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better i4;>preciate; and which we trust, therefore,
will operate as the stronger warning to the young
and tlie sanguine.

WhatirasHtime'sexperiflnoeaf use asaphiloao-
pher, and the phUoeopsr of faiflddity? We fantre
seen tkat vanity was his ruling passion, and tint for
the gratifioatloa of vanity be saeriieed evcrytUng
like truth and steady piindi^ Was his coone
then easy and ptosperoM ? He may have espeetad
tins. He may, like many yonng a^nrants, bene
j^^f^nmA that lUs talents wocdd cany the iroidd ba>
lesehim. Instead of this, he iras deeply msEtifiBd,
aal so punished through his very vanity. Tbe fint
twenty years of his authorslup mi^t be said to be a
iaUnre;one effort after another was oBiaooesgM. Ifis
works either provoked no notice or keen oppontkn.
Eii^ in his history, he was so hwt and vrovided that
be risolTad to abandon his native aoantry-^eside in
FfMM)e-*<chaDgehisname,andneTeri«twni. Wksa,
tern the pccTMS o' InA4«U^7 ^ Hdtain and other
enusas , his wotks eacited notice, and he became,
censpaxativety speaking, a moeesrfal anther, vanity
still pvwed him, and tbs same desire ofotfeteity
whieh was wonnded by fiUlae at ifit, was wonwlDd
now becanse the faeeessvraa not so gnat as vain
glasy, ever greedy, wonld have dsBied. Atanune
advanced period of life, he beaane oonaaeted aa as-
OMtery with public men, and passed two yean ki his
lavcnrite France, noommcided by its Infidelity and
patromge of letters. Svrdy he wonld be haf^ I
now. He seems to have reached the hcs^ of his ,
ambitkm. He is idolised as a dsmi-god. FlatteiT, '
so gnMol to vanity, is offered to him as m es n st !
NowhehasaoooD^pensatignforhisyiaKaafwiepaid ,
bboor, but is he happy? Let tbe vender jadgs. ;
^'During the two iMt years in partienlar," ssyi he, -
" that Ihave been atFenntaiK^bkian, I hKwtmfmi |
(the expreesion is not improper) as much flat t fy as
almost eny nan has ever done in the same tnna, but ,
tktr4 ore /sv d^^t «a my life thmi J womid mot rwAm
paji eser<^gwm." Again: "lam ceamce d t h a t Lnnis I
XIV. never in any three weeks of his Hfe atfffsved so I
mnch flattery; I si^ suffered, for it realty eonfionaias ,
and embaw a ss o s me, and makes jim k>ok duMptA." |
And tbenhateUsnsofaBMsquerade, where batheexei |
in masquestaalnted him with the wacmctt cmnpli*
aMntssinrikOft,hewasalmoatascQrdiaUyhaaedwith |
pcimlar incMMC as Ycltsire, whenfe twenty minntss
conaeentively the theatre rang W9th his worahip.
Yet with aU this was he hanpy? Hear his anver
to the inquiry in a letter to Dr. Blair. ^Yoansk
me if they (each instanoes of attentwn) were act
TCKj agieaabla? I answer We astttsr «a ea^Meto-
Uo^pom e tmnyn^rtooiUciiiom. I kit that ftra-«de
wharf yon probebty sit at preasnt within g tcn te rt ^
reluctance. After I came to London, myn ne a imwij >
M I iicaid more of the preposseenene of tbe French .
EMtion in ay favoar, iaeraased, and nothing wanid |
have given me greater joy than ai^ accident that
would have broke eff my engagement.** Suehisthe!
vanity otf human gk»ry, even when fUty aktaiaed. M
It cannot mtisty. I

Mer is this aU^it dees not kit. Ware Hm
now to rise ftom the 4ead, what would ke flid?
would he find Us writintfi in nnivenal bcnei
would he find posterity, as he imH^ned, doing jas-
Uce to his high claims? Fv from it. fisvoald

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find that his day was already orer—that his moral
philosophy was disowned — that a most searohing
and withering exposure of his Historical Works was
going forward firom day to day— that the divine Rere-
lation which he set at nought had vastly risen in its
power— that it numbered in its ranks some of the
most influential minds of the day— that new and
Christian historians, like M*Crie and D^Aubigntf, had
arisen, and triumphantly vindicated the Reformers
and Refermation firom the calumnies which he had
propagated, and even that the very doctrine of cause
and effect, which he had taught with Atheistio views
and leanings, had been turned by the friends of
revelation into an axgument for the being and pro-
vidence of God.

