drink of cold water, in another, we ask for a little wine; but, let the nature of the craving be what it will, it is the fever that occasions it. Push life forward, however, to a higher state of being, and the source of felicity, is wholly changed, it becomes an integral part of the being. As soon as we pass the line of demarcation, and enter the regions of positive bliss, negative good, of course, ceases, and, consequently, all upon which that species of good depended, becomes as useless as the cocoon to the winged silk-worm, or crutches to the man of vigorous limbs.

We have said, that what are called the blessings of life do often, for a time at least, lessen the evils of our lot, but often indeed they do the reverse of this; and, on being obtained, never does any one of them afford as much gratification as would engross the mind for above a few minutes at one time, and they are no sooner secured, than their value begins to diminish, just as the flower is no sooner pulled than it begins to fade; or a piece of ice is no sooner grasped than it begins to melt. The truth is, that by the very circumstance of their attainment, the conditions of our nature are altered. They have, themselves, quenched those desires which gave them their antecedent value, so that it is just as necessary before, as after the attainment of any such good, in order to avoid absolute misery, to aim at some prospective blessing. Hope is, in truth, the only reality of life. Desire-its only fruition, when applied to express its character, what an intensity of meaning is conveyed by the word vanity.

Nay, the more easily we realize our hopes, or gratify our desires, we are the more unhappy. The happiest man is he who has gained the least, and so is the most ignorant, of the imposition which he is putting upon himself, who has struggled the hardest for it, and, is seemingly, the nearest to securing the object of all his desires; but, on obtaining it, he becomes comparatively unhappy, till some new objects point his aims, and arouse his exertions. Not that he would have continued happy by continuing unsuccessfully to aim at any one object, for "Hope deferred sickeneth the heart." 'Tis true, that his good consists only of aims, of promises, of desires, and hopes, in a word, of shadows, yet they must have a reference to a succession of objects. On the other hand, the most unhappy of men is he who is gorged and sickened with easy success in all his numerous and various undertakings. 'Tis a vulgar error to descend in the scale of means and ability, in order to hit the point at which most misery might be endured. To conceive of a creature morally constituted, like man, supremely wretched, we must gift him with means and powers almost infinite, viz. equal to his largest wishes. Oh, the deep curse of being self-deprived of the power of protracting a wish. It was this species of misery that prompted that extreme expression "vanity of vanities." The man exposed to this kind of evil is in a much worse condition than he who is involved in that of an opposite kind; for the misery of prosperity destroys the very frame and tone of the heart, and so unfits it for re

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ceiving happiness under any circumstances, or from any source. With to-day" then, man has nothing to do, he lives in "to-morrow." That word "to-morrow," constitutes the wealth of the world.

Let not our readers suppose that we make this exhibition of man's mortal state in a repining mood, or to excite discontent, we make it with feelings, and for a purpose the reverse of these. Unless we impiously call in question the designs of heaven in subjecting us to death, we cannot object to the present arrangements respecting our earthly welfare. Mortal bliss, for a reflecting creature, is a contradiction in terms. Suppose the heart of a seraph, put within a mortal bosom, so long as his mortality remained unknown to him, he would continue in seraphic bliss, but, the moment the vista of life was seen to be crossed by the shadow of death, misery would overwhelm him, a misery proportionate to his former bliss. It would be like the fall of Lucifer from the highest heaven to the lowest hell. Accordingly, as soon as man was declared to be mortal, he, in mercy was made unhappy. Satan, perhaps, imagined that his victim would be allowed to remain, after his fall, amid the ambrosial fruits and flowers of his primal seat, and so like him, would carry a hell within him, but, in this, he was disappointed by the ground being made to produce thorns and thistles, and so to form a fitting path to the grave.

