ther men may not, by perverting these institutions, become superstitious, but whether the right use of them does, in its own nature, tend to superstition.

Thus it appears that Christianity has promulged the religion of nature, and has promulged it with authority. It has, moreover, thrown upon it new light, as it were by reflection; it has reintroduced it with circumstances of peculiar advantage, and adapted it to the wants of mankind. It has connected it with a visible church, thereby bestowing upon it permanency, consistency, and solidity; and crowning it with the awful sanction of external institutions and solemnities.

But Christianity must be considered in a farther view, as offering to us truths not discoverable by reason, in respect to which distinct precepts are enjoined us. It contains a revelation of a particular dispensation of Providence, carried on by the mediation of his Son and Spirit, for the recovery and salvation of mankind, who are represented by Scripture to have been in a state of ruin. Now as by reason is revealed the relation in which God the Father stands towards us, and the obligations of duty springing from this relation; so in Scripture are revealed the relations in which we stand to the Son and the Holy Ghost, and the obligations of duty flowing from these relations. Revealed religion has therefore acquainted us with some certain relations in which we stand, which could not otherwise have been known.

Religion admits of a two-fold contemplation; we may view it either as INTERNAL, or as EXTERnal. INTERNAL natural religion may be said to consist in religious regards to God the Father Almighty; INTERNAL revealed religion (as distinguished from natural), to consist in religious regards to the Son

and the Holy Ghost; and the obligation we are under of paying these religious regards to each of these Divine Persons respectively, arises from the several relations they stand in towards us. The precepts which concern these religious regards, are such as rest upon reasons which we plainly discern, and are therefore called moral precepts. EXTERNAL religion consists in the rites, solemnities, and institutions, enjoined us by divine authority. The precepts which respect these are positive precepts, and are built on reasons which we do not altogether comprehend. Thus MORAL duties arise out of the nature of the case itself, prior to external command. POSITIVE duties do not arise out of the nature of the case, but from external command; nor would they be duties at all, but for such command. From this difference between what is POSITIVE and what is MORAL in religion, arises the ground of that peculiar preference which the Scripture teaches us is due to the latter.

In making this distinction however, it should not be forgotten that the reason of positive institutions, in general, is very manifest, though we should not discern the reason why such particular institutions are ordained rather than others. Thus the EXTERNAL worship of God is a moral as well as a positive duty, since the reason for it appears; but this cannot be said of any particular mode of it. Now when the moral law and the positive institutions are opposed to each other, we should feel no difficulty in the preference we are to give; for the moral law has the sanction of revelation as well as the positive law, and is, moreover, written in our HEARTS. This comparison between them was made by our Lord himself, when the Pharisees censured his disciples for plucking the ears of corn on the sabbath-day. Unhappily, however, the infirmity of our natures inclines us,

and poverty that induces absence, negligence, and want of memory. The sure consequence of a habit of complaining, is a habit of selfishness; and he who is persuaded to think that his own is a peculiar allotment of misery, has no feelings to spare for other men's sorrows, and no passage open to his bosom for other men's joys to enter.

All this discontentedness with our own situation proceeds from a double error in calculation. We measure our own condition by a rule supplied from other men's opinions and habits, instead of making our own feelings and capacities the criterion of our judgements; and we measure other men's felicity by a standard which is the result of our own feelings and propensities. The farmer thinks the merchant the happiest man in the world, because the former has no measure in his own mind which can enable him accurately to conceive those feelings which shake the merchant's bosom, amidst the fluctuation and precariousness of commerce: and the poor man, having no clear idea of the dangers, perplexities, and anxieties of wealth, views it only as a cure for those wants and sorrows with which he either feels or fancies himself surrounded. Let us remember, too, that every object looks smooth at a distance: the hills which terminate our horizon present only a soft azure to the delighted vision; and when we look from the same hills on the valley below, it appears like a velvet carpet, spread out to receive us: those only who are climbing the hills, or are walking in the valley, complain of the steepness of the one, or the humidity of the other; complain of the crags and ridges, or of the bogs and marshes, which make the progress over both fatiguing and dangerous.

Though neither new nor sprightly, my mother was so pleased with the subject of this paper, that

she told me she could not sleep for three hours last night for thinking upon it, and actually turned her thoughts to put a little fable into verse, which she says my subject revived in her memory. I own I think the thought is pretty, and my readers will not be severe upon the poetry of an old woman. As writing is not a task at which she is very expeditious (for though her hand is steady, her eyes have for some years begun insensibly to grow weaker), she remained above stairs the whole morning, and kept me in some little uneasiness about her. At twelve o'clock, however, she explained the mystery, by presenting me with her little performance: "Here, Sim," said she, "see how my morning has been employed; but be sure you put nothing of mine in your paper!" She looked, however, as if she would forgive me if I disobeyed her; and there is sometimes a resistance in kindness, which, like elasticity to the touch, gives a force to the sensation produced.

It chanc'd that the Coat of a very fine fellow

Had been thrown on the bed, and lay close to the Pillow.
With that ease which high company gives, for the Coat
Had been much in the world, and in circles of note,
"Friend Pillow," says he, "why that look of distress?
By your rumpled condition you've slept ill, I guess?
Or perhaps that your master is gone you are sorry ;
He's a very fine fellow; if so, I feel for ye:
I'm always delighted to go where he goes,
And mix in the mirth that around him he throws.
Gay, wealthy, and witty, and wanton, and young,
Made for conquests his form, for persuasion his tongue,
On whom nature her presents so lavishly showers,
What mortal so bless'd as this master of ours!
'Twould delight you to see with what graceful composure
He throws down his guineas, or stakes an inclosure.
T'other night 'twas at whist that Sir Somebody blunder'd,
And lost him---I think 'twas n't less than a hundred;

To see him, my friend, you'd conclude he had won,
Such an easy, good-temper'd, sweet smile he put on!
What with dancing, and singing, and laughing, and drinking,
You'd wonder what time he had left him for thinking.
If he wins, if he loses, he's glad, and still glad ;
I cannot believe he knows how to be sad.

With such mental controul, and a heart so at ease,
Sure never was found a man form'd so to please."
"And now," says the Pillow," its my turn to speak:
If I let you alone, you'll go on for a week.

Since you say that with you he's as light as a feather,
Pray keep him, or come to bed always together;

For the moment you're off, such a trade then commences,
You'd think he was fairly bereft of his senses;
Such complaining, such sorrow, repentance, and hate,
Such cursing his fortune, such damning his fate,
That, taking in Bedlam, there is not in town
A Pillow whose state I'd not change with my own.
The night that Sir Somebody lost him a hundred,
As soon as he laid himself down, how he thunder'd!
I never was in such a fright in my life:

He could not worse treat me, if I were his wife.

He thinks, I believe, he can't use me too rough;

I am sometimes too high, sometimes not high enough:

Then such knocking, and thumping, and squeezing; but still I can't give content, do whatever I will.

To complete my misfortune, sometimes, in a sally,
He throws me as hard as he can at his valet,
Who ventures to give him his scurvy advice,
To have nothing to do with those villainous dice.
T'other night he declar'd he would do for himself,
And took down a pistol which lay on the shelf;
But after he'd held it some time to his head,
He thought better on't, and bethump'd me instead.
If this is the way with your very fine fellows,
'Twere better be any thing else than their Pillows.

As discontentedness is very little affected by outward circumstances, and is equally common to all situations, so has it least to balance against it in those which are most exalted; for hope, the consolation of