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resources in their own bosom. They depend on precarious externals, on the will and co-operation of others, for all their pleasures. Change of place is their grand remedy for their uneasy sensations.' Like a sick man, who turns from side to side on his bed, in hope of that sleep which his fever denies, they fly to various scenes of public resort, in the midst of amusements, unamused; in the midst of pleasure, unpleased; and reluctantly return to their home, where God has given them a good inheritance. They have used, or rather abused, all their comforts. They are glutted with pleasure. Nothing has the grace of novelty to recommend it. Behold their dissatisfied counte

1 Lucretius well describes this restlessness :

Commutare locum, quasi onus deponere possit.
Exit sæpe foras magnis ex ædibus ille,

Esse domi quem pertæsum est, subitoque revertit;
Quippe foris nihilo melius qui sentiat esse.
Currit agens mannos ad villam; hic præcipitanter
Auxilium tectis quasi ferre ardentibus instans :
Oscitat extemplo, tetigit cum limina villæ.
Aut abit in somnum gravis; atque oblivia quærit;
Aut etiam properans urbem petit, atque revisit.
Hoc se quisque modo fugit: at, quod scilicet, ut fit,
Effugere haud potis est, ingratis hæret, et angit.
Lucretius.

They know not what they would have, but are continually seeking change of place, in the hope of laying down the burden of time. Tired of home, one man leaves his noble mansion, as often as he can, and then returns to it all on a sudden; just as miserable abroad as at home. Another drives his horses full speed to his country-house, dashing along as if he had heard the house was on fire, and was hastening to extinguish the flames. He no sooner sets his foot within the doors, than he begins to yawn or falls fast asleep; striving to forget himself in slumbers; or else he turns the horses' heads and hurries post haste up to town again. Thus every one tries to run away from himself; but he cannot escape a pursuer that sticks close to him, and torments him whether he will or no."

nances, and their artificial smiles, to hide them at the gay places of public amusement. Their appetite grown dull, this world affording no new joy, and the next never in their thoughts, they are, at first, the slaves of folly, and, at last, the victims of despair.

6

How different is it with him who has happily been tinctured with religion in his early age, and learned to seek, as his chief good, the peace of God which passeth all understanding?' Great peace have they that love thy law.' I do not affirm that the Christian religion pretends, like the arrogant philosophy of the stoics, to place man out of the reach of evil, or to render him insensible of misery. A certain portion of evil and misery is to be the lot of every mortal; and wise purposes are effected by chastisement, when suffered to operate in its regular manner in the production of humility, godly sorrow, repentance, and amendment. But this I say, and am justified in the assertion by the Scriptures of God, and by the experience of many pious believers, there is nothing which can lessen the evils of life so much, or teach a man to bear them with such fortitude, as a full dependence on God, and a habit of seeking pleasure in warm yet rational devotion. It will ever be found by those who thus seek it faithfully.

It is not, indeed, to be believed, but that God, whose Providence superintends the animal and vegetable world, and the inanimate creation, should watch over the spiritual with peculiar care, and conduct it by his immediate influence. A soul, therefore, which, by piety and charity, hum

Psalm, cxix. 165.

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bly endeavours to obey the revealed will of God, and to render itself acceptable to the eye which is too pure to behold iniquity without offence, will probably be sure of peculiar regard. No evil so great shall happen to it; no misfortune so heavy shall befall it, but that a way to escape shall be opened, or a supernatural power of bearing it afforded. A ray of sunshine will beam upon it from the fountain of spiritual light, when the world presents nothing but dark clouds. Like the Alpine mountain, the good and devout Christian rises above the clouds, and enjoys a glorious sunshine, which erring mortals below him cannot partake. He who enjoys the peace of God, may be said to resemble the halcyon, whose nest floats on the glassy sea, undisturbed by the agitation of the

waves.

Men deem themselves fortunate in obtaining the patronage of a fellow-creature like themselves, elevated by the favour of a prince, or by his own industry, above the common level. They feel themselves safe, under his protection, from the evils of poverty. Yet what is the protection of man, of princes and nobles, to the protection of the Lord of lords, the King of kings, the Ruler of princes? But the pious Christian believes firmly that he enjoys the unspeakable advantage. It is a continual feast to him. It is a perennial spring of living water. In adversity or prosperity, his chief good remains like the mountain, which cannot be moved. It is the rock of ages, on which he builds the fair fabric of his felicity.

What is there, in all the pomp of the world, and the enjoyments of luxury, the gratification of passion, comparable to the tranquil delight of a

good conscience? It is the health of the mind. It is a sweet perfume, that diffuses its fragrance over every thing near it, without exhausting its store. Unaccompanied with this, the gay pleasures of this world are like brilliants to a diseased eye, music to a deaf ear, wine in an ardent fever, or dainties in the langour of an ague. To lie down on the pillow, after a day spent in temperance, in beneficence, and piety, how sweet is it! How different from the state of him, who reclines, at an unnatural hour, with his blood inflamed, his head throbbing with wine and gluttony, his heart aching with rancorous malice, his thoughts totally estranged from him who has protected him in the day and will watch over him, ungrateful as he is, in the night season! A good conscience is, indeed, the peace of God. Passions lulled to sleep, clear thoughts, cheerful temper, a disposition to be pleased with every obvious and innocent object around; these are the effects of a good conscience; these are the things which constitute happiness; and these condescend to dwell with the poor man, in his humble cottage in the vale of obscurity. In the magnificent mansion of the proud and vain, glitter the exteriors of happiness, the gilding, the trapping, the pride, and the pomp; but in the decent habitation of piety is oftener found the downy nest of heavenly peace; that solid good, of which the parade of the vain, the frivolous, and voluptuous, is but a shadowy semblance.

I see a crowd, travelling, by choice, on the Sunday, (the day of rest appointed for man and beast, by the benevolent Being who made them,) with a speed that almost outstrips the wind. Whither are they hastening? To the regions of delight;

some place of modish resort; where the sound of the viol invites; where the song, and the dance, and the festive board, promise pleasure without alloy. Join the train awhile, and mark the event. The variety of objects dissipates care for a short time; but weariness soon ensues, and satiety converts the promised pleasure to indifference, at least, if not to pain. And now they return to their home, the seat of plenty, with countenances that by no means express satisfaction at what is just past; that satisfaction which might have been expected, considering the preparation, the expense, the haste, and the eagerness, which appeared in the commencement and progress of the fashionable excursion. Piety, charity, domestic comfort, have all been sacrificed at the shrine of fashion; and the fickle, unfeeling deity has bestowed nothing in return, but weariness, languor, and a total disrelish of the pleasures of simplicity, the sweets of innocence, the feast of benevolence, and the enlivening ardour of devotion.

To contrast the scene, I picture a regular, respectable, religious family, spending their time, after the performance of their social, public, or professional duties, around the domestic fire-side, in peace and love. Every countenance is illuminated with cheerfulness. No tedium, no exhausted spirits, no pale, ghastly visages, from the vigils of the card-table; no envious feelings, no jealousy nor rage at the sight of superior splendour. Pleased with a well-spent day, they fall on their knees before they retire to repose, and thank the Giver of all comfort for the mercies already received; and pray, with humble confidence, for protection in the night, and continuance

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