exhibit with study and affectation brilliant and expensive baubles on the person, and the person without attire; and unthinkingly sacrifice to all vanity what our hearts incline us to devote to a more sacred purpose: this is the World. То take part in conversations only in which modesty has never to blush, in which reason has every thing to gain, and the sacred cause of religion and morality finds edification and support: this is the Gospel. To relish unintelligible jargon of mixed and tumultuous assemblies; to endeavour in all conversations rather to shine than to instruct; to high season it with the salt of sarcasm or slander; delicately and artificially to envelope the poison of impurity and corruption; to be silent from self-interest or complaisance, when religion is reviled by the impious and libertine ; perhaps, infamously join in the abuse of what we inwardly revere: this is the World. Never to engage in play, but on a scale the most moderate; or consider that, or any other allowable relaxation, but as the means of returning with recruited spirits to the performance of every social, public, and domestic duty: this is the Gospel. To render play an occupation and a traffic; a blind ungovernable passion, that lays us open to the arts and conspiracies of the more trained in the profession, that fills the soul with base and malignant affections, the feelings of avarice, the bitterness of envy; the rage that boils at loss and disappointment; nightly to grope for an object that engrosses every reflection of the mind, and every desire of the heart; that every instant, under the capricious empire of chance, produces

miserable shiftings of ecstasy and pain, and, under the law of polite manners, commands the torment of outward ease and countenance serene, when the storm is most violent and afflicting within this is the World. This is one of those precious pursuits to which it eagerly recurs for enjoyment, and would reconcile with the Gospel of Jesus Christ. It is unnecessary to pursue the contrast any farther.

KIRWAN.

THE WORLDLY MINDED MAN.

A MAN absorbed in a multitude of secular concerns, decent but unawakened, listens with a kind of respectful insensibility to the overtures of religion. He considers the church as venerable from her antiquity, and important from her connexion with the state. No one is more alive to her political, nor more dead to her spiritual importance. He is anxious for her existence, but indifferent to her doctrines. These he con

siders as a general matter, in which he has no individual concern. He considers religious observances as something decorous but unreal; as a grave custom made respectable by public usage and long prescription. He admits that the poor who have little to enjoy, and the idle who have little to do, cannot do better than make over to God that time which cannot be turned to a more profitable account. Religion, he thinks, may properly enough employ leisure, and occupy old age. But though both advance towards himself with imperceptible step, he is still at a loss to deter

mine the precise period when the leisure is sufficient, or the age enough advanced. It recedes as the destined season approaches. He continues to intend moving, but he continues to stand still.

Compare his drowsy sabbaths with the animation of the days of business, you would not think it was the same man. The one are to be got over, the others are enjoyed. He goes from the dull decencies, the shadowy forms, for such they are to him, of public worship, to the solid realities of his worldly concerns, to the cheerful activities of secular life. These he considers as bounden, almost as exclusive duties. The others indeed may not be wrong; but these he is sure are right. The world is his element. Here he breathes freely his native air. Here he is substantially engaged. Here his whole mind is alive; his understanding broad awake; all his energies are in full play; his mind is all alacrity; his faculties are employed; his capacities are filled; here they have an object worthy of their widest expansion. Here his desires and affections are absorbed. The faint impression of the Sunday's sermon fades away, to be as faintly revived on the Sunday following, again to fade in the succeeding week. To the sermon he brings a formal ceremonious attendance; to the world he brings all his heart and soul and mind and strength. To the one he resorts in conformity to law and custom: to induce him to resort to the other, he wants no law, no sanction, no invitation, no argument. His will is of the party. His passions are volunteers. The visible things

of heaven are clouded in shadow, are lost in distance. The world is lord of the ascendant. Riches, honour, power, fill his mind with brilliant images. They are present, they are certain, they are tangible; they assume form and bulk. In these, therefore, he cannot be mistaken; in the others he may. The eagerness of competition, the struggle for superiority, the perturbations of ambition fill his mind with an emotion, his soul with an agitation, his affections with an interest, which, though very unlike happiness, he yet flatters himself is the road to it. This factitious pleasure, this tumultuous feeling, produces, at least, that negative satisfaction of which he is constantly in search-it keeps him from himself.

He

Even in circumstances where there is no success to present a very tempting bait, the mere occupation, the crowd of objects, the succession of engagements, the mingling pursuits, the very tumult and hurry, have their gratifications. The bustle gives false peace by leaving no leisure for reflection. He lays his conscience asleep with the "flattering unction" of good intentions. comforts himself with the creditable pretence of want of time, and the vague resolution of giving up to God the dregs of that life, of the vigorous season of which he thinks the world more worthy. Thus commuting with his Maker, his life wears away, its close draws near-and even the poor commutation which was promised is not made. The assigned hour of retreat either never arrives, or if it does arrive, sloth and sensuality are resorted to as the fair reward of a life of VOL. I.

labour and anxiety; and whether he dies in the protracted pursuits of wealth, or in the enjoyment of the luxuries it has earned, he dies in the trammels of the world.

MISS H. MORE.

ON RESIGNATION TO THE WILL OF PROVIDENCE.

Ir is too common for persons who are perfectly convinced of the duty of patience and cheerful resignation under great and severe trials, in which the hand of Providence is plainly seen, to let themselves grow fretful and plaintive under little vexations and slight disappointments, as if their submission in one case gave them a right to rebel in another: as if there was something meritorious in the greater sufferings, that gave them a claim to full indulgence in every trifling wish of their heart; and, accordingly, they will set their hearts most violently upon little reliefs and amusements, and complain and pity themselves grievously if they are at any time denied.

All this is building on a false foundation: the same gracious Providence, that sends real afflictions only for our good, will, we may be absolutely sure, afford us such supports and reliefs under them as are needful and fit; but it will not accommodate itself to our idle humour.

To be happy, we must depend for our happiness on him alone who is able to give it: we must not lean on human props of any kind; though when granted us, we may thankfully