Striking as the picture which Hume may furnish
of the vanity of infidel philosophy and literature,
he does not stand alone. The school with which he
was associated in France, and in which he rejoiced,
supply, if possible, a still more impressive illustra-
tion. We do not refer to Rousseau, at one time his
much-admired fidend, at anotiier hii hated enemy —
at onoe the slave and victim of vanity. Few cases
can better describe the folly of literary and infidel
France. The whole kingdom rung with his praises.
His writings exercised an immense impression on all
ranks; but ere long, though he settled, says Hume,
vrithin a league of Paris, ** nobody inquired after him
— nobody visits him— nobody taiks of him. Every
one has agreed to neglect and disregard him— a more
sudden revolution of fortune than almost ever hap-
pened to any man, at least to any man of letters.**
Who does not see in this the vanity of literary glory?
—the mortifybg but righteous punishment which
awaits upon infidel vanRy. Let the young, tempted
to scepticism, consider this.

\ But we take in a wider range. The literary so-
ciety of France was never more brilliant, and at the
sametime, more ungodly, infidel, and atheistic, than
in the days of Hume. Philosophy was the order of
the day. ** In the drcle of toys,** says Hume, " seized
and discarded by a giddy fashionable crowd, philosophy
will have its turn, as well as poodles, parrots, tulips,
caf^s, and black pages. It had been so a century
earlier, when the most abstruse works of Des Cartes
had been the ornament of every fashionable Iady*s
toilette; and now the wheel had revolved, and philo-
sophy was again in vogue.** What this philosophy
involved may be gathered from the following sentence
of a letter to Dr. Blair:—'* You seem to wish that I
should give you some general accounts of this
country. Shall I begin with the points in which it
most differs frt>m England, viz., the general regard
paid to genius and learning; the universal and pro-
fessed, though decent gallantry to the fair sex; or the
almost universal contempt of all religion among both
sexes and among all ranks of men?** The biographer
states, that even Hume disliked the scornful infidelity
— the almost intolerance of earnest belief— so often
exhibited both in speech and conduct. None need to
be informed what these statements imply— the union
of literature and talent with universal licentiousness
and shocking infidelity.
And were the parties then happy? It is utterly

impossible. The letters of more than one of the
party— such as a Madame Du Deffand, Mdlle. Le
Espinasse, Baron de Qrimm— have been published,
and what is the revelation which they make of
themselves and of others ? One of the most fearful
which can well be imagined. They discover
throughout in connection with talent and wit, and
taste, unspeakable selfishness, jealousy of others,
heartlessness, ennui, bitter and implacable factions;
and there is not a trace of domestic comfort. The
Edinbu^'gh Review (Feb. 1811), speaking of Mad.
de Deffand, whose house was for fifty years the resort
of all that was most brilliant in Paris, states that
she was consumed with that ennui which she re-
garded as the greatest of curses, and which her life
was one unbroken effort to prevent— that she was
ever complaining of life as an irremediable evil,
and yet acknowledging her repugnance to quit
it. She confessed, that being bom was the great-
est misfortune, and yet could prociure no sympor
thy under the distress of her ennuL The great moral
lesson which the writer draws from the whole is a just |
one — that the applause of friends, the flattery of
wits, and the homage of the world, are unavailing to
the real comfort and happiness of life; and that
all talent, accomplisbmcnt, and glory, when discon-
nected from feelings of kindness, arc utterly worth-
less. It may be added, as a remarkable illustration
of the heartlessness of infidelity, that this poor lady
died in the midst of a game of cards, and as the
game was mteresting, the party of friends continued
it, and settled their accounts by the dead body be-
fore leaving the room !

Such was infideUty in its most brilliant forms
— such the French companions of Hume. Can
anything more impressively teach the vanity and
wretchedness of unbelief? Here are talent, wit,
accomplishment, philosophy, literature, bearing a
complete triumph over British prejudices— the most
unfettered freedom of inquiry; and yet what do
these all secure for their possessors? in what do
they all issue? No wonder that Hume was the
advocate of suicide. It was essential to the
toleration and completeness of his infidel qrstem.
Professedly believing hi no futurity, and exposed to
such miseiy, how could he hesitate about self-mur-
der ? It is the only, the easy, and appropriate re-
medy. But what sort of philosophy must that be,
how unsatisfying and full of woe, which needs the
wei^pons of suicide ? which is only tolerable when
men are informed that it is a lawful and proper
thing— always within their reach, as soon as they
weary of life, to put an end to it with their own

