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These are truly toys which amused him in the vigour and pride and splendour of life-they were all his eternity-all his heaven-but their value is now gone.

In the pointed language of Dwight, written while recovering from a severe sickness, " they cannot restore him to health-they cannot relieve him from pain--they cannot prolong his life they can promise him no good in the life to come. What now are all these things to him ? The gold of this world cannot now make him rich, nor its esteem honourable, nor its favour happy." What must be done? The moment has now come which he has always turned from with all his might, and now more earnestly than ever. What can be done? The world, substantial as it once appeared, is now slitling rapidly away from under his feet, and he is already in the neighbourhood of the immaterial world. It is true he is in possession of the vast inheritance of eternity, but be enters upon it with awful reluctance, for it is an eternity of despair and wretchedness-an inheritance which can neither be resigned nor endured-it is an existence infinitely more dreadful than annihilation. must expect to be afraid of death, and to be wretched when it approaches, who has uniformly wished to live always here and has provided no treasure in heaven.

But there have been thosemand we who are now reading this piece, and who , must ourselves soon make the experiment, believe, no doubt, that there are even now those who can pass through the “ dark valley of the shallow of death fearing no evil.” It has been said that the habitations of the dead are never visited by the living, but in a solemn, fearful contemplation, as if to converse with the spirits of the departed. There the storm, as it sweeps along, assumes a more terrific aspect -the bright noon-day appears dini and pale--the beauty and fragrance of the rose is passed, and disregardedthe very grass appears wild and cheerless-the tabernacles of spirits lay there in ruins-death is sleeping on his throne, and his captives are silent around him. It

may be so. Yet in all this, the righteous man discovers nothing cheerless and gloomy. He anticipates with joy unspeakable his entrance into the tomb, for his thoughts rest not there. His spirit will not horer friendless and alone around the cold grave. Every disap

That person

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pointment reminds him that his treasure is in heaven. Every sin he commits, every pain his heart feels, calls fresh to his recollection, that there waits a heaven for the righteous, far from the tumults of this apostate earth. There shall they rest beneath the peaceful shades of Eden, where immortal amaranth blooms, fast by the tree of life.” And when he stands on the separation line between the material anil immaterial worlds, we may hear him, or per ps we have heard him say, I am not afraid to die,-the grave is not gloomy. I feel not the 'reluctant willingness of necessity. The portal of eternity is the gate of heaven. I have examined death in all its possi. ble forms and have submissively waited for it from my youth. This is death without its sting. Here I rest from all my labours,ếno thoughts of envy, no dreams of treason, no jealousies or cares for kings, the state, or my, self, shall interrupt my easy sleep. I go to the place of my rest, where my heart, and my treasure, and my

dear Saviour are, there I shall be infinitely happy while eteruity endures.




How dear to me is childhood's hour,
When oft we stray'd by stream and bower,
Resigu’d to friendship's soothing power,

My friend
We knew not life, and knew no woe,
Our hearts were like the summer's bow,
All warm and sunny in their glow,

My friend.
How fond 'we cherish'd the belief
That in our petty cares and grief,
We should from each obtain relief,

My friend.
And if thou hadst offended me,
Or I had given offence to thee,
Our hearts forsook their wonted glee,

My friend.

But ere the sun had half gone down,
A smile would lurk behind the frown,
And peace with joy our hearts would crown,

My friend.
And then our only strife would be
Had I the first forgiven thee,
Or thou ere that smiled peace on me,

My friend.
Oh these were halcyon hours. They're pasad

I knew, I knew they could not last"
The scenes of life are changing fast,

My friend.
The busy world is all to you,
And while its flatt'ries you pursue,
Oh may its thorns not pierce you through,

My friend.
A choicer portion I have found
Nor here, nor there, on earthly ground-
A pearl-of price that knows no bound,

My friend.
Oh! would you feel how sweet to rest,
When with life's griefs and cares oppress’d,
Like John, upon the Saviour's breast,