As to good and evil here, the rule of nature is reciprocal production. Pain being the parent of pleasure, and pleasure again the parent of pain. 'Tis a compensating balancing system, so that earth cannot be a place either of torment or of beatitude. Could we only view things as they are, we would almost envy the man who is involved in evil which does not partake of guilt; for his moral nature is then under the process of being renewed and re-invigorated. He is accumulating the power of being happy; whereas the man who is lying basking in the sun of ease and pleasure is under the process of being relaxed. His powers of enjoyment are melting away; and, what is worse, he is losing, with equal rapidity, the power of endurance. 'Tis the man who has just escaped from a dungeon, that can talk aright of the sweets of liberty; and, if you want to know the blessing of health, ask the man who has just risen from a bed of protracted sickness. Our maxim should be "Evil be thou our good,' not in the sense to be sure in which the devils use it. This moral economy of nature has reference to the future state to which we are destined. By suffering here, we are accumulating the power of enjoyment hereafter. This consideration justifies "the ways of God to man," especially in reference to good men who are in general favoure ed with more suffering than their fellows.

'Tis well, too, that earthly good consists wholly of anticipations. By that means our life is kept steadily fixed on the future. A quick sense of the lapse of time is preserved in our minds, and also of its shortness and uncertainty. Were fruition, however small, our good here, no effort, we believe, could arouse us to the thought of our mortality; and so, all moral checks would be removed, and men would become devils.

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When we are unsuccessful in our laudable efforts, we are not to imagine that all we have done has been done in vain. In making the effort, we have, in fact, reaped the harvest we had been anticipating. Of the successful and the unsuccessful man, the latter is, in general, the most fortunate. Both feel that their efforts have been vain-both have the feeling of disappointment to contend with; but the disappointment of the successful man is, in general, the most bitter, inasmuch as it has reference to all earthly aims and anticipations. The one is made aware of the mockery of earthly good, and has his relish of life proportionally abated; whereas, the other continues to believe that its shadows are realities, and so aims anew with unabated vigour, and feels anew the glow of hope. All this mystery is explained by the fact that we are in a state of probation here, and those who do not act in subserviency to that truth, will find themselves mocked and cheated, and baffled in every pursuit, and every desire.

TO VIRTUE.

Written in imitation of the Poem of Henry Kirke White, entitled, “ An Ode on Disappointment.”

COME, lovely Virtue, come,

Thou heaven descended Maid;

Come, with thy sweet, thy placid smile,

And innocence unknown to guile,

Thou art still in peace arrayed;

For in thy face

Shines every grace,

Nor pain, remorse, nor shame, with thee can find a place.

Though vice thy presence shun,

And her unhallowed brood,

Yet, joy and hope with thee remain,
And pleasures pure, unmixed with pain,

Thou givest to the good.

Thou still art near

To banish fear,

To calm the troubled breast-and stay the swelling tear.

Come, lovely Virtue, come,

Though thee, the world despise ;

Yet, thou to us, in love, were given

To wean our souls from earth to heaven,

And lead us to the skies;

To smooth the road,

To that abode

Where happiness and bliss-dwell round the throne of God.

What to thy vot'ries Vice, art thou?

A momentary glow,

An ignis-fatuus to the eye,

A meteor wand'ring through the sky,

A falling drop of snow;

Like passing years

It disappears,

While, from its ushes spring-death's fell foreboding fears.

Oh what is worldly power,
It withers and decays;

For soon the scepter'd monarch's head
Must, bending, number with the dead,

Insensible to praise.

No more his ear

Shall flatt'ry hear

When cold he shrouded lies-upon the funeral bier.

The most renown'd on earth

Is but a fleeting shade;

So France thy Chieftain's glory's o'er,
Like deeds of fame in days of yore,
Which chivalry had made.

The mighty brave

Now fills a grave,

In a far lonely isle-wash'd by the ocean's wave.

Then, since ambition's vain,

And fortune's oft untrue;

Why should we chase with anxious care
Those phantoms which dissolve in air,
And vanish from the view.

Why seek to gain

What turns to pain,

When soon these eyes will close-and never ope again.

Come, lovely Virtue, come,
Beneath thy gentle sway

No guilty terrors haunt the mind,
For innocent, and pure, and kind,

Thou smiling art as May.