The reader might be reminded that the misery of in-
fidel philosophy was not confined to the brilliant lite-
rary circle; that soon it spread to general society, and
involved all France, and many other nations, in its
horrors. The philosophers sowed the wind, their
countrymen through all ranks reaped the whirlwind;
but it is unnecessary to enter on the proof of what
is so familiar. Surely there is one general leseon
deducible from our present contemplation, and that
is, that no one need grudge infidel philosophers theiz

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philoiophy, nor long for their fame. How nnoertein,
bow mntisfying and rain, yea, how miaeraUe, pcflv
Bonally and locially, has ezperienoe prored it to be?
What did Infidelity aceompllib for Home or bit Fre&di
anodatee, with all ti&dr acknowledged talent aad
aoquirement!— what ia it likely to do for otheni laM
eminent? What baa it done for Fran«t or Eorope?
Has it not, so far as its infbienoe reaebed, only
tended to restore ancient PaganisBi, with its wean-
ness, licentiousness, suicide, and thoonad kindred
miseries and crimes ?



Whenob is that trembling of a lather^ hand.
Who to the man of God doth bring his babe,
Asking the seal of Christ ? Why doth the voice
That uttereth o'er its brow the toiune name
Falter with sympathy ? And most of all.
Why is yon coffin-lid a pedestal
For the baptismal font ?

Again I asked —
But all the answer was those gashing tears
Which stricken hearts do we^.

For there she lay —
The fair young mother in that coffin bed.
Mourned by the funeral train. The heart that beat,
With trembling tenderness at erery touch
Of love or pity, flushed the cheek no more.
Tears were thy baptism, thou unconscious one,
And sorrow took thee at the gate of life
Into her cradle. Thou may'st never know
The welcome of a nursing mother's kiss,
When, in her wondering ecstasy, she nutito
A thrilling growth of new affections spread
Fresh greenness o'er the souL

Thou may'st not share
Her hallowed teachings, nor suffuse her eye
With joy, as the first gems of infant thought
Unfold, in lisping sound.

Tet may'st thou walk
Even as she walked, breathing on all around
The warmth of high affections, purified
And sublimated, by that Spirit's power
Which makes the soul fit temple for its God.
So shalt thou, in a brighter world, behold
That countenance, which the cold grave did veil
Thus early from thy sight, and the first tone
That bears a mother's greeting to thine ear
Be wafted from this minstrelsy of heaven.


I Thbbe is only one class of men whose lives are
' more shortened by the nature of their oocupa-
!tion than the sailor's, and those men do not
work above ground. They labour in mines,

and amid foal erhBlatimw andnozioostq^HNin^
dig oat for othars tlie traaiareB af t^ aaith.
With their ezoepdoB, the Bailor's Itfe is ihaiter
than that of any operative. Andwliyt Becanta
the traac^eroos eHemeai apea wludi he ntky
and the caprioioos winds to wkioh he tcaitsy
obtiga him to take his vest by unAchm. Be-i
oaaie ha wandeiB ihroagfa ail olimeB, fronj
the equator to the poles — now a eoro hi ag with
heat, then freezing with cohL Beeaaae he
wOTks in all waaihars, and baesnae the worse
the weather the hwpder he aniBt wosk.
In the rain ftooB, when it deeoands in
torrente, and continues ao kng as not to leave
him a change of clothing in his' ch e st ' i n the
deet, in the snow, in the froat, when the ra-
ging beoomes like jeggiag ateel, and the eaik
Uke sheets of ironr-in the tempeat, when the
winds rage and the seas rear, and the good abip
stmgffles as it were for lile - -now phingii^ as
thoi^ in despair, into the depths below, and
then rising, as if with exultatieB,on tiie tower-
iag wave. Then nmst the sailor woik ; scad it
is these hardships, this severe toil, this constant
exposure, that mortens his life.

But, ahw I it mav be iearfiilly sheirteaed by
other causes than the wear-and tear of his call-
ing. How often, in the disdiarge of some peril-
ous duty aloft, is he precipitated into the desp^
and swallowed up by the devoorinff waters I
How often cast away 1 How ofim &e vietia
of the malignant diseases of foreign oUbms!'
How many «ulors have met with an untimdljl
death from the club of the savagCt the sword '
of the foe, or the desperate* cbai^ of thej
wounded whale ! But tnere would be no end: I
of particularizing in this way the perils andi
hardships of a seaman's life. We must appeal
to the hurricane and the battle, to the ocean
with its dark caverns, and to the foreign!
shores with their unburied dead. We must J |
call upon the thousands who have gone down^
with the waves for their winding sheet, and who
await in their deep sepulchres the resurrection
of the dead, to bear witness what toils, what 1
dangers, and what sufferings are the sailor's lot. i

