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opens upon his soul. It is not the lifeless mass of matter, he will then feel, that he is examining,-it is the mighty machine of eternal wisdom: the workmanship of Him "in whom every thing lives, and moves, and has its being." Under an aspect of this kind, it is impossible to pursue knowledge without mingling with it the most elevated sentiments of devotion ;-it is impossible to perceive the laws of nature without perceiving, at the same time, the presence and the providence of the Lawgiver: and thus it is that, in every age, the evidences of true religion have advanced with the progress of true philosophy; and that science, in erecting a monument to herself, has, at the same time, erected an altar to the Deity. The knowledge of nature, however, is not exhausted. Here are many great discoveries yet awaiting the labours of science; and with them there are also awaiting to humanity many additional proofs of the wisdom and benevolence of "Him that made us." To the hope of these great discoveries, few, indeed, can pretend :-yet let it ever be remembered, that he who can trace any one new fact, or can exemplify any one new instance of Divine wisdom or benevolence in the system of nature, has not lived in vain; that he has added to the sum of human knowledge; and, what is far more, that he has added to the evidence of those greater truths, upon which the happiness of time and eternity depends.

The second great end to which all knowledge ought to be employed, is to the welfare of humanity. Every science is the foundation of some art beneficial to men; and while the study of it leads us to see the beneficence of the laws of nature, it calls upon us also to follow the great end of the Father of nature in their employment and application. I need not say what a field is thus opened to the benevolence of knowledge: I need not tell you, that in every department of learning there is good to be done to mankind: I need not remind you, that the age in which we live has given us the noblest examples of this kind, and that science now finds its highest glory in improving the condition, or in allaying the miseries, of humanity. But there is one thing of which it is proper ever to remind you, because the modesty of knowledge often leads us to forget it, and that is, that the power of scientific benevolence is far greater than that of all others, to promote the welfare of society. The benevolence of the great, or the opulent, however eminent it may be, perishes with

themselves. The benevolence even of sovereigns is limited to the narrow boundary of human life; and not unfrequently is succeeded by different and discordant counsels. But the benevolence of knowledge is as extensive as the race of man, and as permanent as the existence of society. He, in whatever situation he may be, who, in the study of science, has discovered a new means of alleviating pain, or of remedying disease; who has described a wiser method of preventing poverty, or of shielding misfortune; who has suggested additional means of increasing or improving the beneficent productions of nature; has left a memorial of himself which can never be forgotten; which will communicate happiness to ages yet unborn; and which, in the emphatic language of scripture, renders him a "fellow-worker" with God himself in the improvement of his creation.

The third great end of all knowledge is the improvement and exaltation of our own minds. It was the voice of the apostle, "What manner of men ought ye to be,” to whom the truths of the gospel have come? It is the voice of nature also, "What manner of men ought ye to be, to whom the treasures of wisdom are opened?" Of all the spectacles, indeed, which life can offer us, there is none more painful, or unnatural, than that of the union of vice with knowledge. It counteracts the great designs of God in the distribution of wisdom; and it assimilates men, not to the usual characters of human frailty, but to those dark and malignant spirits who fell from heaven, and who excel in knowledge only that they may employ it in malevolence. To the wise and virtuous man, on the contrary, to him whose moral attainments have kept pace with his intellectual, and who has employed the great talent with which he is intrusted to the glory of God and to the good of humanity, are presented the sublimest prospects that mortality can know. "In my Father's house," says our Saviour, "are many mansions;" mansions, we may dare to interpret, fitted to the different powers that life has acquired, and to the uses to which they have been applied. Of that great scene, indeed, which awaits all, whether ignorant or wise, it becomes us to think with reverential awe. Yet we know "that it will then be well with the good, though it will not be well with the wicked;" and we are led, by an instinctive anticipation, to suppose that they who here excelled in

wisdom and benevolence will be rewarded with higher objects, upon which they may be employed, and admitted into nearer prospects of the government of Eternal Wisdom. "In His light they shall see light." "They shall see Him, not as through a glass, darkly; but as He is. They shall know, even as they themselves are known."

EUSTACE.

THE REMAINS OF POMPEII.

