Yet still for this we pant, on this we trust,
And dream of happiness allied to dust.

Nothing can quench our thirst for earthly good, nor damp the ardour of pursuit. No suspicion is entertained that the means and the end are at variance. Miscarriage is not ascribed to the real, but to other causes. Happiness, though distant, is still thought attainable. We therefore change the scene, contemplate other objects, equally vain, with fresh rapture; resume the chase with redoubled vigour, pant with ardour for the moment of possession, and if divine goodness do not interpose, go on from stage to stage till death puts an end to the career of hope, the sinner awakes from his delirium, looks round with horror, and expires!-For

'Let changing life be varied as it will,
This weakness still attends, affects us still.
Displeas'd for ever with our present lot,
This we possess, as we possess'd it not:

Put earth's whole globe in wild ambition's power,
O'er one poor world she'd weep, and wish for more.

To birth add fortune, add to fortune-fame,

Give the desiring soul its utmost claim;
The wish recurs-some object unpossess'd
Corrodes, distastes, and leavens all the rest;
And still to death from being's earliest ray,
Th' unknown to-morrow cheats us of to-day.

'If any one of my readers has looked with so little attention on the world about him, as to imagine this representation exaggerated beyond probability, let him reflect a little upon his own life; let him consider what were his hopes and prospects ten years ago, and what additions he then expected to be made by ten years to his happiness: those years are now elapsed; have they made good the promise that was extorted from them, have they advanced his fortune, enlarged his knowledge, or reformed his conduct, to the degree that was once expected? I am afraid, every man that recollects his hopes must confess his disappointment; and own, that day has glided unprofitably after day, and that he is still at the same distance from the point of happiness.

'Such is the general dream in which we all slumber out our time: every man thinks the day coming, in which he shall be gratified with all his wishes, in which he shall leave all those competitors behind, who are now rejoicing like himself in the expectation of victory; the day is always coming to the servile in which they shall be powerful, to the obscure in which they shall be eminent, and to the deformed in which they shall be beautiful.'

In the vigour of youth and in the bloom of beauty; surrounded by all that can flatter hope or stimulate to action, Lavinia entered the ave‚nues of sublunary pleasure in quest of happiness; but the lovely enchantress was not to be found in the regions of terrestrial delight. All the sources of felicity were explored in vain: emptiness was stamped on every enjoyment. Our young votaress soon discovered that her expectations were fallacious; that many of her pursuits were not only trifling but criminal. A conviction of guilt filled her breast with tumult: terrifying apprehensions agitated her soul: she beheld with astonishment the precipice on which she stood, the imminent danger with which she was surrounded -that there was but a step between her and everlasting ruin: and trembling on this precipice, she first uttered that inexpressibly important query-What shall I do to be saved?'-To answer this inquiry the following Letters were first written.

The question, let it be remembered, is always proper, because it is of infinite importance. Surely it cannot be imagined that the present world is the only residence of man! and if he be to exist in a state yet future, it is highly rational to

inquire, whether that existence will be miserable or happy. Men in general are indeed too much engaged in sublunary pursuits to attend to the concerns of another life. But this will not always be the case. The period is approaching in which conscience, if not quite petrified, will be roused from her torpor; in which she will sound the alarm, and the soul, awakened from sleep, feel the vanity of the world and of all its enjoyments. For what is the glitter of wealth, the pomp of greatness, the voice of praise, or the frisk of jollity, to him that is acquainted with the depravity of his own heart? who is conscious of allowed and reiterated deviations from the path of duty-of having passed the whole of life heedless of the counsels of wisdom and the dictates of conscience. It is indeed possible that the mind may be diverted by the allurements of pleasure from minute attention to the turpitude of its own actions, but the delusion will not last for ever: a man cannot always trifle: the hour of reflection will obtrude; and if he determine not to anticipate, he must shortly be compelled to realize the period when deception and artifice will be impracticable; when all terrestrial scenes shall be withdrawn; when the soul, no longer soothed by flattery nor seduced by hope, must converse with death; and this too in

C

a moment perhaps when the avenues of mercy are closed for ever, and in which the affrighted soul will have to exclaim, in the terrors of despair, 'The harvest is past, the summer is ended, and I am not saved!'

'How shocking must thy summons be, O Death!
To him that is at ease in his possessions,
Who, counting on long years of pleasure here,
Is quite unfurnish'd for that world to come!
In that dread moment, how the frantic soul
Raves round the wall of her clay tenement,
Runs to each avenue, and shrieks for help,
But shrieks in vain! how wishfully she looks
On all she's leaving, now no longer her's!
A little longer, yet a little longer,
O might she stay to wash away her stains,
And fit her for her passage! mournful sight!
Her very eyes weep blood; and ev'ry groan
She heaves is big with horror: but the foe,
Like a stanch murd'rer, steady to his purpose,
Pursues her close through every lane of life,
Nor misses once the track, but presses on;
Till, forc'd at last to the tremendous verge,
At once she sinks to everlasting ruin.'

The only conviction that rushes upon the soul, and takes away from our appetites and passions the power of resistance, is to be found,' says an incomparable writer,' where I have received it, at the bed of a dying friend. To enter this school of wisdom is not the peculiar privilege of geome