We may observe, however, that sailors com-' .
monly die at sea. Death, bitter at any time,
must have its bitterness exceedingly increased |
under such circumstances. A sl^ is no boa-',

EitaL None but able-bodied men are rated on i
er books ; and if sickness befal them, they j
must take their chaoce. The medicine chest, i
perhaps is the only proof on board thai sodi a. ,
calamity was ever thought of. ' '

Where does the sailor diet In a cheerful i
room I On a couch of feathers and a pillow of
down! Waited on by an attentive nurse!
Watched over by an anxious friend! Sor-
rounded by sobbing and weeping relatives!
Far different. In that wTet<^ed hole, where
a suspended lantern just gives light eoovgh
to show the seamen's chests by which it
IB encumbered. In that rudehammock swing*

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iing inm the besm. TlMre it no minister of

Ciinst there to listen to his weilings over an ill-
'spent Hfe^ oar to awaken him to a sense of his
jsin «nd danger. There is no mon s e n gor of
ilore there, to speak of Jesna, and p<nat him to

that anchor of the ionl, sore and stedfast. No
I herald of that salvation which, like the ocean
I itaelfy rises above high-water mark, overtops
I the mountains «f sin, and washes away the
\gwXt of every penitent tranmessor. He dies
' without comfort in this world, and too often
I without hoipe in another.
I But suppose the dying sailor to have enjoyed
I in former years tiie fostering care of a Bethel
I Flag Society, how different might be his endl
I llien he would have in his possession the Word
j of God; then he might call to mind, as he lay
j Ml his loneliness, many a solenm truth — ^many
'■an earnest prayer — many a kind exhortation —
I many an encoursging promise which he had

heard from the mouth of its missionary. Then
'perhaps his danger would strike him like a
; thunderbolt — ^his heart mi^bt be smitten, he
. Blight shed the tear of penitence, and cry out

^Ui believing earnestness, ^ Lord, save me, or

Too little is done for the poor sailor. Seated

in our comfortable quiet dwellinf^s, and en-
'jeying aU the blessings and privileges of a

home on ahore, we reck not of his privations
land trials. How few ever subscribe to the
; funds of a Sailor's Evangelistic Society — how
{ few even remember in prayer those who are on
I the waters 1 How much inigfat not be done in

supplying venels with Bibles and religious
{ libraries, and of circulating tracts, and estab-
lUshing Bethel Flag pra^er-meetings 1 Nay,
I how much might be done in the way of attend-
I ing to the fiunilies of the sailors when they are
j £m: away ! A Christian wife, a converted child,
I might send the heavenly arrow into a husband's
I or a parent's heart with tenfold and resistless
' power, at a time when that heart bounds with
! affection to its object, after a long and weary

separation. And how might not converted

sailors, in their turn, become as missionaries at
' every port at which they touched, andmore ez-
, tensively than all the missionaries of our many

societies, ^ teach all nations 1"


An American minister, Dr. Bashnell, of Hart-
ford, Ck>nnecticut, recently preached a sermon
to his people on the ^ Uses and Duties of Stormy
Sabbaths,^ firom the text, ** Fire and hail; snow
and vapours; stormy wind fulfilling his word.**
From this text he lectured them very plainly
on the evil habit of staying away from worship
on stormy Sabbaths. After alluding to the fact
that every created thing, pleasant and. terrible,
including ^ the flying artillery of the weather,"
were invoked to praise the Lord, he turned to

his ''fair weather hearers,** for whose special
benefit he had prepared the discourse, and
chosen a fair and gemal day on which to deliver '
it, and told them in the outset that he tMont
them, by introducing his subject after the fol-
lowinff strain>^

''There is a class among you who visibly
enough cannot symjpathize with all the senti-
ments of this giowug and lofty psalm. The
principal significance of the weather, or at least
of all foul weather, appears in their estimation
to be, that it excuses them from worship. The
snows, and vapours, and stormy wind, do not so
much fulfil the word of Jehovah, as call them
away from his word and the worship of his
house. Their seat is sure to be vacant every
stormy Sabbath, and too often when Uiere is
only a sli^t promise of rain, or of any other
kind of unpleasant weather. If Uie wind blows,
or the walks are wet, or covered with a little
snow; if the odd is uncomfortable, or the heat
a little too intense; if a foff damps the air, or an
east wind chills it, they tuce out an indulgence
from the weather, and consider the worsl^ of
God as relieved by a dispensation.''

