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VIII. ON AUTUMN.-Alison.

LET the young go out, in these hours, under the descending sun of the year, into the fields of nature. Their hearts are now ardent with hope,-with the hopes of fame, of honour, or of happiness; and, in the long perspective which is before. them, their imagination creates a world where all may be enjoyed. Let the scenes which they now may witness, moderate, but not extinguish their ambition;-while they see the yearly desolation of nature, let them see it as the emblem of mortal hope;-while they feel the disproportion between the powers they possess, and the time they are to be employed, let them carry their ambitious eye beyond the world; and while, in these sacred solitudes, a voice in their own bosom corresponds to the voice of decaying nature, let them take that high decision which becomes those who feel themselves the inhabitants of a greater world, and who look to a being incapable of decay.

Let the busy and the active go out, and pause for a time amid the scenes which surround them, and learn the high lesson which nature teaches in the hours of its fall. They are now ardent with all the desires of mortality; and fame, and interest, and pleasure, are displaying to them their shadowy promises; and, in the vulgar race of life, many weak and many worthless passions are too naturally engendered. Let them withdraw themselves, for a time, from the agitations of the world; let them mark the desolation of summer, and listen to the winds of winter, which begin to murmur above their heads. It is a scene, which, with all its power, has yet no reproach;-it tells them, that such is also the fate to which they must come; that the pulse of passion must one day beat low; that the illusions of time must pass; and that "the spirit must return to Him who gave it." It reminds them, with gentle voice, of that innocence in which life was begun, and for which no prosperity of vice can make any compensation; and that angel who is one day to stand upon the earth, and "to swear that time shall be no more,' seems now to whisper to them, amid the hollow winds of the year, what manner of men ought they to be, who must meet that decisive hour.

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There is 66 an even-tide" in human life-a season when the eye becomes dim, and the strength decays; and when the winter of age begins to shed, upon the human head, its prophetic snow. It is the season of life to which the present is most analogous; and much it becomes, and much it would

profit you, to mark the instructions which the season brings. The spring and the summer of your days are gone; and with them, not only the joys they knew, but many of the friends who gave them. You have entered upon the autumn of your being; and whatever may have been the profusion of your spring, or the warm intemperance of your summer, there is yet a season of stillness and of solitude, which the beneficence of heaven affords you; in which you may meditate upon the past and the future, and prepare yourselves for the mighty change which you are soon to undergo.

If thus you have the wisdom to use the decaying season of nature, it brings with it consolations more valuable than all the enjoyments of former days. In the long retrospect of your journey, you have seen, every day, the shades of the evening fall, and, every year, the clouds of winter gather. But you have seen also, every succeeding day, the morning arise in its brightness; and, in every succeeding year, the spring return to renovate the winter of nature. It is now you may understand the magnificent language of heaven; it mingles its voice with that of revelation; it summons you, in these hours when the leaves fall, and the winter is gathering, to that evening study which the mercy of heaven has provided in the book of salvation: and while the shadowy valley opens, which leads to the abode of death, it speaks of that hand which can comfort and can save, and which can conduct to those " green pastures, and those still waters," where there is an eternal spring for the children of God.

IX. THE POWER OF CONSCIENCE.-Horne.

It would be in vain to dissemble, that, in the present state, as is the offence such is not always the punishment. Notoriously profligate sinners often partake not, to appearance, the common evils of life; but pass their days in prosperity, affluence, and health, and die without any visible tokens of the divine displeasure. But to take off, in some measure, the force of the objection, it must be remarked that, besides those judgments of God which lie open to the observation of mankind, there are others, even in the present life, of a secret and invisible kind, known only to the party by whom they are felt. There is a court constantly sitting within, from whose jurisdiction the criminal can plead no exemption, and from whose presence he cannot flee; there is evidence produced against him which he can neither disprove nor evade; and there a just

sentence is not only passed, but forthwith executed on him, by the infliction of torments, severe and poignant as the strokes of whips, or the stings of scorpions: torments, exquisite in proportion to the sensibility of the part affected; torments, of which he sees the beginning, but is never likely to see the end.

Trust not to appearances. Men are not what they seem. In the brilliant scenes of splendour and magnificence, of luxury and dissipation; surrounded by the companions of his pleasures and the flatterers of his vices; amidst the flashes of wit and merriment, when all wears the face of gayety and festivity,— the profligate often reads his doom, written by the Hand whose characters are indelible. Should he turn away his eyes from beholding it, and succeed in the great work during the course of his revels; yet the time will come, when, from scenes like these, he must retire and be alone: and then, "what is all that a man can enjoy in this way for a week, a month, or a year, compared with what he feels for one hour, when his conscience shall take him aside, and rate him by himself?

