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These, indeed, other animals, particularly dogs, seem to have in common with us; but as that is true of many of their other faculties, it would put them upon a level with us (and still higher, in their fidelity), did not the use of our reason, abused as it often is, give us a decided pre-eminence.

Dogs follow their instinct, as being destined to the service of man, who follows, sometimes his reason, sometimes his passions or his caprice.

Considering, however, man as a rational creature, the poet says,

Why then their loss deplore, who are not lost?

Why wanders wretched thought their tombs around,
In infidel distress? Are angels there?

Slumbers, rak'd up in dust, ethereal fire?
They live! they greatly live a life on earth
Unkindled, unconceiv'd, and from an eye
Of tenderness, let heavenly pity fall

On us, more justly number'd with the dead."

For further proof of this we must look to the succeeding Nights," remembering that in this life, as has been truly said, "we are in the midst of death," liable as our passage through it is, to be shortened by a thousand accidents, which in the next we shall be out of the reach of.

"And is it in the flight of threescore years

To push eternity from human thought,

And smother souls immortal in the dust?" &c. &c.

Not entirely; but sensible objects, when present, are too apt to obliterate the thoughts of those which futurity presents, and, indeed, it is partly intended that it should be so; but this partial attachment generally lessens as we approach to the latter.

"O ye blest scenes of permanent delight!
Full, above measure! lasting, beyond bound!
A perpetuity of bliss, is bliss." &c. &c.

This surely affords a satisfactory answer to Lord Byron's foolish idea, that "no state can be conceived that duration would not render tiresome." True, it cannot be conceived; but does it follow, that it cannot exist? Duration of what is unsatisfactory to us here, as all earthly enjoyments must be, may well be tiresome, and our powers are probably unequal to the enjoyment of what would be more satisfactory; but both may be given (as they are promised) in a future state, by Him to whom all things are possible, that He has made so; and the general adaptation that we see evinced here, no doubt is fulfilled every where else. But,

"We cannot reason, but from what we know ;"

and what know we of a future state?

By the by, should not this sense of ignorance have made Mr. Hume a little more diffident, in his reasoning against the belief of the miracles of our Saviour, from the want of that probability which experience affords? But is there no analogy that supplies (as Dr. Butler has endeavoured to show) its place? and does not that, assisted by moral evidence, speak sufficiently, both to our reason and our feelings? But their mutual dependence on each other keeps us in a suspense, which, as our spirits vacillate, may be elevated into hope, or depressed into fear. We may be "alternately transported and alarmed." But there is an "asylum" for the "soul," and Young has told us where to find it; "in prayer."

After enumerating the evils of life, and the sufferers under them, the poet says,

"What then am I, who sorrow for myself? In age, in infancy, from others' aid

Is all our hope; to teach us to be kind.
That, nature's just, last lesson to mankind:
The selfish heart deserves the pain it feels:
More generous sorrow, while it sinks, exalts;
And conscious virtue mitigates the pang."

Pope says,

"The broadest mirth unfeeling folly wears,

Less pleasing far than virtue's very tears."

Especially when shed in sympathy with the affliction of others.

Speaking of prosperity, Young says,

"Is heaven tremendous in its frowns? most sure;

And in its favours formidable too:

Its favours here are trials, not rewards;

A call to duty, not discharge from care."

A " call," which our consciences sometimes (O si sæpius!) make us listen to; and a care," which, "atra comes" as it is, we cannot well avoid being "pressed" by. "

But besides this tax upon prosperity, the poet thinks it incumbent on him to say,

"Beware what earth calls happiness; beware

All joys, but joys that never can expire.

Who builds on less than an immortal base,

Fond as he seems, condemns his joys to death."

And die they must; but so must we also. Let us live then while we can; but let us live well; and how well? not as "des bons vivants," but as rational creatures.

There are no lasting or real joys, but those which will bear reflection, and are somehow connected with our future prospects. If man is meant (as he certainly is) to look forward in this life, there must always be something for him to look for

ward to. This he does both with the eye of reason and of faith. These joys, therefore, are immortal; in leaning to that they "lean also to our kind,” as well as to Him, who has commanded us to love one another.

Speaking of "foresight," and its uncertainty, he says,

"Time is dealt out by particles; and each,

Ere mingled with the streaming sands of life,

By fate's inviolable oath is swore

Deep silence, where eternity begins."

Pope says,

"Heaven from all creatures hides the book of fate,

All but the page prescrib'd, their present state;
From beasts what men, from men what angels know,
Or who could suffer being here below?

The lamb thy riot dooms to bleed to-day,
Had he thy reason, would he skip and play?
Pleas'd to the last, he crops the luscious food,
And licks the hand that's rais'd to shed his blood."

Such is the end of creatures which have no end but death to look forward to, and therefore want not a foresight that would keep them in perpetual terror. Man wants it to excite his hopes, as well as his fears. Happy for him, when both combine to produce the same effect!

Confining, however, our prospects to this transitory life, the poet says that,

"As on a rock of adamant we build

Our mountain hopes; spin our eternal schemes,
As we the fatal sisters would out-spin;

And, big with life's futurities, expire."

We look forward to every thing else before we look forward to our own dissolution. And, indeed, if we did not, we should

skip over all the intermediate pages of life, which should be a preparation for its end, which they will be, if these pages are well prepared ere they are exhibited in action. I have heard it said, that in some respects we should live as if we were to live for ever here; and in others, as if we were to die tomorrow. I think the first must mean in what regards those who are to come after us, in whom our life is, in a manner, continued; and the second, in what regards ourselves, who cannot reckon even upon the continuance of another day, and we pray, therefore, for "our daily bread in this," only. But as our existence is to be continued afterwards, we ought to prepare for the day which will have no end, and for the "bread of life" eternal; and in this respect our conduct too often proves that

"Procrastination is the thief of time;

Year after year it steals, till all are fled;
And to the mercies of a moment leaves
The vast concerns of an eternal scene."

We are told that "God will have mercy on whom he will have mercy;" but he has not reserved this knowledge entirely to himself. He has told us on whom he will have mercy; who "shall save his soul alive;" what will be "required" of us; but he has not encouraged our vain hopes, nor our selfflatteries. He has withheld from us part of the knowledge of ourselves, perhaps that our "secret faults" may keep us in awe, and that we may not "speak" a false " peace to our minds,” in over-rating our virtues, or under-rating our faults; we are sinners all, and must "work out our salvation with fear and trembling."

But such are our habits, which, however, are often counteracted by reflection, for the mind will not give up its activity, and if it does not meditate good, it will meditate evil, or good-for-nothing trifles, though they may be comparatively