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lutely necessary to the eternity of its duration, has, I think, been evinced to almost a demonstration.

Secondly, From its passions and sentiments, as particularly from its love of existence, its horror of anni. bilation, and its bopes of immortality, with that sweet satisfaction which it finds in the practice of virtue, and that uneasiness which follows in it upon the commission of vice.

Thirdly, From the nature of the Sapreme Being, whose justice, goodness, wisdom, and veracity, are all concerned in this great point.

But among these and other excellent arguments for the Immortality of the Soul, there is one drawn from the perpetual progress of the soul to its perfection, without a possibility of ever arriving at it; which is a hint that I do not remember to have seen opened and improved by others who have written on this subject, though it seems to me to carry a great weight with it. How can it enter into the thoughts of man, that the Soul, which is capable of such immense perfections, and of receiving new improvements to all eternity, shall fall away into notbing almost as soon as it is created? Are such abilities made for no purpose? A brute arrives at a point of perfection that he can never pass: in a few years he has all the endowments he is capable of: and were he to live ten thousand more, would be the same thing he is at present. Were a human soul thus at a stand in her accomplishments, were her faculties to be full blown, and incapable of further enlargements, I could imagine it might fall away insensibly, and drop at once into a state of annihilation. But can we believe a thinking being, that is in a perpetual progress of improvements, and tra. velling on from perfection to perfection, after having just looked abroad into the works of its Creator, and made a few discoveries of his infinite goodness, wisdom, and power, must perish at her first setting out, and in the very beginning of her inquiries?

A man, considered in his present state, seems only

sent into the world to propagate his kind. He provides himself with a successor, and immediately quits his post to make room for him.

Hæres
Hæredem alterius, velut unda supervenit undam.

HOR. 2 Ep. ii. 175.
* Heir crowds heir, as in a rolling flood
Wave urges wave."

CREECH.

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He does not seem born to enjoy life, but to deliver it down to others. This is not surprising to consider in animals, which are formed for our use, and can finish their business in a short life. The silk-worm, after having spun her task, lays her eggs and dies. But a man can never have taken in his full measure of know. ledge, has not time to sabdue his passions, establish his soul in virtue, and come up to the perfection of bis patare, before he is hurried off the stage. Would an infinitely wise Being make such glorious creatures for so mean a purpose ? Can he delight in the production of sach abortive intelligences, such short-lived reasonable beings? Would he give us talents that are not to be exerted? Capacities that are never to be gratified ? How can we find that wisdom, which shines through all his works in the formation of man, without look. ing on this world as only a nursery for the next, and believing that the several generations of rational creatures, which rise up and disappear in such quick successions, are only to receive their first rudiments of

existence here, and afterwards to be transplanted into 1

a more friendly climate, where they may spread and

flourish to all eternity? 3

There is not, in my opinion, a more pleasing and $

triumphant consideration in religion than this of the perpetnal progress which the soul makes towards the

perfection of its nature, without ever arriving at a & period in it. To look upou the soul as going on from

strength to strength, to consider that she is to shine for

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ever with new accessions of glory, and brighten to all eternity; that she will be still adding virtue to virtue, and knowledge to knowledge; carries in it something wonderfully agreeable to that ambition which is natural to the mind of man. Nay, it must be a prospect pleasing to God himself, to see his creation for ever beanutying in his eyes, and drawing nearer to him, by greater degrees of resemblance.

Metbinks this single consideration, of the progress of a finite spirit to perfectiou, will be sufficient to ex. tingnish all envy in interior natures, and all contempt in superior. That cherubiin, which now appears as a God to a human Soul, knows very well that the period will come about in eternity, when the human Soal shall be as perfect as he himself powis : nay, when she shall look down upon that degree of perfection, as much as she now falls short of it. It is true, the bigher Dature still advances, and by that means preserves his distance and superiority in the scale of beiug; but he knows that how bigh soever the station is of which he stands possessed at present, the inferior nature will at length mount up to it, and shine forth in the same degree of glory.

With wbat astonishment and veneration may we look into our own souis, where there are such hidden stores of virtue and knowledge, such inexhausted sources of perfection! We know not yet what we shall be, nor will it ever enter into the heart of man to conceive the glory that will be always in reserve for him. The Soul, considered with its Creator, is like one of those mathematical lines that may draw nearer to another for all eternity without a possibility of touching it: and can there be a thought so transporting, as to consider ourselves in these perpetual approaches to him, who is not only the standard of perfection bat of bappiness!

The following translation of the speech of Cato on the Immortality of the Soul, cannot be sufficiently

admired for conciseness, purity, and elegance of phrase.

CATO alone, &c.
" It must be so-Plato, thou reason'st well-
Else whence this pleasing hope, this fond desire,
This longing after immortality?
Or whence this secret dread, and inward horror,
of falling into yought? why shrinks the soul
Back on herself, and startles at destruction?
Tis the divinity that stirs within us;
'Tis Heaven itself that points out an hereafter,
And intimates eternity to man.
Eternity! thou pleasing, dreadful thought !

" Through what variety of untry'd being,
Through what new scenes and changes must we pass!
The wide, th' unbounded prospect lies before me;
But shadows, clonds, and darkness rest upon it.
Here will I hold. If there's a power above us,
(And that there is all nature cries aloud
Throngh all her works) he most delight in virtue;
And that which he delights in must be happy.
But when, or where! This world was made for
I'm weary of conjectures—This must end 'em.

“ Thus am I doubly arm’d; my death and life,
My bane and antidote are both before me.
This in a moment brings me to an end;
But this informs me I shall never die.
The soul, secur'd in her existence, smiles
At the drawn dagger, and defies its point.
The stars shall fade away, the sun himself
Grow dim with age, and nature sink in years;
But thou shalt flourish in immortal youth,
Unburt amidst the war of elements,
The wrecks of matter, and the crusb of worlds.”

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Cæsar.

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TRUE WIT AND MIXT WIT.

Scribendi recte sapere est et principium et fons.

HOR.
Sound judgment is the ground of writing well.

ROSCOMMON.

WIT;” observes Mr. Locke, “ lies in the assem

blage of ideas, and putting those together with quickness and variety, wherein can be found any resemblance or congruity to make up pleasant pictures and agreeable visions in the fancy."

This is, I think, the best and most philosophical account that I have ever met with of wit, which gene rally, though not always, consists in such a resemblance and congruity of ideas as this author mentions. I sball only add to it, by way of explanation, tbat every resemblance of ideas is not that which we call wit, unless it be such ay one that gives delight and surprise to the reader. These two properties seem essential to wit, more particularly the last of them. In order therefore that the resemblance in the ideas be wit, it is necessary that the ideas should not lie too near one another in the nature of things; for where the likeness is obvious, it gives no surprise. To compare one man's singing to that of another, or to represent the whiteness of any object by that of milk and spow, or the variety of its colours by those of the rain. bow, cannot be called wit, unless, besides this obvious resemblance, there be some further congruity discover. ed in the two ideas, that is capable of giving the reader some surprise. Thus when a poet tells us the bosom of his mistress is as white as snow, there is no wit in the comparison; but when he adds with a sigh, it is as cold too, it then grows into wit. Every reader's me mory may supply him with innumerable instances of the same nature. For this reason, the similitudes in

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