad; who [Page] desires nothing but heaven, and fears nothing but the loss of it; who is severe to himself, and easy to his neighbours; who speaks well of all but himself, and never pardons his own defects, nor censures those of his brethren. In a word, to do good, and fly from evil, is the sum of our duty— this is virtue in short hand; Perfection in Epitome; and Heaven in Reversion.

A POOR widow came several times into the an­tichamber of the court, and though frequent­ly ordered to retire, constantly returned the next day, saying, she must speak to the King. At length it happened, that seeing his majesty pass by, she immediately advanced towards him, presented him with a casket, and spoke to him as follows: "Sire, behold what I have discovered among the rubbish of some of the buildings ruined by the great earth­quake in 17 [...] am a poor widow, and have six children. That casket would relieve me from my present distresses, but I prefer my honour with a good conscience, to all the treasures in the world. I deliver this to your majesty as the most proper person, to restore it to its lawful possessor, and to reward me for the discovery." The king imme­diately ordered the casket to be opened, and was struck with the beauty of the jewels which it con­tained; after which speaking highly in praise of the widow's honesty and disinterestedness, he assured [Page 31] her of his protection, and immediately ordered he twenty thousand Paistres (3s. 7d. each.) His ma­jesty further ordered that proper enquiry should be made after the real proprietor; and that if it should prove fruitless, the jewels should be sold, and the produce appropriated to the use of the widow and her children.

AS the stone which rolls down the declivity ac­quires greater force and velocity the nearer it ap­proaches the vale, so the mind which once deviates from the paths of rectitude, finks, by rapid degrees from dissipation to error, from error to vice, and at length perpetrates, without remorse, crimes which it once shuddered at the idea of.

I FIND myself existing upon a little spot, sur­rounded every way by an immense unknown expansion.—Where am I? What sort of place do I inhabit? Is it exactly accommodated in every in­stance to my [...]nvenience? Is there no excess of cold, none of heat to offend me? Am I never an­noyed by animals, either of my own kind, or a dif­ferent? Is every thing subservient to me, as tho' I had ordered every thing myself?—No—nothing like it —the farthest from it possible.—The world appears then, not originally made for the private conveni­ence of me alone?—It does not.—But is it not pos­sible [Page 32] so to accommodate it, by my own particular industry? If to accommodate man and beast, hea­ven and earth, if this be beyond me, it is not possi­ble.—What consequence then follows? or can there be any other than this—If I seek an interest of my own detatched from that of others, I seek an interest which is chimerical, and can never have existence.

How then must I determine? have I no interest at all?—If I have not, I am a fool for staying here: it is a smoky house, and the sooner out of it the better.—But why no interest? Can I be contented with none but one separate and detached! Is a so­cial interest, joined with others, such an absurdity as not to be admitted?—The bee, the bever, and the tribes of herding animals, are enow to convince me that the thing is at least somewhere possible. How, then, am I assured that it is not equally true of man?—Admit it; and what follows? If so, then honour and justice are my interest; then the whole train of moral virtues are my interest; without some portion of which, not even thieves can maintain society.

But, farther still—I stop not here—I pursue this social interest, as far as I can trace my several rela­tions. I pass from my own stock, my own neigh­bourhood, my own nation, to the whole race of mankind, as dispersed throughout the earth.—Am I not related to them all, by the mutual aids of com­merce, by the general intercourse of arts and let­ters, by that common, nature of which we all par­ticipate?

Again—I must have food and cloathing.—With­out a proper genial warmth, I instantly perish.— Am I not related, in this view, to the very earth [Page 33] itself? to the distant sun, from whose beams I de­rive vigour? to that stupendous course and order of the infinite host of heaven, by which the times and seasons ever uniformly pass on? Were this order once confounded, I could not probably survive a moment; so absolutely do I depend on this com­mon general welfare.—What, then, have I to do, but to enlarge virtue into piety! Not only honour and justice, and what I owe to man, is my interest; but gratitude also acquiescence, resignation, adora­tion, and all I owe to this great polity, and its greater Governor our common parent.

A CERTAIN Hermit had scooped his cave near the summit of a lofty mountain, from whence he had an opportunity of surveying a large extent both of sea and land. He sat one evening contem­plating with pleasure on the various objects that lay diffused before him. The woods were dressed in the brightest verdure; the thickets adorned with the gayest blossoms. The birds caroled beneath the branches; the lambs frolicked around the meads; the peasant wistled beside his team; and the ships driven by gentle gales, were returning safely into their proper harbours. In short the arrival of spring had doubly enlivened the whole scene be­fore his eye; and every object yielded a display ei­ther of beauty or of happiness.

On a sudden arose a violent storm. The winds mustered all their fury, and whole forests of oak lay [Page 34] scattered on the ground. Darkness instantly suc­ceeded; hail-stones and rain were poured forth in cataracts, and lightning and thunder added horror to the gloom.

And now the sea, piled up in mountains, bore aloft the largest vessels, while the horrid uproar of its waves drowned the shrieks of the wretched mariners. When the whole tempest had exhausted its fury, it was instantly followed by the shock of an earthquake.

The poor inhabitants of a neighbouring village floked in crowds to our Hermit's cave; religiously hoping, that his well-known sanctity would protect them in their distress. They were however, not a little surprised at the profound tranquility that ap­peared in his countenance. "My friends," said he, "be not dismayed. Terrible to me as well as to you, would have been the war of elements we have just beheld; but that I have meditated with so much attention on the various works of Provi­dence, as to be persuaded that his goodness is equal to his power.

TWO springs that issued from the same moun­tain, began their course together: one of [Page 35] them took her way in a silent gentle stream, while the other rushed along with a sounding and rapid current. Sister, said the latter, at the rate you move, you will probably be dried up before you advance much further: whereas, for myself, I will venture a wager, that within two or three hundred furlongs I shall become navigable, and after dis­tributing commerce and wealth wherever I flow, I shall majestically proceed to pay my tribute to the ocean: so farewell dear sister, and patiently submit to your fate. Her sister made no reply; but calm­ly descended to the meadows below, increased her stream by numberless little rills, which she collect­ed in her progress, till at length she was enabled to raise into a considerable river: whilst the proud stream that had the vanity to depend solely upon her own sufficiency, continued a shallow brook, and was glad at last to be helped forward, by throwing herself into the arms of her dispised sister.

GENIUS, Virtue, and Reputation, three inti­mate friends, agreed to travel over the island of Great Britain, to see whatever might be worthy of observation. But as some misfortune, said they, may happen to separate us, let us consider before [Page 36] we set out, by what means we may find each other again. Should it be my ill fate, said Genius, to be severed from you, my associates, which heaven for­bid! you may find me kneeling in devotion before the tomb of Shakespeare; or rapt in some grove where Milton talked with angels; or musing in grotto where Pope caught inspiration. Virtue, with a sigh, acknowledged that her friends were not very numerous: but were I to lose you, she cried, with whom I am at present so happily united, I should choose to take sanctuary in the temples of religion, in the palaces of royalty, or in the spacious domes of ministers of state: but as it may be my ill fortune there to be denied admittance, enquire for some cottage where contentment has a bower, and there you will certainly find me. Ah! my dear companions, said Reputation very earnestly, you, I perceive when missing, may possibly be recovered; but take care, I entreat you, always to keep sight of me, for if I am once lost, I am never to be re­trieved.