ceived of it. We cannot anticipate with precision the consequences of an event which every astronomer must know to lie within the limits of chance

and probability. It may hurry our globe towards the sun or drag it to the outer regions of the planetary system-or give it a new axis of revolution-and the effect which I shall simply announce, without explaining it, would be to change the place of the ocean, and bring another mighty flood upon our islands and continents.

These are changes which may happen in a single instant of time, and against which nothing known in the present system of things provides us with any security. They might not annihilate the earth, but they would unpeople it, and we who tread its surface with such firm and assured footsteps, are at the mercy of the devouring elements, which, if let loose upon us by the hand of the Almighty, would spread solitude and silence and death over the dominions of the world.

Now, it is this littleness, and this insecurity, which make the protection of the Almighty so dear to us, and bring, with such emphasis to every pious bosom, the holy lessons of humility and gratitude. The God who sitteth above, and presides in high authority over all worlds, is mindful of man; and though at this time his energy is felt in the remotest provinces of creation, we may feel the same security in his providence as if we were the objects of his undivided care.

It is not for us to bring our minds up to this mysterious agency. But, such is the incomprehensible fact, that the same Being, whose eye is abroad over the whole universe, gives vegetation

to every blade of grass, and motion to every particle of blood which circulates through the veins of the minutest animal; that, though his mind takes into its comprehensive grasp immensity and all its wonders, I am as much known to him as if I were the single object of his attention, that he marks all my thonghts; that he gives birth to every feeling and every movement within me; and that, with an exercise of power which I can neither describe nor comprehend, the same God who sits in the highest heaven and reigns over the glories of the firmament, is at my right hand, to give me every breath which I draw, and every comfort which I enjoy.

CHALMERS.

ON THE FEAR OF DEATH.

THERE is, at least, one consideration, which must imbitter the life of him who places his happiness in his present state; a consideration that cannot be suppressed by any artful sophistries, which the appetites or the senses are always ready to suggest, and which it might be imagined not always possible to avoid in the most rapid whirl of pleasure, or the most incessant tumults of employment. As it is impossible for any man not to know, it may be well imagined difficult for him not to remember, that, however surrounded by his dependents, however caressed by his patrons, however applauded by his flatterers, or esteemed by his friends, he must one day die; that, though he should have reason to imagine himself secured

from any sudden diminution of his wealth or any violent precipitation from his rank or power, yet they must soon be taken away, by a force not to be resisted or escaped. He cannot but sometimes think, when he surveys his acquisitions, or counts his followers, "that this night his soul may be required of him ;" and that he had applauded himself for the attainment of that which he cannot hope to keep long, and which, if it could make him happy while he enjoys it, is yet of very little value, because the enjoyment must be very

short.

The story of the great Eastern monarch, who, when he surveyed his innumerable army from an eminence, wept at the reflection that in less than a hundred years not one of all that multitude would remain, has been often mentioned; because the particular circumstances in which that remark occurred, naturally claim the thought and strike the imagination; but every man that places his happiness in external objects, may, every day, with equal propriety, make the same observations. Though he does not lead armies, or govern kingdoms, he may reflect, whenever he finds his heart swelling with any present advantage, that he must, in a very short time, lose what he so much esteems; that in a year, a month, a day, or an hour, he may be struck out from the book of life, and placed in a state where wealth or honour shall have no residence, and where all those distinctions shall be for ever obliterated, which now engross his thoughts, and exalt his pride.

This reflection will surely be sufficient to hinder that peace, which all terrestrial enjoyments can

afford, from being perfect. It surely will soon disperse those meteors of happiness that glitter in the eyes only of the thoughtless and the supine, and awaken him to a serious and rational inquiry, where real happiness is to be found; by what means man, whom the great Creator cannot be supposed to have formed without the power of obtaining happiness, may set himself free from the shackles of anxiety with which he is encumbered; may throw off the load of terror which oppresses him, and liberate himself from those horrors which the approach of death perpetually excites.

This he will immediately find only to be accomplished by securing to himself the protection of a Being mighty to save; a Being, whose assistance may be extended equally to all parts of his duration; who can equally defend him in the time of danger and of security; in the tumults of the day and the privacy of the night; in the time of tribulation, and in a time frequently more fatal; the time of wealth; and in the hour of death, and in the day of judgment. And when he has found the necessity of this sovereign Protector, and humbled himself with a due conviction of his own impotence, he may at last find the only comfort which this life can afford him, by remembering, that this great, this unbounded Being, has informed us of the terms on which perfect peace is to be obtained, and has promised it to those whose mind is stayed on him.

JOHNSON.

THE

MUTABILITY OF HUMAN LIFE.

DARK and uncertain is the state of being in which we now exist. Human life is not formed to answer those high expectations, which, in the era of youth and imagination, we are apt to entertain. When we first set out in life, we bid defiance to the evil day; we indulge in dreams and visions of romantic bliss, and fondly lay the scene of perfect and uninterrupted happiness for the time to come. But experience soon undeceives us: we awake and find it was but a dream. We make but few steps in life without finding the world to be a turbulent scene; we soon experience the changes that await us, and feel the thorns of the wilderness wherein we dwell. Our hopes are frequently blasted in the bud, our designs are defeated in the very moment of expectation, and we meet with sorrow, and vexation, and disappointment. on all hands. There are lives besides our own in which we are deeply interested; lives in which our happiness is placed, and on which our hopes depend. Just when we have laid a plan of happy life; when, after the experience of years, we have found out a few chosen friends, and have begun to enjoy that little circle in which we would wish to live and to die, an unexpected stroke disappoints our hopes, and lays all our schemes in the dust. When, after much labour and care, we have reared the goodly structure; when we have fenced it, as we fondly imagine, from every storm that blows, and indulge the pleasing hope that it will always endure, an