There is likewise another hour which will come, and that soon; the hour when life must end; when the accumulated wealth of the East and the West, with all the assistance it is able to procure, will not be competent to obtain the respite of a moment; when the impenitent sinner shall be called-and must obey the call to leave everything; and give an account to his Maker, of the manner in which he has spent his time, and employed his talents. Of what is said by such at that hour, we know not much. Care is generally taken that we never should. Of what is thought, we know nothing. O merciful God! grant that we never may.

X. -ON INFIDELITY.-Thompson.

IT is amidst trials and sorrows that infidelity appears in its justest and most frightful aspect. When subjected to the multifarious ills "which flesh is heir to," what is there to uphold our spirit, but the discoveries and the prospects that are unfolded to us by revelation? What, for this purpose, can be compared with the belief that everything here below is under the management of Infinite Wisdom and Goodness, and that there is an immortality of bliss awaiting us in another world? If this conviction be taken away, what is it that we can have recourse to, on which the mind may patiently and safely repose in the season of adversity? Where is the balm which I may

apply with effect to my wounded heart, after I have rejected the aid of the Almighty Physician? Impose upon me whatever hardships you please; give me nothing but the bread of sorrow to eat; take from me the friends in whom I had placed my confidence; lay me in the cold hut of poverty, and on the thorny bed of disease; set death before me in all its terrors; do all this,-only let me trust in my Saviour, and "pillow my head on the bosom of Omnipotence," and I will "fear no evil,"—I will rise superior to affliction,-"I will rejoice in my tribulation." But, let infidelity interpose between God and my soul, and draw its impenetrable veil over a future state of existence; and limit all my trust to the creatures of a day, and all my expectations to a few years as uncertain as they are short; and how shall I bear up, with fortitude or with cheerfulness, under the burden of distress? Or, where shall I find one drop of consolation to put into the bitter draught, which has been given me to drink? I look over the whole range of this wilderness in which I dwell; but I see not one covert from the storm, nor one leaf for the healing of my soul, nor one cup of water to refresh me, in the weariness and the faintings of my pilgrimage.

XI.-ON HAPPINESS.-Sterne.

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THE great pursuit of man is Happiness: it is the first and strongest desire of his nature;-in every stage of life, he searches for it as for hidden treasure; courts it under a thousand different shapes, and, though perpetually disappointed, still persists; runs after and inquires for it afresh; asks every passenger that comes in his way, "Who will show me any good? who will assist me in the attainment of it, or direct me to the discovery of this great end of all my wishes ?" He is told, by one, to search for it among the more gay youthful pleasures of life, in scenes of mirth and sprightliness, where Happiness ever presides, and is ever to be known by the joy and laughter painted in her looks. A second, with a graver aspect, points to the costly dwellings which Pride and Extravagance have erected;-tells the inquirer that the object he is in search of inhabits there; that Happiness lives only in company with the great, in the midst of much pomp and outward state; that he will easily find her out by the coat of many colours she has on, and the great luxury and expense of equipage and furniture with which she always sits surrounded.

The Miser blesses God!-wonders how anyone would mis

lead, and wilfully put him upon so wrong a scent-convinces him that Happiness and Extravagance never inhabited under the same roof; that, if he would not be disappointed in his search, he must look into the plain and thrifty dwellings of the prudent man, who knows and understands the worth of money, and cautiously lays it up against an evil hour: that it is not the prostitution of wealth upon the passions, or the parting with it at all, that constitutes happiness-but that it is the keeping it together, and the having and holding it fast to him and his heirs for ever, which are the chief attributes that form this great idol of human worship, to which so much incense is offered up every day.

The Epicure, though he easily rectifies so gross a mistake, yet, at the same time, he plunges him, if possible, into a greater: for, hearing the object of his pursuit to be Happiness, and knowing of no other happiness than what is seated immediately in the senses-he sends the inquirer there; tells him 'tis vain to search elsewhere for it, than where Nature herself has placed it-in the indulgence and gratification of the appetites which are given us for that end; and, in a wordif he will not take his opinion on the matter-he may trust the word of a much wiser man, who has assured us, that there is nothing better, in this world, than that a man should eat, and drink, and rejoice in his works, and make his soul enjoy good in his labour; for that is his portion.

To rescue him from this brutal experiment, Ambition takes him by the hand, and carries him into the world-shows him all the kingdoms of the earth, and the glory of them-points out the many ways of advancing his fortune, and raising himself to honour-lays before his eyes all the charms and bewitching temptations of power-and asks, if there can be any happiness in this world like that of being caressed, courted, flattered, and followed?

To close all, the Philosopher meets him, bustling in the full career of his pursuit-stops him-tells him, if he is in search of Happiness, he is gone far out of his way; that this deity has long been banished from noise and tumults, where there was no rest found for her, and was fled into solitude, far from all commerce of the world; and, in a word, if he would find her, he must leave this busy and intriguing scene, and go back to the peaceful scene of retirement and of books.

In this circle, too often does a man run,-tries all experiments, and, generally, sits down wearied and dissatisfied with them all, in utter despair of ever accomplishing what he wants;

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