My friend ;
Or when revived hy joy's warm blaze,
His hand to see, his name to praise,
Who thus with goodness crowns your days,

My friend ;
Or could you know the joy of grief,'
That brings the contrite heart relief,
When 'tis no more to mercy deaf,

My friend ;
Or raise your soul but once on high,
And softly “ Abba Father” cry,
Assured your sins are all pass'd by,

My friend;
The world might court, with hollow smile,
And woo you with its ev'ry wile,
It would no more your heart beguile,'

My friend.
Of life I would not make you weary,'
I know to you its scenes look cheery, -
But alı! one day they may be dreary,

My friend.
Its scenes, I said, are changing fast,
I know, I know, they cannot last ;
The days of joy may soon be pass’d,

My friend.


And when you find some fond hope blighted,
Or by the world you loved, are slighted,
Or in affliction's depths benighted,

My friend,
Then come and tell me of your woe;
And sorrowing, seeking, learn to know,
Where healing waters gently flow,

My friend.




Permit me through the medium of your publication, to indulge a few observations on the prevalent evils,which I consider the great instruments of frittering away the talents 'of the highest geniuses of our country.

The subsequent remarks are not particularly applied to our own country because her situation alone admits of application, but, because my particular acquaintance and observation of literary men, and their productions are limited by its bounds.

It is obvious to every person of discrimination, that our community consists of two classes. One the read, the other the illiterate. The former only are associated with the present reflections. With them originate every specimen of genius, and they only can appreciate admonition. The sensibility of the true American has often been pained by the arrogance of supercilious Europeans, who not unfrequently infer a deficiency of mental capacity, from a want of standing memorials of our genius, without the least allowance in consideration of the obstacles we have had to encounter, not only from pecuniary circumstances, but a numerous host of difficulties and disadvantages. Bat the decision of character, effects of native, intellectual energy displayed in our Revolution,anıl by many subsequent useful productions in every department of science, have wiped from our character, this stigma, affixed by libelling, dogmatic pretend

And yet as general knowledge is diffused, and regarded, and an easy competence prompts many to sig



nalize themselves, certain it is that solid science seems not a little to dwindle with all its growing advantages. Superficial, or elegant reading and as some would prop, erly term it, light reading, may be considered as a grand source of this declension. How often the blasts of some wild imagination, stir the public feeling, and consume the midnight oil, while whole sittings of men of scientific opportunities are but occupied with censorious, or enco. miastic observations on the style and scheme of some celebrated novel. Even the instructors of youth, whose business imperiously demands that they inculcate lessons of usefulness, not upfrequently recommend these public contaminators of virtuous principles. While learned approbation is given to such writings, nearly all our productions will be proportionally trifling. Another sonrce of the evil, pernicious by its ascendency, being cherished by all classes, is the mere ephemeral effusions of wit. This may seein paradoxical, as it has ever been esteemed very proper to present energetic motives, by making concessions to flights of genius. And indeed it is so, to a degree, but not without restraint and watchfulness : its influence has been baneful to our institutions. Observe the student whom Nature has favoured with every qualification but that of a mature judgment; he

lucky hit” in his piece; he presents it with all the display of pedantic ostentation; discovers approbation in every eye, while the reiteration of

66 keen fel. low,” makes him feel that his powers are almost superhuman. He repeats his endeavours, and finds repetition of success. It is enough. He is well aware, that his tutors deem his prospeets flattering, and that he is considered a paragon by his acquaintance. His mind is too much engrossed in fledging his imagination, to think of cultivating solid science, and his brilliant scholarship terminates in mere jocular fluency, or a few witty newspaper descants, and some half-acquired, half attended ayocation concludes the remainder of his life. This is too often the result, of tbis vain indulgence at first, as such trifles incapacitate the mind to determine what is truly worthy of attention, and so corrupts the taste as to mislead the juilgment. But let those who have the guidance of our youth, teach them that nothing is honourable that is not useful, and at the same time present every

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