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dise, the carriage of which would otherwise be impracticable. The ships wait sometimes the increase of water, to take advantage of it to get into the road, without touching the bottom, to enter the channel without danger. After this im portant service, the tides fall, and, leaving the river to return to its shores, they facilitate the enjoyment of commodities to the inhabitants. Another advantage we have from this perpetual waving of the waters is, to prevent it from stagnating, or corrupting by lying still. It is true, that the wind also contributes to it, but, as there is often a perfect calm in the water, there might result from it, a putrefaction in the bason of the sea, which is the reservoir for all the waters of the earth to flow into. God has, therefore, ordered the flux and reflux to prevent hurtful things settling there. The motion of the water, rising and falling, attenuates and separates those corrupted vapours; and, in order to preserve the sea in its purity, the flux and reflux mixes and disperses the salt, of which it is full, and which would otherwise sink quickly to

the bottom.

These reflections may naturally remind us of a circumstance which is much connected with this phenomenon : Our life is but a flux and reflux. It increases and decreases: Every thing is inconstant and liable to change. Nothing is durable. There is no permanent joy, hope, or happiness. We swim in a rapid and inconstant river: Let us then take care not to be drawn into the abyss; and let us endeavour to gain the happy port, the smiling and cheerful shores. On the other hand, let us bless God, that our evils and anxieties are of short duration. An excessive and lasting grief, or pain, is as little compatible with our nature, as a constant and perfect happiness. These changes

are

are certainly an advantage to us. If we enjoyed, through the whole course of our lives, an uninterrupted felicity, we might easily grow proud, and forget God. As, on the other hand, a continual train of disgraces and misfortunes would sink us entirely, and harden our hearts. Let us then bless our heavenly Father for his wise decrees, and endeavour to conduct ourselves through every event of life, in prosperity and adversity, in a manner worthy our faith and the hope of everlasting life...

FEBRUARY VIII.

THE SUN DOES NOT ALWAYS APPEAR.

CLOUDS of rain and snow do not always cover the sky. The clouds sometimes disperse, after having spread over the earth the great provision of water they had collected. Then, the most agreeable serenity appears in the sky. The sight of the sun, which dark clouds had deprived us of for some days, revives every creature, and fills them with joy and animation. During summer, we are accustomed to the presence of this beautiful light; but, as it seldom appears in winter, and then only for a few hours, we learn to value it the more. Is not this a remark we may make, in regard to every other gift of God? Is it not true, that we are but little sensible of the blessings of this life, and that we look on them often with indifference, when in our possession? Health, repose, friendship, an easy income, and a thousand other blessings, which we daily enjoy, do not appear to us as great as they really are; and we often continue insensible of their value, till we have lost them. We must be, on a sick-bed, de

serted

serted by our friends, in want and poverty, before we fully feel the happiness of enjoying good health, of having a faithful friend, and the means of subsisting comfortably.

When the sun brightens up, after having long been darkened with clouds, the earth still looks dismal. It is true, that it is a little improved by its rays, but it is not sufficient to restore it to all its beauty. The sun has not yet sufficient power to conquer the cold, which has hardened the earth, nor to revive nature, which appears dead. It is like the light of the mind, which does not always warm the heart. Those who languish in misery and affliction feel this. It happens sometimes, that in the winter of life, or in other sad and unhappy circumstances, we see joy and pleasure at a distance, without being able to taste the fruits of them. We owe, however, thanksgivings to our heavenly Benefactor, for those gleams of joy, which now and then refresh our souls, and soften our cares and sorrows, were it but for a few moments. I limit myself, O God, to this one favour, which I beg of thee,-If it is thy will, that some of my latter days should be sad and gloomy, I will not murmur at it, I will not lose courage; grant only that my soul may be now and then revived with some rays of joy, and that I may have a distant view of a happy futurity. All that I dare ask is some moments of ease and comfort; they will enable me to support, with courage, the cloudy days of adversity. How uncertain is the serenity of the sky in winter! How little can we depend on the beneficent rays of the sun! It appears now with mild majesty, but it will soon be covered with clouds; and, before noon, the splendour and beauty, with which it enlivened the earth this morn,

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morn, will all disappear. Such is also the uncer tainty of every scene through life. We can never promise ourselves lasting or uninterrupted happiness. It ought to make us wise and prudent in the days of prosperity, and moderate our love of earthly enjoyments. Every thing is liable to change. Virtue only is unchangeable. That alone can enable us to support the vicissitudes and distresses of this world, and give us fortitude to bear adversity or prosperity, till it lead us to those blest regions where we shall be perfectly happy, without a shadow of variation or change.

FEBRUARY IX.

EARTHQUAKES.

OUR earth suffers two kinds of shocks; one is occasioned by the action of subterraneous fires, and by the explosion of volcanos. These commotions are only felt at small distances, and only when the volcanos work just before the entire eruption. As soon as the matter which forms the subterraneous fires comes to ferment and blaze, the fire makes an effort on all sides; and if it does not naturally find a vent, it raises the earth, and makes itself a passage, by throwing it up with violence. But earthquakes of this kind only extend for the space of a few miles. They shake the earth like the explosion of a magazine of powder, which produces a shock, and a sensible commotion at several leagues distance. But there is another sort of earthquake very different in the effect, and perhaps in the cause also; I mean those terrible earthquakes which art felt

at

at great distances; and which shake a long tract of ground, without any new volcano, or any eruption appearing. There are instances of earthquakes, which have been felt at the same time in England, France, and Germany. These extend much more in length than in breadth. They shake a chain or zone of land, with more or less violence in different parts; and they are generally attended with a hollow ncise, like a heavy carriage going very rapidly. The following observations may explain the causes of this sort of earthquake: All inflammable matter capable of explosion produces (as powder does) a great quantity of air. The air produced by fire is so very much rarified, that it must cause very vio→ lent effects, when it has long been shut up and compressed in the bowels of the earth. Suppose, then, that at a very considerable depth, such as an hundred or two fathoms deep, there should be sulphureous matter which should take fire, by means of the air, it must of course seek a vent; and, if it finds none, it occasions the most violent shocks. It is impossible to express how fatally dreadful earthquakes of this kind are. Of all the desolations, of all the catastrophes upon earth, there are none so formidable, so destructive, and which so much baffle all human foresight and prudence, as these earthquakes. When rivers overflow their banks, swallow up provinces, and sweep away whole villages, there is still some resource; it is possible to escape to the mountains, or upon the upper parts of houses. Dikes may stop the fury of the waves. But that is impossible or useless in earthquakes. There is scarce any other danger from which one may not escape. Lightning never consumed whole towns and provinces. The plague, it is true, may unpeople

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