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EFFECT OF GROWING PROSPERITY.

THE effect of great prosperity on a people is to close up some springs of natural happiness. The real condition of man upon this earth is only understood by those whose minds are kept awake and clear by suffering. Even the common relations of life, the natural affections, have not half their proper character, when they are not edged by pain. The condition of man is that of a being connected with other beings, from whom he is liable to be separated by death,having his love rested upon their love, and his happiness upon their moral welfare. They have a destination here and in immortality, which are as essential to him as their life; and that destination hangs in continual uncertainty. Of his natural affection, therefore, pain and fear are essential ingredients, and it bears its true nature only when these enter into it. The mind that is not provident and reflective, and of deep sensibilities, is not capable of the true condition of natural life. But, besides this, the man himself has a moral destination, and is bound, besides, under an invisible subjection. In what plight is he, if he has no consciousness of these conditions of his being? He may be conscious of them it is true, and yet lost in offence. That is a separate case. But how much worse is he, if he is altogether unconscious of them, and knows not of their existence.

Now it appears to be the effect of prosperity to

shut up all these sensibilities; to extinguish or prevent in the soul much moral knowledge. For in an unaltering condition of life men get used to that which is good, and they may come to weigh their estate absolutely and truly. But in growing prosperity, the sense is continually flattered with new enjoyment and new hope. The man can never take the true estimate of his condition. The world that looks to him with a face of enjoyment can never seem a scene of trial. The strength of the human mind might raise itself above the seduction of a stable wealth, and might come to discern in the midst of it duties and necessities. The inheritance of wealth may not imply voluptuousness. And though there are many things in all elevation, of wealth, power, or dignity, which carry with them seduction and illusion, though it be difficult to the spirit nursed in the lap of luxury ever to set foot on the hard earth-though the vices of the great, and the effeminate softness of their lives, are old themes of censure; yet it seems clear that great virtues, high principles, and even manly simplicity of character, may subsist among those who are born to hereditary wealth. Where effeminate luxury has dissolved the spirit of the higher orders of a nation, something else has been there to take from them their greatness besides the simple possession of wealth. But with the gradual influx of prosperity upon the mind, it is difficult to conceive virtue to co-exist. Man's self is continually flattered and exalted, and the force of obligation is taken off. Besides, as the effect of growing prosperity is constantly to increase the enjoyment of sense, it draws the mind more into that direction, and gives more weight and magnitude to that part of happiness.

THE TRANSPORT.

THE great eye of day was wide open, and a joyful light filled air, heaven, and ocean. The marbled clouds lay motionless far and wide over the deep-blue sky, and all memory of storm and hurricane had vanished from the magnificence of that immense calm. There was but a gentle fluctuation on the bosom of the deep, and the sea-birds floated steadily there, or dipped their wings for a moment in the wreathed foam, and again wheeled sportively away into the sunshine. One Ship-only one single Ship-was within the encircling horizon, and she had lain there as if at anchor since the morning light; for, although all her sails were set, scarcely a wandering breeze touched her canvass, and her flags hung dead on staff and at peak, or lifted themselves uncertainly up at intervals, and then sunk again into motionless repose. The crew paced not her deck, for they knew that no breeze would come till after meridian,—and it was the Sabbath-day.

A small congregation were singing praises to God in that Chapel, which rested almost as quietly on the sea as the house of worship in which they had been used to pray then rested far off on a foundation of rock in a green valley of their forsaken Scotland. They were Emigrants-nor hoped ever again to see the mists of

their native mountains. But as they heard the voice of their psalm, each singer half forgot that it blended with the sound of the sea, and almost believed himself sitting in the kirk of his own beloved parish. But hundreds of billowy leagues intervened between them and the little tinkling bell that was now tolling their happier friends to the quiet house of God.

And now an old grey-headed man rose to pray, and held up his withered hands in fervent supplication for all around, whom, in good truth, he called his children-for three generations were with the patriarch in that tabernacle. There, in one group, were husbands and wives standing together, in awe of Him who held the deep in the hollow of his hand, there, youths and maidens, linked together by the feeling of the same destiny, some of them perhaps hoping, when they reached the shore, to lay their heads on one pillow,-there, children hand in hand, happy in the wonders of the ocean,-and there, mere infants smiling on the sunny deck, and unconscious of the meaning of hymn or prayer.

A low, confined, growling noise was heard struggling beneath the deck, and a sailor called with a loud voice," Fire-fire,-the Ship's on fire!" Holy words died on the prayer's tongue-the congregation fell asunder-and pale faces, wild eyes, groans, shrieks, and outcries, rent the silence of the lonesome sea. No one for a while knew the other, as all were hurried as in a whirlwind up and down the Ship. A dismal heat, all unlike the warmth of that beautiful sun, came stiflingly on every breath.-Mothers, who in their first terror had shuddered but for themselves,

now clasped their infants to their breasts, and lifted up their eyes to heaven. Bold, brave men grew white as ashes, and hands, strengthened by toil and storm, trembled like the aspen-leaf. "Gone-gone, -we are all gone!" was now the cry; yet no one knew whence that cry came; and men glared reproachfully on each other's countenances, and strove to keep down the audible beating of their own hearts. The desperate love of life drove them instinctively to their stations, and the water was poured, as by the strength of giants, down among the smouldering flames. But the devouring element roared up into the air; and deck, masts, sails, and shrouds, were one crackling and hissing sheet of fire.

"Let down the boat!" was now the yell of hoarse voices; and in an instant she was filled with life. Then there was frantic leaping into the sea; and all who were fast drowning, moved convulsively towards that little ark. Some sank down at once into oblivion-some grasped at nothing with their disappearing hands-some seized in vain unquenched pieces of the fiery wreck-some would fain have saved a friend almost in the last agonies; and some, strong in a savage despair, tore from them the clenched fingers that would have dragged them down, and forgot in fear both love and pity.

Enveloped in flames and smoke, yet insensible as a corpse to the burning, a frantic mother flung down her baby among the crew; and as it fell among the upward oars unharmed, she shrieked out a prayer of thanksgiving. "Go, husband, go; for I am content to die. -Oh! live-live--my husband, for our darling Willy's sake." But in the prime of life, and with his manly

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