honourable avocations; are the foundations of all that is highly honourable, or greatly successful among men.

Whatever ornamental or engaging endowments you now possess, virtue is a necessary requisite, in order to their shining with proper lustre. Feeble are the attractions of the fairest form, if it be suspected that nothing within cor responds to the pleasing appearance without. Short are the triumphs of wit, when it is supposed to be the vehicle of malice. By whatever means you may at first attract the at tention, you can hold the esteem, and secure the hearts of others, only by amiable dispositions, and the accomplish ments of the mind. These are the qualities whose influence will last, when the lustre of all that once sparkled and daz zled has passed away.

Let not then the season of youth be barren of improvements so essential to your future felicity and honour. Now is the seed-time of life; and according to "what you sow, you shall reap." Your character is now, under Divine assistance, of your own forming; your fate is, in some measure, put into your own hands. Your nature is as yet pliant and soft. Hab its have not established their dominion. Prejudices have not pre-occupied your understanding. The world has not hadtime to contract and debase your affections. All your powers are more vigorous, disembarrassed, and free than they will be at any future period. Whatever impulse you now give to your desires and passions, the direction is likely to continue. It will form the channel in which your life is to run; nay, it may determine its everlasting issue. Consider then the employ ment of this important period, as the highest trust which shall ever be committed to you; as in a great measure deci sive of your happiness, in time, and in eternity. As in the Trienas, on of the seasons, each, by the invariable laws of ture, affects the productions of what is next in course; 50 in human life every period of our age, according as it is well or ill spent, influences the happiness of that which is to fol low. Virtuous youth gradually brings forward accomplishe ed and flourishing manhood; and such manhood passes o itself, without uneasiness, into respectable and tranquil ol age. But when nature is turned out of its regular course disorder takes place in the moral, just as in the vegetabl world. If the spring put forth no blossoms, in summer the will be no beauty, and in autumn, no fruit; so, if youth trifled away without improvement, manhood will probably be contemptible, and old age miserable. If the beginni

of life have been "vanity," its latter end can scarcely be any other than " vexation of spirit."

I shall finish this address, with calling your attention to that dependence on the blessing of Heaven, which amidst all your endeavours after improvement, you ought continually to preserve. It is too common with the young, even when they resolve to tread the path of virtue and honour, to set out with presumptuous confidence in themselves. Trusting to their own abilities for carrying them successfulJy through life, they are careless of applying to God, or of deriving any assistance from what they are apt to reckon the gloomy discipline of religion. Alas! how little do they know the dangers which await them? Neither human wisdem, nor human virtue, unsupported by religion, is equal to The trying situations, which often occur in life. By the shock of temptation, how frequently have the most virtuous intentions been overthrown? Under the pressure of disaster, how often has the greatest constancy sunk? "Every good, and every perfect gift, is from above." Wisdom and virtue, as well as "riches and honour, come from God." Destitute of his favour, you are in no better situation with all your boasted abilities, than orphans left to wander in a trackless desert without any guide to conduct them, or any sheltor to cover them from the gathering storm. Correct, then, (his ill-founded arrogance. Expect not, that your happiness can be independent of Him who made you. By faith and repentance, apply to the Redeemer of the world. By piety and prayer, seek the protection of the God of heaven. I conclude with the solemn words, in which a great prince delivered his dying charge to his son: words, which every young person ought to consider as addressed to himself, and to engrave deeply on his heart: "Solomon, my son, know thou the God of thy fathers; and serve him with a perfect heart, and with a willing mind. For the LORD searcheth all hearts, and understandeth all the imaginations of the thoughts. If thou seek him, he will be found of thee; but if thou forsake him, he will cast thee off for ever."

M

BLAIR.

a

CHAP. IX.

PROMISCUOUS PIECES.

SECTION I.

Earthquake at CALABRIA, in the Year 1638. AN account of this dreadful earthquake, is given by the celebrated father Kircher. It happened whilst he was on Bris journey to visit Mount Etna, and the rest of the won ders that lie toward the south of Italy. Kircher is consid ered by scholars, as one of the greatest prodigies of learning. "Having hired a boat, in company with four more, (two friars of the order of St. Francis, and two seculars,) we aunched from the harbour of Messina, in Sicily; and arrived, the same day, at the promontory of Pelorus. Our des Lination was for the city of Euphemia, in Calabria; where we had some business to transact; and where we designed Co tarry for some time. However, Providence seemed willing to cross our design; for we were obliged to continue hree days at Pelorus on account of the weather; and though we often put out to sea, yet we were as often driven back. At length, wearied with the delay, we resolved to prosecute our voyage; and although the sea appeared to be uncommonly agitated, we ventured forward. The gulf of Charybdis, which we approached, seemed whirled round in such a nanner, as to form a vast hollow, verging to a point in the -entre. Proceeding onward, and turning my eyes to Ætna, saw it cast forth large volumes of smoke, of mountainous izes, which entirely covered the island, and blotted out the ery shores from my view. This, together with the dread / noise, and the sulphurous stench which was strongly

ceived, filled me with apprehensions, that some more readful calamity was impending. The sea itself seemed wear a very unusual appearance: they who have seen a ake in a violent shower of rain, covered all over with bubles, will conceive some idea of its agitations. My surprise zas still increased, by the ealinness and serenity of the weath r; not a breeze, not a cloud, which might be supposed to ut all nature thus into motion. I therefore warned my comanions, that an earthquake was approaching; and, after eme time, making for the shore with all possible diligence, trided at Tropea, happy and thankful for having escap be createning dangers of the sea.