POMPEII is only three miles from Stabiæ, but on the very side itself of Vesuvius, and only about five miles from its crater. The bed of ashes was, in some places, scarce three feet in depth; so that it must appear wonderful that the town had not been discovered long before the middle of the last century, or rather, that the ashes were not removed, and the city restored, immediately after its catastrophe. We may, therefore, conclude that the far greater part of the inhabitants of Pompeii had time to escape, and that those whose skeletons remain were either decrepit slaves, or criminals in a state of confinement. Of the latter, indeed, some were found in chains; and, as for the former, when we consider the immense number employed in Roman villas, we shall wonder that so few have been hitherto discovered. However, it must be admitted that, during the course of the eruption, and taking in the whole range of its devastations, many persons perished, and among them some of distinction, as may be collected, not only from Dio, but from Suetonius, who relates that Titus, then emperor, devoted the property of those who lost their lives on that occasion, and had no heirs, to the relief of the survivors. Though the catastrophe took place within the space of twelve hours at the utmost, yet time was found to remove most portable articles of value, such as plate, silver and gold ornaments, &c., as very little of this description has been discovered. The furniture which remains is, to moderns, of equal, perhaps greater, value, as it is better calculated to give a clear and accurate idea of Roman manners, as far as they are connected with such objects.

It has been often regretted that the pictures, furniture, and even skeletons should have been removed, and not

rather left and carefully preserved in the very places and attitudes where they were originally discovered. Without doubt, if articles so easily damaged or stolen could, with any prudence, have been left in their respective places, it would have heightened the charm, and contributed in a much greater degree to the satisfaction of the spectator. Pictures, statues, and pillars, or other decorations, can never produce the same effect, or excite the same interest, when ranged methodically in a gallery at Portici or Naples, as they would when occupying the very spot, and standing in the very point of view, for which they were originally destined. But, independently even of this advantage, and stripped as it is of almost all its movable ornaments, Pompeii possesses a secret power that captivates and fixes, I had almost said melts, the soul. In other times and in other places, one single edifice, a temple, a theatre, a tomb, that has escaped the wreck of ages, would have enchanted us; nay, an arch, the remnant of a wall, even one solitary column, was beheld with veneration: but, to discover a single ancient house, the abode of a Roman in his privacy, the scene of his domestic hours, was an object of fond, but hopeless, longing. Here, not a temple, not a theatre, nor a house, but a whole city, rises before us untouched, unaltered, the very same as it was eighteen hundred years ago, when inhabited by Romans. We range through the same streets, tread the very same pavement, behold the same walls, enter the same doors, and repose in the same apartments. surrounded by the same objects, and, out of the same windows, contemplate the same scenery. While you are wandering through the abandoned rooms, you may, without any great effort of imagination, expect to meet some of the former inhabitants, or perhaps the master of the house himself, and almost feel like intruders, who dread the appearance of any of the family. In the streets you are afraid of turning a corner, lest you should jostle a passenger; and, on entering a house, the least sound startles, as if the proprietor was coming out of the back apartments. The traveller may long indulge the illusion; for not a voice is heard, not even the sound of a foot, to disturb the loneliness of the place, or interrupt his reflections. All around is silence; not the silence of solitude and repose, but of death and devastation,-the silence of a great city without one single inhabitant.

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Immediately above the buildings the ground rises, not into a cliff, casting gloom, as the sides of a grave, on the hollow below, but as a gentle swell formed by nature to shelter the houses at its base. It is clothed with corn, poplars, mulberries, and vines in their most luxuriant graces, waving from tree to tree, still covering the greater part of the city with vegetation, and forming, with the dark brown masses half buried below, a singular and most affecting contrast. This scene of a city, raised, as it were, from the grave, where it had lain forgotten during the long night of eighteen centuries, when once beheld, must remain for ever pictured on the imagination; and, whenever it presents itself to the fancy, it comes, like the recollection of an awful apparition, accompanied by thoughts and emotions solemn and melancholy.

T. MOORE.

LALLA ROOKH'S DEPARTURE FOR CASHMERE. THE day of Lalla Rookh's departure from Delhi was as splendid as sunshine and pageantry could make it. The bazaars and baths were all covered with the richest tapestry; hundreds of gilded barges upon the Jumna floated with their banners shining in the water; while, through the streets, groups of beautiful children went strewing the most delicious flowers around, as in that Persian festival called the "Scattering of the Roses;" till every part of the city was as fragrant as if a caravan of musk from Khoten had passed through it. The princess, having taken leave of her kind father, who, at parting, hung a cornelian of Yemen round her neck, on which was inscribed a verse from the Khoran; and having sent a considerable present to the faakirs, who kept up the perpetual lamp in her sister's tomb; meekly ascended the palankeen prepared for her; and, while Aurungzebe stood to take a last look from his balcony, the procession moved slowly on the road to Lahore.

Seldom. had the eastern world seen a cavalcade so superb. From the gardens in the suburbs to the imperial palace, it was one unbroken line of splendour. The gallant appearance of the rajas and Mogul lords, distinguished by those insignia of the emperor's favour, the

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