The preacher then went on to prove that
stonny Sabbaths are not only very harmless to
all persons but invalids, but that they really
have a high rdigioos purpose. It is very desir-
ablet, acceding to his doctrine, to have eUmny
SabbaUis, and we ouffht to improve them as
opportunities of speciid blessing m attending on
the public worship of God. Toward the dose
he applied his subject in this strain : —

" I hope that all my fair weather hearers are
present, and, beinff present, that they will re*
ceive the salutary lesson I give them. I have
not said, and did not mean to say,all that could
relate to a subject so unpleasant. I have not
rebuked your self-indulgence as I might have
done. I have not q>oken of the chill our wor-
ship often suffers by the thinness of the assei
bly, and the many empty seats displayed; for I
was not willing to ask your attention here as
patrons of the place. I have not dwelt on year
excuses, and removed them; the plea that yon
had better sometimes spend the day of God by
yoursdves — ^for you know that you spend it in
no such exerdse as worship, or preparation for
a better world; the plea often present to the
giddy heart of vanity, that a stormy day is no
fit occasion for the display of your person — a plea
that you cannot yourselves utter, because of its
conscious want of dignity, but which, neverihe*
less, has power wiJSx many; the plea that it
will injure your health to enoounto' the rough
weather — for you all expect me to be here in
every storm that blows, and you can as well be
here as I; and if in thirteen years' attendance!
on my duties here, without any consideration of
the weather, in its wildest storms and fiercest'
cold, I have never suffered the least injuiy,
there is not much reason to fear for you~<$er-
tainly not for any who are in equaily sound

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health. To invalidB I will make allowance,
though even they would commonly suffer by no
exposure incident to their attendance. There
is no such poison in wet and cold, as many love
to suppose; and if we were not so self-indulgent,
so ready to shrink from the rough moods of
nature, we d^uld have clearer minds and
stronger bodies. The worst and most danger-
ous poison is confinement, and the pent air
that simmers all the day in heated rooms,


** I rocked b«r in her cmlle.
And laid bar in her tomb; ^ ^ .. . .
She WM the voungett—oh ! whet flretide circle
Heth nerer felt the cherm of thai f weet word—
The younfett ne'er grow old?~

It was twilight, and I sat watching the decay-
ing embers, when my attention was arrested by
the sound of voices m the adjoining i^»artment.
I heard nothing except, *<AhI you are the
youngest V in a tone of mingled reproach and
fondness. The youngest I what an echo has it

I I lately heard those words connected with a
touching tale of truth, which I shall not soon
ibrget. I was riding along the bank of a lake,
[when I suddenly came upon a £Euin-house, with
nothing in its first appearance to distin^ish it
fh>m an ordinary dwelling. But as I drew
nearer, I saw that the hand of taste had been
there. The most delicate wild flowers of the
gnrrounding hills and forests had been trans-
planted to the garden, which sloped gradually
m>m the house to the water's ed^. The colours
and shades were arranged with a painter's
taste, and the csffect was surpassinglv beautifoL
By the doors and windows of the humble
mansion, the sweet brier and the pure white
rose mingled their delicate blossoms with wild
creeping plants, which had been trained up the
sides of the house. My curiosity was strongly
excited. The day was warm and sultry, and I
Tentured to claim a stranger's privilege — ^rest
and a class of water. An elderly female was
the only occupant I ventured to remark, in
an inquiring tone, on the beauty and arrange-
ment of the flowers; but for a while tears were
my only answer. ** Oh," said she at last, ^ it is
the work of my daughter who sleeps by the side
of her two sisters under the shade of those old
elms. She woe my youmgaty and so good and
gentle that it was hard parting with her. Her
elder sisters had drooped and wasted just as
they arrived at womanhood. I thou^t perhaps
they had worked too hard, for we have always
earned our bread by the sweat of our brow, and
never knew what it was to be idle. Janet was
; the last, so we put no tasks upon her, but suf-
fered her to work or play, just as she pleased.
I Our boys were all well to do in the world, and
I had good farms of their own, except John, who

must needs go to college. He talked so wall^
and coaxed so much, and told how mnch good
he would do when he became a minister, that
we at last consented. John came home in
vacation, and brought several heaps of bodks.
Her chief h^ypiness seemed to be in reading the
books he brought, and tending the flowen he
had planted. After some time, I saw with
many a heart-ache that her fordiead aad ean
grew pale, very pale, vdule the red on her
cheeks grew deeper and brighter. She began
to have a slight cough, and her clear voice be-
came fjuntand low; but, oh I how sweet it
sounded when she took some of the last flowers
of autumn, and told me how they ^oke of a
heavenly Father's love, and that he who thus
cared for the flowers would surely care for us.
* See, dear mother,' she would say, ^how care-
fully the little flower is protected by its clasping
leares, so that it has braved the storm, as tender

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