our triumphs at land were of short durati

we had scarcely arrived at the Jesuit's College, in that city, when our ears were stunned with a horrid sound, resembling that of an infinite number of chariots driven fiercely forward; the wheels rattling, and the thongs cracking. Soon after this, a most dreadful earthquake ensued; so that the whole tract upon which we stood seemed to vibrate, as if we were in the scale of a balance that continued wavering. This motion, however soon grew more violent; and being no longer able to keep my legs, I was thrown prostrate upon the ground. In the mean tinte, the universal ruin round me redoubled my amazement. The crash of falling houses, the tottering of towers, and the groans of the dying, all contributed to increase my terror and despair. On every side of me, I saw nothing but a scene of ruin; and danger threatening wherever I should fly. I commended myself to God, as my last great refuge. At that hour, O how vain was every sublunary happiness! Wealth, honour, empire, wisdom, all mere useless sounds, and as empty as the bubbles of the deep! Just standing on the threshold of eternity, nothing bat God was my pleasure; and the nearer I approach ed, I caly loved him the more. After some time however, finding that I remained unhurt, amidst the general concus. ston, I resolved to venture for safety; and running as fasa as I could, I reached the shore, but almost terrified out of my reason. I did not search long here till I found the boat in which I had landed; and my companions also, whose ter rors were even greater than mine. Our meeting was not of that kind, where every one is desirous of telling his owa happy escape: it was all silence, and a gloomy dread of impending terrors.

"Leaving this seat of desolation, we prosecuted our voyage along the coast; and the next day came to Rochetta. where we landed, although the earth still continued in vios lent agitations. But we had scarcely arrived at our inn, when we were once more obliged to return to the boat; and, in about half an hour, we saw the greater part of the town, and the inn at which we had set up, dashed to the ground, and burying the inhabitants beneath the ruins.

"In this manuer, proceeding onward in our little vessel, finding no safety at land, and yet, from the smallness of our boat, having but a very dangerous continuance at sea, we at length landed at Lopizium, a castle midway between 'Tropea and Euphemia, the city to which, as I said before, we were bound. Here, wherever I turned my eyes, nothing but scenes of ruin and horror appeared; towns and cas

1

tles levelled to the ground; Strombalo, though at sixty miles distance, belching forth flames in an unusual manner, and with a noise which I could distinetly hear. But my attention was quickly turned from more remote to contiguous danger. The rumbling sound of an approaching eartinquake, which we by this time were grown acquainted with, alarmed us for the consequences: it every moment seemed to grow | louder, and to approach nearer. The place on which we stood now began to shake most dreadfully; so that being unable to stand, my companions and I caught hold of whatev. er shrub grew next to us, and supported ourselves in that

manner.

"After some time, this violent paroxysm ceasing, we again stood up, in order to prosecute our voyage to Euphemia, which lay within sight. In the mean time, while we were preparing for this purpose, I turned my eyes towards the Deity, but could see only a frightful dark cloud, that seemed to rest upon the place. This the more surprised us, as the weather was so very serene. We waited, therefore, till the cloud had passed away: then turning to looker the city, it was totally sunk. Wonderful to tell! nothing buta dismal and putrid lake was seen where it stood. We look led about to find some one that could tell us of its sad catastrophe, but could see no person. All was become a melancholy solitude; a scene of hideous desolation. Thus proceeding pensively along, in quest of some human being that could give us a little information, we at length saw a boy sitting by the shore, and appearing stupified with terror. Of him, therefore, we enquired concerning the fate of the city; hat he could not be prevailed on to give us an answer. entreated him, with every expression of tenderness and pity to tell us; but his senses were quite wrapt up in the contem plation of the danger he had escaped. We offered him some victuals but he seemed to loathe the sight. We still per sisted in our offices of kindness; but he only pointed to the place of the city, like one out of his senses; and then runaing up into the woods, was never heard of after. Such was the fate of the city of Euphemia. As we continued our melancholy course along the shore, the whole coast for the space of two hundred miles, presented nothing but the remains of cities; and men scattered without a habitation, over the fields. Proceeding thus along, we at length ended our distressful voyage by arriving at Naples, after having es caped a thousand dangers both at sea and land."

GOLDSMITH.

We