With thee, the soul

Shall find a goal,

When, in one vast eternity of bliss-time, without end, shall roll.

Johnstone, February 13, 1828.

JUVENIS.

SELECTIONS FROM THE PAPERS OF THE LATE
J. P. IRVING, ESQ.

No. II.

À FIRST TEA-PARTY AND A FIRST LOVE.

IT is surprising how soon, even in Paisley, a raw youth from the country acquires the smartness and assured air of the town-bred. His hair which was wont to hang over his ears like ropes, is in a short time ashamed of its untrimmed appearance, and is not satisfied till it be "turned up" in His coat must fashionable style, at the price of "what you please sir."

not be of any cut under the latest received London Fashions, and his nether man derides the shabby costume of shoes and gaiters, and must be encased in a pair of Wellington's. Short, however, as the period ere this metamorphosis take place may be, it was before CHARLES MELVILLE had

profited much by the specimens of dandyism which he was daily encounter. ing, that he was invited to his first tea-party. A worthy widow lady, Mrs. Elizabeth Freeling, who has since departed this life full of years and good deeds, which yet live in the remembrance of many, and to whom he brought letters of introduction on coming to town, was the kind authoress of the invitation. What would have been the delight of many at such an occurrence! What agreeable associations would it not have raised! Elegant sylph-like forms, with bright eyes and smiling faces, "celestial rosy red, love's proper hue;" a band of young Euphrosynes bringing with

them

"Jest and youthful Jollity,

Quips and cranks and wanton wiles,
Nods and becks and wreathed smiles;
Such as hang on Hebe's cheek,
And love to live in dimple sleek;
Sport that wrinkled Care derides,

And Laughter holding both his sides."

But to Charles Melville on that occasion, the gilt-edged neatly-penned messenger of pleasure was accompanied by no such heart-stirring remembrances. He was a stranger in a strange land, and about to be introduced to scenes and usages which were new to him, and in which he knew he would act an unskilful, and he feared an awkward, if not a ridiculous part. It therefore brought with it nothing but anxiety and uneasiness; and he would have declined the invitation, had such a course not been disrespectful. There was therefore no help for it, but to screw his courage to the sticking pitch.

The important evening at last came, and Charles, dressed in a bottlegreen coloured coat, with metal buttons, and waistcoat of the same, white neckcloth, blue trowsers, white worsted stockings and shoes of sufficient stoutness to defy the winter damps, started for the arena of his maiden exhibition at a tea party, with as panting a heart as that of the young recruit when he shoulders arms for his first battle. He was received by the worthy Hostess, and announced to the already almost assembled party. His eyes were dazzled by the brilliance of the assemblage, in his confusion he saw as if through a mist, and took refuge on the first empty chair he could lay hands on. Other visitors soon arrived, and during the bustle occasioned by their reception and accommodation he had time to compose himself, and to reconnoitre a little. The party was a large one, and consisted of nearly equal numbers of young people of both sexes, ranged around the room, while the large table in the centre groaned beneath the splendid tea equipage, and the delicate bon bon's which had been provided for the occasion. Charles had never before seen so many beautiful girls, all wearing their holiday faces, and he felt an awe which operated as an extinguisher upon his mind, and a seal upon his lips. Other tongues however, better skilled in the small talk of such parties, were moving glibly on, and he felt it unpolite to be so long silent, while two rather pleasant-looking maidens were sitting on each side of him, to whom it was no doubt incumbent on him to enact the agreeable. Before he could muster an idea, however, it was announced that tea was ready, and presently every gentleman started to his feet and hurried towards the table to help the ladies. Charles followed the example, and was fortunate enough, in the bustle, to get hold of a cup and saucer, which he was proceeding to hand to some lady-fair, when a tall acquaintance, bent on the same mis ́sion, turned hastily round, and coming in contact with the luckless China, swept it from Charles's hand to the floor, where it was broken into a thousand pieces. Nothing could exceed Charles's confusion at this " un